I am a writer. I write fantasy, sci-fi and horror. The Poetry Muse did not start speaking to me until about a couple of years ago when my ex-fiance left and the most wonderful man in the world entered my life. It was at this time, that my emotions wanted to speak, but not in story form. So I let it, and every now and again, the muse makes an appearance and some form of poetry escapes me.
This poem was written in Spring. I was waiting for my 1950s History class to start and then, all of a sudden, the words poured forth. Luckily I had my journal in my backpack. So here is this one:
Somewhere in between Self Pity and Happiness
The days have crept away, their life such frailness
taking with them to the setting sun, all the sorrows and wishes for what might have been.
Lying awake in the darkest hour, listening to the silence of night
what has happened to such precious time?
The hours spent in turmoil, thinking myself the unjust or persecuted.
When all which lay before me was the whimsical path of God.
Setting in motion a journey which took me
to somewhere between self-pity and happiness.
Should I choose to look back,
all I would see,
is the youthful charade of self-doubt.
It was always there, simmering underneath
and once the shell removed, its shadow lifted.
Laid bare, exposed and bright.
My happiness is self-made, and self-pity is its death.