My task for the week just gone was to write a poem. There were no restrictions and no rules so it was completely up to me. I threw around a few ideas and subject matters but eventually settled on something that I'm learning more about every day... myself. It's an attempt to express what is, and has been going on at times in this head of mine. Not sure how much sense it will make and it's probably breaking every literary convention going but here goes...
Factory Setting
A ball of wool, hidden in plain view.
A twisted gathering of every conceivable colour,
Each strand an idea, a dreamer’s hope,
Ravaged by time, now threadbare, now duller.
Pick one, decide, and unravel its course,
A beginning, an end, a most simple endeavor,
Betrayed by a glance, a path much more travelled,
A strand misplaid for now, maybe forever.
The gameplays of life remained printed in blue,
On paper yet to protest the laying of ink.
Repeating its orders, a broken thirty three and a third,
Not tonight sir, you’ve
had too much to think.
Where confidence is king a pauper plied his trade,
Paralyzed dreams stuck fast under life’s
thumb.
Mental mountains made from meager mounds.
I had, Mr. Waters, become comfortably numb.
In the shadows, in the wings, I run over my lines,
Waiting for the curtain, don’t want to get it wrong.
I awake centre stage, a crowd with breath baited,
A rabbit in the headlights, it was raised all along.
Scattergun prophets offer up a new cure,
Offering tonics and notions of every which kind.
Inspiring pages, a forced change of the guard,
Opened the door to my soul and the gate to my mind.
Staccato rhythms of a fleeting mind hushed,
A cease-fire called and a civil war run.
The bridges are burned with no way of retreat,
Time to make some shit happen, time to get some shit done.
A sleeping giant subdued now woken from slumber,
A fire now stoked by the fear of regretting.
This reprogrammed dreamer will unravel the strands,
Vowing never to return to my factory setting.
fin.
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