Tag: photography

I sense one day you won’t recognize me.
They say to remember where you came from.
But I say sometimes change is meant to be:
To march to the beat of a different drum.

But only a still small voice inside knows
the rhythm of life soon to be composed.

I Thought You Were Dead

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

They wheeled you out and I thought you were dead;
Your hospital bed mirrored a casket.
I ducked down and dropped my lips to your head.

This season, I lost two people I love.
Appeals go up, if I’m able to ask it,
not to take this third soul, too, up above.

I Write in my Grave

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

I write where I passed. . . I write in my grave.
I write in passing. . . there’s naught I can save.
Writing can sometimes rekindle my gall.
Can writing sometimes rekindle a crawl?

Would you ditch me here in this tomb to rot?
You observed me carefully mark my spot.
I sunk in sin, duped by a false lover.
What love grants you to die for another?

I grew in sin, became a false lover.
False love robbed you of me to another.
What’s reckless, what’s not. I deserve it all.
But cautious love will seize me when I fall.

I lie in my grave. . . I whisper your name. . .
Remind myself that love’s always the same.

Sometimes, My Only Friend

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

I hide in music. . . sometimes, my only friend.
Or poems, with my second friend, a pen.
They ease me to shut my eyes. . . drift away.

Your love for me is clear in lucid words.
But when you’re missed, there’s no words for the hurt.
Sometimes, solitary, I weep alone.

Please take away the way I feel, I pray. . .
Please take away this pain, every day. . .
Take away the way. . . take it all away. . .

I hide in the shadows, under your wings.
I hide when I muse too much about things.
But you’re always here, and that’s what consoles. . .

Will My Heart Bleed Through Pen?

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.

I stepped outside for the first time this week.
I guess I’m anxious that I’ll seem too weak.
Bracing for questions; asking how I am.
Truthfully I’m just dead beneath my skin.
But I’ll bow my head, say I’m better now.
It’s just a white lie that I’m living in.

I arrive to my work and drop a tear. . .
I utter your name but no. . . you’re not here. . .

The catch with daydreams is you can’t wake up.
Minutes pass like hours. . . refill my cup.

I’m walking home. . . I drop another tear.
I whisper your name. . . but no. . . you’re not here.

I like to fall and gaze at the ceiling.
With all this pain, it’s fine to feel nothing.
I’m lost in woe, and the world keeps spinning.
So nothing can break the way I’m feeling.

I sit by myself and finish my tear.
You whisper my name, but no, I’m not here. . .

Lying. . . Stuck in my Grave

© Jonathan Pines and WritingWithStrangers, 2019, except where noted otherwise. All rights reserved.