In the Bleak Midwinter

Twisted Mind

Warped thoughts of
Secret realms
Race through
My magic mind.
Mangled, tangled,
Gnarled trees
Come to life
Within my secret mind.
Thoughtless love stories
Dash around,
Breaking hearts
And hurting souls
Inside my silly mind.
Old forgotten
Daisy chains
Lay broken on the ground
Beside the corpse
Of a fallen bird,
Marking the place of death.
Drunk with angel’s
Fairy dust,
Lost in the darkness
Of my own depth-perception.
Your heartfelt pleas
Are lost on me.
I’m lost, caged,
Trapped inside
My twisted mind.

Your Immaturity

Flowing rivers made of tears
Emanating from my fears,
Sick of hearing empty threats,
I’m filled with harshly-inflicted regrets,
Thinking that surely you were the one,
Till you were familiar with fiction
On your tongue.
When you let me go, I cried.
You made me so I wished to die.
Lost at sea,
My soul released,
I drift away un-anxiously.
Lost at sea,
My heart untethered,
I forget all thoughts of us together.
You and me,
We weren’t to be,
I know that now for sure.
Me and you,
It wasn’t true,
You’re far too immature.

The Empty Room

I stand, alone, in an empty room,
It has but one small window,
And it seems so full of gloom.

If only the four dark walls could speak,
And tell you of their story.
But quiet they stand, blank and dark and meek.

There in the corner will stand a lamp,
The bed there by the window.
The trunk will go against the wall, covered with postage stamps.

The walls seem brighter, more cheerful they seem,
The floor is washed,
It seems to gleam.

This room becomes a sanctuary,
A place to hide from harm,
Where a word of sorrow or hate never again shall tarry.

Through the years, the room sees much,
Visitors and children come,
With goodies and packages and such.

Many years later, the room is still here,
Yet it knows only memories now.
Memories that, when thought of, only bring a tear.

Across the street, a lone musician slowly plays a tune,
The short, sweet, small melody
Heard by none but an empty room.


Holly leaves,
And Christmas trees,
And comical elves galore.
Paper scraps,
And ribbon threads
Strewn across my bedroom floor.
Harry Connick Jr.
And Bing Crosby’s songs
Are now all that we play.
We laugh and bounce across the snow
In our one-horse open sleigh.
Yuletide days are coming,
Christmastime arrived,
The greatest time of year.
Opening the front door,
The carolers have come to beg
Us to led an ear:
Here we come a-wassailing,
And deck the halls with holly,
‘Tis the season to be happy,
Jovial and jolly.


Stumbling through the forest,
Waiting for the dawn.
Searching for a place
To stay and rest awhile.
One place I left behind,
The other places gone,
Now I’m lost and searching,
Searching for a home.
But I have learned to ignore
The feeling that no one cares,
That no one knows the places I’ve been,
No one knows all that I’ve seen.
I traverse frosty fields,
And blazing desert dawns,
Ignoring the gnawing feeling
Of feeling so alone.
My places have taught me much,
They’ve taught me to abide.
I have learned to continue on
Without fading,
Or being lost,
Or being gone.

©The Wild Poesy, 2012-2015. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.

In the Bleak Midwinter

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