I really don’t know what makes a good story or a good writer. I wish I was the type of writer that had that talent for describing the things around me, but I’ve often found that rather tiresome and irritating to do. Maybe just better to let some things sort themselves out or let people shape things the way they see them. I’ve started writing a few stories but none complete so far. I’ll start putting them up once they’ve been through a proper read-through and inspection! But I’ll also use this page to jot down little ramblings, also known as, poetry whenever it strikes me.
I call this one, ahem….UPSC Syndrome 🙂
My head is aching and sleep calls to me,
An incessant pounding emanates from within,
I wonder if something is trying to get out,
Pounding and banging, trying to shatter my skull from within.
Did I bring it on myself?
This incessant pounding from within?
Did I stray too long in the mirrored halls within?
I’ve worn out my own welcome,
Worn out my own defenses,
Thrown myself upon the maniacal pounding,
Deep, deep within.
Courage
Give me courage, O Lord!
Courage to be the best I can be.
Courage to speak when a voice is needed,
Courage to forgive when a helpless voice has pleaded.
Give me courage, O Lord!
Courage to see that silver lining on those clouds ahead.
Courage to see a new beginning with every end.
Courage to stand firm while everything else bends.
Give me courage, O Lord!
Courage to believe.
Courage to believe in myself and
Courage to believe in your creations as well.
This one just came out of the blue from somewhere and for some reason deeply touched me. I don’t know what to call it, so I’ll just call it ‘The Tree’.
The Tree
There was a tree my mother told me about.... Deep in the heart of the forest, Old and Ancient. Its branches spread out far and wide.... Its trunk was thick and its skin was gnarled and leathery. But despite its old age and grumpy demeanour, It was warm and welcoming.... Gentle to the touch. Its breathing slow and steady, the gnarled and leathery bark softly crackling. Its gentle sighing whispers were full of secrets it had seen and the ages of men that had passed. It spoke of people that no longer walked the earth.... People who use to come and sit under its many coloured branches, People who hid in between its enormous roots or inside in its many small hollows, Children who had use to play and sleep under its protective shadow, Lovers who had promised to meet again by its trunk and though it had pained him, he spoke of how he endured the pain as they carved their names into his then younger and unmarked skin. He felt somehow they would remember his pain and how he endured it for their sake and thus, surely they would meet again. But alas! How short and fleeting is the life of man! The children grew and forgot, The lovers were no more...either dead or had been parted. The people of old who could hear him before had long since gone. All that remained were their names on his skin, their footprints on his heart and the echo of their laughter and noise in his ears. There was a tree my mother told me about... I found it deep in the heart of the forest, Old and Ancient. Tall and proud. Wise and wistful. And I promised I would not forget, I promised I would not become an echo that fades with time, I promised I would not scar him with my name unnecessarily, I promised I would not part from him, I promised I would stay with him forever. There was a tree my mother told me about... I found it deep in the heart of the forest, Old and Ancient, Sad but not alone. For underneath its protective shadow, Underneath its smiling gaze, There I lay, a small cross with a small crown of flowers around me. And he and I remained together, Watching together, He, the wise old tree and I, the little girl who believed. Laid to Rest The death bells tolls, And the pallbearers bear, Upon their shoulders, The heavy burden of a death and its despair. Fine coffin of rosewood, Rich and deep, And as heavy as its contents, this burden of a death and its despair. Lined with the finest satin, Calming to the touch, And yet so difficult to breathe in, Suffocating and burdensome this death and its despair. A march of six years toil, A distance too far to cover, The pallbearers back bent over with this death and its despair. At last the freshly dug grave lies in sight, The pallbearers pace quickens, Eager to be rid of their burden, Their burden eager to alight. All bitterness ebbs away, Anger dissipates, As the coffin is lowered into its grave, This death and its despair are laid to rest. A cross to mark its grave and the words so appropriately engraved: "Here It lies, The toil of six years; Soaked in tears, Immersed in laughter and Seeped in love, We lay It to rest."
mymusingsaday 