If I Could Live the Way I Wanted





Sorry for not posting in such a long while. I've been busy. I got a job and have been trying to keep up on school and just haven't been doing much writing in general. So. All I have for you today is a poem. Hope you enjoy it. :)

If I could live the way I wanted,

I would scribble poems on walls

And draw pictures in the frosted windows.

Dark curtains would seal my mind

And only the music would witness my creations.

I would stay awake until the stars faded

And sleep until the sun was overhead.

Every raindrop would contain a story

And I would collect them in teacups to keep me warm.

I would lose myself in cultures of my own invention

And my characters would be real.

Colored pens would overflow from canning jars

And pencil pockets, ready and waiting for every idea.

I would never cease to search for new stories,

And revisit old ones with fresh eyes.

I would visit the hunched walls of timeless ages

And give voice to all the things they observed.

Cloudy days would mean hours of discovering

New worlds through musty pages that smell of ink.

Drawings would hang from walls like portals

And I would gaze at them for hours on end.

I would sit near the street to watch people go by

And catch words like snowflakes on my tongue.

The piano would hold me close on stormy days

And hum lullabies in my ear when sleep refuses me.

I would paint murals in my bedroom to inspire smiles

And bright days that warm chilled fingers with gentle love.

Lifelong dreams would become reality

And hopes would never be crushed.

If I could live the way I wanted

my  words would last for ages.



The Piano - a poem

Another poem, inspired by a story idea I haven't been able to use yet.



Fingers caress ivory keys,
smelling of ink, of herbal teas.
Skirts whisper against faded floorboards,
where thousands of fears,
and silent tears were poured.
She slips onto the ancient bench,
braving the memories that entrench.
Weaving each note like a thread,
she hides a beloved story,
a tremor in her heart unsaid.
Somber melodies rise and give voice,
to the ache, to the sorrow
that helps her rejoice.
The piano stands proud
and with class, guards the heart of a silent
weary lass.
A fragile smile surfaces,
lifted by a hope that reverses
all of her shattered dreams,
and chases away
all of the dark one's schemes.
Wrists lift for an extra beat,
giving pause for a phrase complete.
Fingers tie each thread in a chord,
it hovers over her and the piano,
the piano so dearly adored.