Scribblings of sinemac

Okay then, I guess this can serve as a drop off point for some of my poetry, and maybe prose if I am so enthused. Apologies for the poor quality, I used to be a fairly passable writer, but I can't get the knack like I used to... Some of this stuff will pop up on other places on the net (notably my blog and occasionally other fora) but any work of mine is not to be reproduced without my permission (like you would want to). Here is a scribbling on a current dilemna, pondering what to do:

Pondering silently issues a-many,
Thinking of whether or not I have lost,
People's respect, or love it seems very,
Likely that I am seen as a fool, or not?

I cannot get in to their personal thoughts,
But I do so wish that I could.
My morals, however, have my heart caught,
For even if possible, I probably shouldn't.

And so I consider, whether or not,
To pursue conversation or leave them alone.
With them I do not want to be forgotten,
But I do not know whether to pick up the phone.

A quick musing on lucid dreaming

Into what world will I now venture,
Wandering straight through my soul.
Sometimes tempt and sometimes torture,
You to fly and then to fall.

Pick your moments, pick them wisely,
Fight your battles, fight them well.
Dream of power, dream so highly,
Make your heaven out of hell.

This new world could be a horror,
But you'll be safe if you walk tall.
Make your choice so you're no surer,
That you chose and chose it well.

Any of it possibly a candidate for me to start having a sig?

Whispering out for you Wonderful

Abyss, a location we daren't discuss,
We feel,
If we ignore it,
It won't bother us.

We wrap it away in a beautiful box,
But we,
Know it is just like,
A most cunning fox.

We make it all out to be something unreal.
So if,
One admits to it,
Won't know what to feel.

And as one falls into this darkened abyss,
They think,
Will anyone say,
They are one they miss.

This is an old one, but fellow DVers might enjoy it...

Van Gogh

I

Irises, beautiful in day,
Where in the breeze they gently sway.
With every brushstroke Vincent gave,
To canvas; he but tried to save,
His mind as it fluttered away.

With colours as his tool he says,
That which he wishes to convey.
And now he hides within his brave,
And tortured soul.

His heart, like rope, will slowly fray.
For sanity, his art he’ll trade.
And yet the situation’s grave,
As Vincent feels aught but a slave
To his confused, to his betrayed,
And tortured soul.

II

Sunflowers bloom in summer’s shine,
The world he sees beauty divine.
And while he knows not what is true,
He knows what it is he can do,
In Vincent’s eyes the world is fine.

It is no clear knowledge of mine,
Of whether Vincent thought it fine.
How is the world through his eyes viewed,
While he falls down.

Vincent searches for any sign,
Of what’s happening in his mind.
For justice in his soul he sues,
Expressed on canvas, vibrant hues.
And yet for Vincent it’s not fine,
While he falls down.

III

Starry nights, is it here he goes,
In life his brush on canvas flows.
And in his long lived legacy,
I wonder, will we ever see,
The world that Vincent sees and knows.

This is the tale of one Van Gogh,
Who in his life could never throw,
This world that could not let him free,
Off his shoulders.

In Vincent’s eyes a heartfelt glow,
This world will reap the sees he sows,
He feels the world will never see,
The legend he could truly be.
In death he felt the world be thrown,
Off his shoulders.