My hourglass is stinted in paradox time,
frozen in blank space pouring rhymes,
I do not wish for sand through the vial,
but I have no direction living in denial.
Peace is a fortune not in my cookie,
the paper only reads my hopeless destiny,
I took a chance but still can't swim,
this island of depression turned me grim.
To all the loves I've loved in my life,
my children, my possession most prized,
ages ago I read Catcher in the Rye,
a present-day Poe consumes my mind.
Emily felt a funeral in her brain,
I know better than anyone of going insane,
for my mind to die before my age,
I just keep writing and turn the page.
A raven on my fence lingers my eye,
is it Poe here to tell me hi?
I scribble faster to show him rhymes,
but even he disappears before I sigh.
An old soul stuck in present time,
misunderstood beyond a grasp,
my only friends that comprehend
are acknowledged by words of their past.
What is a poet but letters ignored
until death catches up to me?
My stories, when they are finally read,
let my soul rest in incoherent peace.
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Author:
xTattooing Paperx (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: January 21st, 2026 09:24
- Comment from author about the poem: To be influenced by people who were made famous by their mad works... Emily's funeral in her brain, I've lived the same. Poe is my favorite to entertain.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 13
- Users favorite of this poem: Paul Bell
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Comments3
We are all a little mad and more so for being a poet. A lovely write
This place feels like home. The outside world feels strange. Thanks so much
You are most welcome
To be famous when you're dead, and then acknowledged, enough to make you turn in your grave.
Why have I not read, Catcher in the rye? Mind you, Emily was slightly nuts, but in a good way.
Now Poe, what can you say, physiatrists dream.
Poe\'s life is actually one of a hopeless romance. He became obsessed with poetry after the death of his wife, and Emily locked herself away writing. I tend to favor her habits when life gets rough, but Poe, I just love his penning. Thank you for the comment. 🙂
A dead poet feeds the decomposed worlds .
Wow I have never thought of it that way. Were like the crows of nature.
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