Poetry of the Dead

I occasionally write poems and I'm sick of them cluttering up the notes on my iPad. These are they. I am not claiming that they're particularly good or even worth reading but it's easier storing them here than anywhere else. Most are about me, some are not.

Note: These poems are not exclusively for the dead and nor indeed was I dead when I wrote them. The Frank Turner album just seems like an appropriate blog title.  The poem titles are particularly rubbish.

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Who am I?

I knew him once a short time ago,

We drifted quickly now time goes slow.

He was young full of dreams,
I feel old, empty it seems.

I see him now on the other side,
I'm stood here held by the tide.
We'll meet again when I am free,
Once I was he now he is me.

Stay

Are you winning and are you up?

Are you living and how's your luck?

I hope you'll never fade away,

I hope your smile will always stay.

Night and Day

It is dark, it is cold, it is frightful.

He is lost, he is lonely, he is bashful.

Day is bright, day is warm, day is joyful.

I am me, I am smiling, I am playful.

SAD

(An acronym of Seasonal Affective Disorder.)

Grey is so bleak, and he so weak.

Blue so clear and I without fear.

Rain has arrived, hopelessness is here.

Sun will follow, happiness is near.

Poisoned Medicine

Dusk has fallen, it hasn't begun. He's agitated.

He craves it, he needs it. A release, a fix of sorts.

Short lived but euphoric; an all conquering Demon.

He's disciplined. He can wait just a few more minutes.
"All the better for the delay", he assures himself.

Then it's time. He can wait no more. He rises excitedly.

He enters the room and sees it. He rushes towards it.
His friend, his elixir of life, his reason for being.

He grabs at it and decants his medicine of choice.
Night is approaching and his day has begun.

He inhales and it passes his lips. He comes alive.
He sighs deeply. Relief. Ecstasy. Alcohol.

Time Goes By

Time goes by, the second hand spirals around the face.
It's silent but I hear it, I'm losing this race.

Hope is fading, I'm starved of faith and drowning in doubt.

This is torture of the mind and I need a way out.

I yearn for something, I know not what but I need more.

The chance to resurrect and end this inwards war.

Time goes by, the second hand spirals around the face.
It's silent but I hear it, I must up my pace.

I will endeavour and I will free myself in time.

I am strong, I can beat it and true life will be mine.

This place is cruel and unjust, I don't belong here.
I'll be gone soon, I'll smile wide and be rid of fear.

Time goes by, the second hand spirals around the face.

I'll smile and say, "My battle is won, I've found my place."

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Not exactly uplifting but poems are basically meant to be rhyming misery, right?