This poem was written at 2 am in the morning. It is rather long but my pen just didn't stop. It comes at a time in my life when things are very confusing. It is my thoughts.
I am at a stage where things are changing rapidly and for lack of a better word, I'm scared. It's about not taking the usual path of life and finding what makes you happy and just doing it no matter what and doing it soon. I have just turned 20 and I know I don't want to be old and wondering 'what if'.
This poem originally was published in Poems on Life
A Different Path
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It's time to go, to leave this place A shadowy voice does cry. But the voice belongs to me alone, And still I wonder why. The time is here upon me now Like a weight, heavy pounding. Or has it Lifted? Hard to tell The Questions keep arising. The unknown awaits, as it does For foolish few who dare. Is it foolishness? Curiosity perhaps? Or something I'm not aware. For I am scared and poignant now More than ever at present. Tears cloud my eyes as pen meets paper, And I hope for my ascent. I leave behind what I comprehend And even with all communication. I know for now without doubt, I drift, en route a new location. But who's to say what shall pass And what still lies ahead. I only know that were I'm at, I'll yearn 'till forever dead. Yet for now the flame still burns inside However daily dying. To light the path less traveled by In haste I'm already striding. But am I running from that I cannot? Escape from oneself is ever brief. Before we are again confronted, Hunting for relief. Yet still I follow my perilous path To wherever it might be leading. And well it may, onto something new, And strangely more inviting. Or perhaps not . . . But who's to know, not I as yet The fate of anyone on this Earth, I wouldn't like to bet. For life can lead in many ways Often now undesired. Fate can deal a cruel hand sometimes, But we play on, cold and tired. And art is born of life Hard, dejected and trodden. Hence emerges exquisite beauty, And some direction from the coffin. Finding it is a difficult thing Sometimes left without thought. But time it ticks, and years they fly, I'm sure it can't be bought. So we search, as do I For things that bring on the 'morrow. The weak are those who don't pursue, And languish in their sorrow. Happiness is that I chase And hope to find someday. I'll count the means again I'm sure, There is always another way . . . |
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© 1999 Brian Emerson Please respect the rights of the author and Passions in Poetry. If you would like to use this poem on your own web page, please contact the Author. Thank you.
