Inside my room
I am naked, bare
unclothed, exposed.

Inside my room
thoughts and feelings
lie outside my body.

Inside my room
is poetry
is music

Inside my room
is paper and pencil
to hear me when no human will.

Inside my room
I, Me, Myself
are in harmony.

arrested moments
in the flux of time
challenge linearity.
my nostalgic self
journeys back beyond
borders of finite, limiting time
lives again in memory intensely
what it cannot in reality.
this moment too
will soon be past
recorded forever
on the film of heart and mind
a tenuous, fragile link
it wavers, but never quite breaks.
this place binds me to itself
this is where I'll always "belong"
of distance, time, even people --
regardless.

born of a desperate state, this poem was written as a sort of catharsis... to purge the excess of emotion... it comes across as pretty cliched and hackneyed, but I am still posting it here. the couplet form at least brings in a little bit of distance, (I hope...)

Smouldering fire
agony of desire
broken heart, aflame, afire
writhes as in a seizure.

pent, unspent, it wastes away
consuming itself day after day
what will remain of this shrivelled heart?
withering, drying up, torn apart?

its grief it brought upon itself
past misdeeds don't repair themselves
passion and folly have ruined woman before this
this heart is damned, do not pity it

riddled with shame, overwhelmed by pain
it cannot accept what society ordains
it's a cancerous wound, it cannot move on
trapped in its own net, this heart is too far gone

reverberating silence blasts the heart's deep core
stifled, suppressed, lonely, heavy and sore
a tale so common and overused
still as true for me as it is for you.

another attempt at writing a sonnet...
although I am mightily pleased with my latest accomplishment, suggestions and viewpoints are most welcome...

a milk bottle for the baby
mamma's caress for little children
a fairy tale for kindergarten
or a huggy, cuddly teddy

prayer books, rosaries for rocking chair ladies
brandy, maybe, for the gentry
cigarette for the young adult-ry
a phone call for lovers and pretty lassies

As for me, I always think of you
you do not know, you do not care
the world gives me one cold rude stare
but constantly within me, there is you

Is it weakness, illusion, is it wrong
to want that for which all humans long?