Poems of Myself-Part 2 (or Passing the Pits)

By Gideon

I haven’t really published much poetry, so here I am again with the 2nd part to this collection (most of the the poems do not have names, if you come up with some, send them to me and if I like them, I’ll put them on it and yes, I’ll give you a shoutout)

Poem #4

I shift too easily from

One thing in my mind

To another;

The slippery slope

My life has become,

Is hurting me far

Too hard for me to

Help hold up anymore.

 

Poem #5

It feels like a while indeed

But I just had to leave

This comfy, cozy

Place I ceased to grow,

Where I got deeper, deeper

And had nothing to show for it;

I blame my woes on

Technology and indecision

Both putting me in a collision

With the void.

 

Poem #6

I fight them,

You fight them too,

Those sinister thoughts

Telling you you’re

Worthless, expendable

And truly dead inside.
Let me tell you the truth,

You’re just letting

Your old self die

And in its place

Find a wonderful,

New, never seen

You come from the ashes.
Negative thoughts will

Always be there,

But you have power

To keep your mind still.

 

Poem #7

Indecision is like a tiny demon,

It pops up when you’re most

In need, and fills you

With questioning quirks.

 

This demon must be

Pushed far out into

The deepest, deep sea

Before the worst becomes true,

When you don’t even know

What the mirror shows you

Any longer.

 

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Poems of Myself- Part 1

By Gideon

Today, as I come back from a period of not writing (I get busy in other things), I’m starting a series of poems that I wrote about what goes on in my head, what I feel and my observations about my life sometimes.

 

Friends

Who is so kind?
Who cares when all are cynics?
Who can free me from my bind?
Who does not mimic my enemies,
But scares with the love of a brother?
This is a friend, not just any
But the Superfriend!

I wake up only to discover,
That I’ve been smothered
By my end.

Who am I?

I go to the depths of my soul,
To find the eternally cold
Case that laces those

That know not the unsold

Thing that encases,

That is none but

The external material

Like a parasite

That’s out of spite;

So now I want to know,

The forever asked question:

Who am I?

Some live and die,

Never knowing the time

That defines,

That shapes the soul,

The answer to:

Who am I?

The Old Me

 

I once decree,

That the old me

Is sold,

Sold to that sack of gold;

Because, I’m poor,

Poor of soul.

Now, the cold

Is replaced with

This new found myth,

Of non-existent gold.

The treasure, I decree,

Is in the cure,

For a lost soul,

A soul that knows

Itself only.

Feel free to leave constructive criticism in the comments below!