Fever

It's funny, I still see the same things
I still know red is not blue
The morning bluebirds still sing

And yet, somehow, it's twisted
While still being old, not new
As if my brain itself has misted

I can still chat and converse
With a throat that's dry
As I pretend the reverse

Its a flaw so clear, yet so weird
That the world through my eyes
Could be so easily smeared


This poem was written indeed with a slight fever. If it makes less sense than usual, blame the fever. If it makes more sense, well, let's just call it sheer chance. I not prepared to take the commitment it requires to have fever be my muse.

Distracted

I'm sorry, can you please repeat for me
I swear that I was paying attention
The fact is I was temporarily
Thinking up a brand new life invention

It would be small, light and easy to hold
Be cheap enough every person could buy
Work in high temperatures and in the cold
Keep working until the day that you die

So it's robust and tough and versatile
Now I hear you ask "what does it do?"
I was on the verge of that insight while
I was distracted by listening to you

So, again, could you repeat what you said?
And I'll do my best to ignore my head.

Look at me now

Look at me now, I've got all of my limbs
I've got a thin physique, cause I'm kinda slim
I've glasses to correct my slighted eyesight
Where I live is neither too dark or too bright

I've a house to shelter in in bad weather
My parents are in love and still together
They cared for me when I was feelin' poorly
Saved money for the life that I 'ad before me

I've had a fondness for runnin' an' exercise
I'm surrounded by folk who're kind an' wise
I've never been tempted in starting to drink
I've always been allowed to create and think

I've no real addiction, no real vice
When I've struggled I've got great advice
While all the above're part of me
None of 'em define my personality

I've been gifted, in such a big fashion
That I've been allowed to pursue ideas an' passion
I must remain humble, deal with issues patiently
Cause I've been given such privilege in life to be me

Creating poetry

You can say things that sound awful smart. I know you can, because you are smart.
But all of us get scared and fearful  if someone looks at us too closely.

The issue is, everything we write can sounds dumb

If it's analysed, repeated, turned over and stared at long enough

You'll pour your heart into something

You''ll create meaning you find profound
Yet still, after a long enough time

You'll see your heart crumble from certainty

Honestly, it's no wonder people are scared

Scared of sharing anything they write

We often are when our hearts are on the line

Because, nine times out of ten, we have slaved

We have worked hard, struggled so

Analysed re-analysed our work

Until, eventually, at around the time you've poured more of your life into a piece than you're publicly willing to admit
That's when your work can seem to cease to mean anything at all

Nearly all art is illusion

Creativity comes from a source

As the artist, you alone know the trail

The map will seem so obvious to you

For those wanting to start and share writing

I give you this simple advice:

We all feel like frauds. Some more than others

But we all remember the first time we shared

It's always the hardest. And the scariest.

Even after practice, even after years, poetry still sounds dumb if you look too long.

But art is not for the long time, it is meant for moments.

And the best way to recapture any moment gone

Is to share it.