Running on empty

Replete with emptiness,

And shocked by past events.

Everything’s running on empty,

It’s just solitude with not much content.

 

Abnormally normal

This path, so strung with resistance,

And so filled with obstacles, leaving nothing to gain.

Like the mountain climb, requiring much persistence,

But each mountain conquered, leaves behind more pain.

 

The pebbled shore

A gloomy mist befitting of your gloomy eyes,

Descends upon the empty, pebbled shore.
It seems true that the world is filled with sighs,
And that your chance to escape is no more.

Since you stood still, so did the clouds,
That choose to keep the sun away.
Leaving the everlasting gloom, below and above,
That descends upon the empty , pebbled shore.

You look towards the endless sea and the wave,
That keeps you trapped, alone here on the shore.
Watching water meet with rock, a barrier most grave,
Knowing your chance to escape is no more.

On the horizon you see distant vessels moving,
Though never towards your lonely stretch of land.
You wish to know what it’s like to be coming or going,
And if there’s more to life, than etching sadness in the sand.

But you stood still, so did the clouds,
That choose to keep the sun away.
Leaving the everlasting gloom, below and above,
That descends upon the empty , pebbled shore.

If only you had something to keep you afloat,
Instead of the inferior boat, beached along the gloomy shore.
One without holes, or defects, with a painted coat,
To be the means of escape you always hoped for.

But all you’re left with are words of your own,
Which you place in a bottle and throw into the sea.
Perhaps hoping that it be found by someone you’ve known.
Or someone you’re looking for, but someone you cannot see.

And what if a bottle finds its way to your hidden place?
To know whether it’s meant for you, you can never be sure.
So a gloomy mist befitting of your gloomy face,
Descends upon the empty, pebbled shore.

The waves come and go, taking time away from you,
As you sit facing the sea that encloses the pebbled shore.
You realize the world beyond was not meant for you,
And that your chance to escape is no more.

A caged bird

A caged bird, unfit for flight;
With clipped wings keeping it ground.
Who in hoping for freedom, reserves its might;
Knowing but a few can hear its sound.

It dreams for wings, Freedom’s wings;
And to join the flocks in the sky.
Wanting to know what Freedom brings;
When the air is holding it up high.

But without wings, it needs to be confined;
To keep it safe, from that it cannot escape.
As if life needs to be cruel, in order to be kind;
Leaving it behind, prisoner to a lonely fate.

It’s left to sing its sad song, in the hope;
Another bird out there will respond.
Giving his heart the strength with which to cope;
With the longing for the world beyond.

Perhaps out there, somewhere, is another caged bird;
Whistling its own tune, hoping to find,
The ear that makes sense with what it’s heard;
One which knows the plight, of the trapped mind.

But barriers will remain, no matter who listens;
And perhaps its longing for more will grow.
If only its mind, like its heart, could widen;
Perhaps the freedom of its shelter, will finally show.

An Ogre’s Tale

Somewhere within a hostile land, and within a cave, hides a lair,
Far from the eyes of those that see.
And therein hides a freakish ogre,
Hiding in the darkness, longing only to be free.

The ogre was never always such,
For once he was as plain as the rest.
But over time his fortunes have plundered,
Such that now, for him, to hide is best.

For many years he walked among us,
Ever ashamed of what his form brought forth.
And he had many a reason to be ashamed,
Since others could never tolerate his worth.

To the ogre, being seen caused much despair,
But a way out, he could never find.
The pain of being a freakish creature,
Among men, destroyed his mind.

Though years have passed, no change to him can be found,
And all he longs for is to walk among the free.
But since there is no cure to being what he is,
The unfortunate ogre knows only himself, and the poet, that is-me.