The Brown Eyed Dreamer

'Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart.' William Wordsworth


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Frosted Glass.

I will find symphonies in your distant sighs,

Poetry entwined amongst sentences left unsaid,

Art embedded into the cracks and crevices of your turned back; 

I will tell myself a frosted glass fairytale 

For I always fall for the wonderfully impossible, 

And you are a dream I adore to indulge in. 


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May 27th / (Heart)Break Down

I guess the part I’m scared of is 

The inevitable change;

When everything that once meant the world 

Crumbles like dust at our feet. 

What will we do,

When kisses that once inspired 

Soft sighs and butterflies,

Only flutter and fall

Like ashes from our lips?

What will we say,

When words that once bloomed

Between the spaces in the silence 

Wilt, wither and waste away  

In the dryness of closed mouths?

I don’t want your name to become 

A sour taste on my tongue,

I don’t want the melody of your voice 

To switch to a mourning hum;

But my fear is one morning I’ll wake up 

And all my feelings will have dispersed- 

Or worse, lying sleepless in twilight

I’ll know you stopped loving me first. 


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Unbreakable.

I built my walls up strong and high

So nothing could harm me; 

But when those walls came crashing down 

It set my old heart free. 

And though this world is dark and cold 

When you’re trapped here all alone;

In your absence I’ll find strength 

I’ll seek happiness on my own.

(As part of my new blessing counting mantra, I’ve decided my poetry should be a bit more optimistic as I tend to scribble with cynicism most of the time. I’ve always found it harder to capture hope and happiness than melancholy and sadness, but I hope in time I can improve my positive writing and, in turn, my positive outlook in life.)


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Sans Doute

Aujourd’hui, pour le premier temps 

Je peux dire que je me sent vraiment content 

Et ces sentiments existent grâce à toi. 

Quand j’imagine tes yeux, ton beau sourire 

Ou le son de sa voix 

Je me trouve avec un sourire grand et 

Sans doute, je t’aime. 

Et si cet report n’est pas l’amour, 

Si tu me blesse, 

Si mon cœur se sent chagrin 

Je me sentirai pas de tristesse, pour 

Sans doute, je t’aime-

Et le reste? Ça ne fait rien.

(I wrote this poem a while back, and while things have changed, feelings never really do, so this will always be relevant. Also, excuse my terrible French, I have not spoken the language in months)


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Mother Earth

Mother let our garden grow 

Green and wild and free. 

She said that it was arrogant 

Of man to control trees

For Earth should be respected 

Giving life as it does grow; 

And man should be detested

Leaving death where he goes. 

Our journey is a violent pilgrimage, 

A path leading to our own demise

And when we’re gone, the trees 

Will lay our graves and once more rise.


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The Last Goodbye of Winter

The world woke up to whirls of snow

Fluttering from skies and falling slow,

The streets were cloaked in silence, sweet, 

The only sound my plodding feet

Paving footprint paths in crisp, cold sheets 

Of crackling ice, cool snow and sleet.

And though it’s rather late in year 

And most pray for spring to appear, 

I felt delight to walk and see 

Winter’s final legacy. 


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Melancholia.

All too often I find myself
Tentatively treading the space
Between two sets of mind:
Imagination and reality.
Wandering between the two sides
Wondering about the one side
I truly belong to.
Am I eccentric or just downright crazy?
Am I melancholy or melodramatic?
Is my existence entirely broken
Or am I just another teenager
Jacked up on the idea that depression
Could make my life a little more interesting?

Maybe a part of me craves
Sighs that could fill up my heaving lungs like cigarette fumes,
Tears that could flow through my bloodstream like wine,
So that somewhere amongst the raging chaos
There’d be poetry, inked in pain; and
So that for once in this abysmal, echoing life
I’d have something to say.