Across The Sky

I am running

Towards

A Cliff

And I can’t see anything

Beyond my 

Own nose

Let alone

The cliff

Or the abyss

Below.

The cliff

In itself is just 

Rock formations

That took lifetimes

To be eaten away

Year after year

Ice age after

Ice age

And you can’t see 

Nothing.

Not 

Thing.

And it’s black

And white

And beige

And grey.

And below

It could be

The clearest bluest

waters

Or just 

More rocks.

And I will

Either 

Plummet 

To my demise

Or fly 

And never look back.

It’s raining

And cold

And dark

But I feel warm

Inside

Deep inside

And the voice inside my head

Is saying

“Writing poetry

Won’t give you wings!”

And all I can think is

“Fuck you, man!”.

And beyond

The page

And the ink

Stands the cliff

Looking at me

And I’m looking at the sky

And the sky reads

Her name

And I’m running

And running

And the cliff turns into

A metaphor

And this poem falls

Off the edge

And I jump

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Romantic Nonsense

This is 
A love poem

Quite cheesy

And not

Very original
In fact

It’s stolen
Or sorry

“Borrowed”

From a consciousness

Of years of

Poetry reading

And imitating
And the funny thing

Is

That the lovers

Are the very same

And their story

Is very cliche
And the ending

Is

Well

Just

Like 

A sappy gratuitous

Hollywood one
Except

Here

The writer

Is delusional

His muse

Completely oblivious

And if we are to stick to the need

For something human

And a wee bit romantic

We have to reopen the poem
And announce that

It will be a love poem

Much like this one

And then proceed

To try to avoid

Names

To protect the identity

Of the guilty

Then 

Bullshit your way to the end

Then 

Literally

Write
The End