Stupid poems, a story of remorse
It was pernicious. An anger was out of him
Before he really knew it had swelled up in him.
He was not glad for it. Instead he profusely
Apologised. He felt just awful.
His temper had faulted at his beloved mother.
The only one who loved him, he believed.
What was pernicious was this. His drinking
Had flared up in recent years and his
Mental health, never at it's best, was sliding still
Further down, as an off egg smears down
The window.
He took his binder with his poems in it and ran
From the home,
An over fifties village at the top of coastal uneven
Streets. Where was he to go?
She had told him that his poems were about
Nothing. That they meant nothing.
He had taken it to heart. Heard it before
And resented her for it.
The poems were about his hopes for love.
Not something one typically shows his mother.
The sun was going behind the the trees and the wind
Picking up, evening was coming on.
As he walked he thought;
How could he be so stunted, thinking
Anybody might like his scribbles?
But he had put his heart into them, hadn't he?
He was proud of them. Really, it was all he knew,
Was his poetry. But that wasn't any excuse
To cut short at his mother's expense.
Wasn't he too old to loose his temper?
And over such trivial a thing.
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This tells a story of great remorse further more he thought he only ever deserved the love of his mother. So many emotional bounds that make us who we are and sometimes make us who we do not want to be, frustrations of wasted dreams frustrations of lack of opportunities choosing wrong roads it's all here and I felt it all. 🌹
Thank you dearest Shirley. Kind words. Don't I know too well about who you don't want to be. Well said. I guess sometimes circumstances force out of us somethings we ourselves find ugly. PS I can't do your critique justice.
That you are, a deeply feeling one. And here my reason why, your insight as made me see more than I intended to divulge. Functional as my stuff may be I can only draw on real experiences. You've made me see that there is unconscious at work in me here. The connection from our real life experiences to pen what we strive for, I guess. I think there may even be a novel, a short one, swelling up in me. Your insight appreciated. I was once told that I'm one who doesn't waste his words. Neither are you, my friend.
I truly have no doubt that you are one very talented writer, whether it be poetry or novels, one has to have it within their soul and I have always seen it in yours. You are a natural poet and I find greatness in your work dear Rory, I choose very carefully those I wish to spend my time to read and you are one of those, I always come away with reflection and emotion, and that's a true compliment to the author. 🌹