Wednesday, 29 February 2012

The Routine Syndrome


The Morning

I check the phone,
It's still 5:15,
As if all the thoughts in my mind
Only took a short dream.
I sit up and rub my face,
Easing slowly out of sleep
As if there was something
To get up for. Something to greet.
But everyday day is just the same.
Yet there's nothing else to do.


Go to a lecture or two,
Then become ill for three.
Friend will complain,
Make more of an effort
The tutors still don't know your name.
Only that you're the student who's ill all the time.
Stop being lazy. What's your game?


Back home

Door opens,
To an empty house.
Climb upstairs,
since there is no one else.
Throw myself onto bed,
Sayin' I'll do better tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes,
and I'm still in sorrow.


Life can't be a simple routine,
Day in day out,
With a cup of caffeine.
There ain't no more to do,
No more to say.
Just life can't keep running,
Like this way.

Next Morning

I find myself lying on the floor again,
This time the door is left open,
I guess I was tired last night,
I try to recall the last memory,
But today is already not going right.
I ask myself,
Not moving a muscle,
If it's worth getting up,
If it's worth trying again.
Everyday just seems the same,
What's the point,
If I'll just wind up here again?

No more.
All I want to shout is
No more.
No more.
No more.
Just no more.

Monday, 27 February 2012

The Pocket Watch I

As I was walking home,
I put my hands in my pockets,
And tried to ignore the cold.
Somewhere I could hear the faint pulse
of a pocket watch,
It's beat as loud as thunder
On the quiet street.
It occurred to me that this sound
Was like like the drum of my heart.
A rhythm like this does not last forever.
Neither blood or battery is infinite.
And yet in this world, time passes
Without a conscience, without a thought.
Yesterday felt like today,
And today feels like tomorrow.
I know I saw your smile,
Yet I cannot remember standing by your side.
I know I heard you laugh,
yet I cannot remember if I was there.
Dreams and reality merge,
And I'm never certain,
On the existence of my own memories.
What does it matter if I had written it down,
When it does not feel as if it happened?
Feeling lost in my own thoughts,
I continue walking along the street.
Up the hill,
But down in my own world,
Where the hands of a clock draw
circle upon circle,
losing it's perfect timing,
Half a second each day.

This will be part of a series of poems. The Pocket watch is symbolic to me, and there is still more I wish to express that I can't put into just one.

Friday, 24 February 2012

It might be called growing up.

I find myself always wanting to accuse you and say “How can you...” but then I realise that isn't the right question. I want to tell you that you are wrong, and you are betraying your own beliefs. But I'm betraying mine, by letting you get ahead of me. You're happy, and you seem so fulfilled, as if you are gently prompting me to ask myself “How can I...?” It is somewhat mean of you to counter my own stereotypes of your world. But I cannot hate you for that, because your counter is beautiful. Although I do not believe I can follow you, you've inspired me to find my own path. In a way, I want to find out that I am right, that my own ideas are better than yours. But I don't think life quite works out like that, and not everything needs to be a competition. I must remember that. Happiness is something that cannot be measured, so for certain I will never know if I will ever find more or as much as you. But at least I know it exists. And I want to thank you for that.