I look at the world as I would a child —
hopeful, dreaming, ambitious.
I draw strength from a hidden fire —
I continue to dream fairytales,
I pursue a world which does not exist —
a dream world.
I pretend to be strong,
to be invinscible —
I pretend but I am not.
And I am almost successful in all,
until I remember me,
until I feel,
until I ache.
Then I fall apart,
and be born once again.
Lately I have been rediscovering the inner poet that is in me. Was able to “naturally” write four decent (or perhaps good or great?) poems in the past few months, the first of which was written back in May while I was aboard a plane. It has been slowly coming back, maybe?
Then, there are the poems I wrote from long ago. I had setup a blog with some of my poetry so many years back, and I almost already forgot about it. I rediscovered it too, read through it, copied and archived everything. I deleted the blog from the virtual world in the meantime, while I’m trying to figure out what to do with those poems. They mostly dated from late 2005 to 2007, with two more posted in 2009 and 2010. Even before 2005, I remember having a lot of poems written in scratch papers and spring notebooks from way back in high school. Those are probably still hidden in my chest, just lying around somewhere there, gathering dust, being almost forgotten. I might post a few of the old poems when I feel like it, in the next few months.
I’ve noticed that my poems across time revolve around very similar topics – love, longing, or grief. Perhaps those are the most powerful emotions that I encounter that really squeeze the poetry out of me.
I wonder what good these poems will be, beyond their lonely existence on paper, in my files, or online. I wonder if anyone really appreciates them, or will ever remember them. I highly doubt that I will be remembered or recognized because of my poetry. I am also playing with the idea of finding a way to publish them, but I wonder who still buys poetry books aside from myself (and yes, I have a few books of poetry by some writers and some collections).
Nonetheless, I shall continue writing those rhymes and non-rhymes as long as the pen calls and the heart desires.