Where is the breath
That I crave so much Hiding and playing games Just beyond my reach Fingers too stiff to touch
To live To need what is aloof and Teasing me to beseech The air in the vacuous room
What have I done
What did I say Why must I suffer These terrifying ways just to play your silly games
Am I not the same as the silent souls
Am I not equal to the healthy hosts Who don’t have to beg And plead for the very life they need
Is that a selfish question Should I need to doubt the validity Of my request for information.
I have so much still to give
A love too much to relinquish My right to live amongst The moving masses.
To live To survive long enough To be able to give back The happiness I have received
To grin Surely it wouldn’t be a sin to want Or to need to share this wonderful gift To want to lift the hearts Of the sad and lonely
I sit by day and lie by night
Trapped in a decaying world A passenger in a cocoon that sways And swoons from room to spinning room
Looking out onto a world
That is slowly shrinking Tunnel vision closing in from all sides And me anxiously blinking again To try to clear the mist From tired wet eyes
To recover To live to fight another day Is the best I can hope for
To spend another day looking
Into eyes of love and laughter Surrounding me Believing in me Trying to be the best that they can For their old man.
To live. Gifted poems relating to Hope Magical Life* Poems Bountiful words on Time
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ALL POEMS ©2015 DARREN SCANLON. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. * Words and music have always played a major role in my life. A life without being able to enjoy music and express in words would be, for me, empty and cold.I have been writing since age 16, some 30+ years now but have only recently started publishing my works. Since doing so in Dec 2013, I have published 4 novels and 5 volumes of poetry, (available on Amazon.co.uk).My words are my life. If they touch you in any way, if you are able to take something from them, then my work has achieved its goal and I am a happy man.Welcome to my world. Darren.
You are missed whenever rain hits my heart Does these drops take my worth to you every season I speak my stories to these silver tear drops for hours Do you get every word of mine? Or Do you breathe
In the ancient lives of the comrades who speak and heroes and sheroes who sleep, Sailed in the dim hopes of them who stood stubborn to believe did I, They lay captive at the merciless grip of the local oppressor
Breathe. This is what our companion has instructed us to do. Yet how can we do this when she takes our breath away? She is dearer to us than the air in our lungs. Yet we must breath. Prayers spill
We take so much for granted from this world on which we play, the breath inside our lungs drawn in from a cold and windy day. Draining the life from a world already so drawn and stretched to it’s limits,