David Harris (18 June 1945 / Bradfield, England)
Fifty years ago I took up the pen
on a spur of the moment thought;
never thinking of the heartaches
in doing so would lead me to
or the sadness and loneliness
that would follow my life.
Nor the nights I cried
for the rejections I received,
not for what I had written,
but for whom I happened to be.
There have been times when friends
turned their backs on me,
but the greatest hurt came from within my family.
Always saying my sister could do it better,
but never the encouragement when I needed it
the most to spur me on to do better,
just words that brought disgust
and sadness into my life,
that made me walk down vacant streets
alone with only my thoughts for company.
Now fifty years on I’m at a crossroad
not sure which way to turn.
One road leads to giving up
while the other leads to carry on,
but I’m trapped in a time capsule
with the past revolving around my head
and decisions getting harder with every step I take.
Both directions are grabbing my arms
in a tug of war to cross their line.
One side wants me to give up
and never write again.
While the other wants me to carry on
reaching for the dreams I always wanted.
Tonight I’ll cry myself to sleep
on a pillow already stained with many tears.
Perhaps I’ll wake in the morning
and a decision will be made
or will it be another day
of torment at what I should do.
Only the future knows the answer
and at the moment it’s not telling me.
Poet's Notes about The Poem
This is an abstract look at my feelings at the moment. I have also not written anything since writing this piece.
15 Sept 2013
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