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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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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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.


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Mute

How is it that when I’m alone reels of pages appear before my eyes

Entire stories woven with the words I wanted to say but

Never found the bravery to let pass beyond my lips.

How is it that when I’m alone phrases flower on my tongue

But when I look into his eyes they falter, never flow

The silent sentences shrivel, their dried petals falling slow

I love him, but what will I do without the words to tell him so?


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Writer’s Block

I can see the scenarios in front of me
Like shots from a movie scene,
The anger, the laughter, the tears
All accompanied by only silence-
I can’t hear the words to tell the story,
And this tale is but a blank canvas
I, the artist, without paint.
Images swirl and fall together
In no order, a jumbled kaleidoscope
Of nonsensical stories,
A twisted mirage of bleak nothings.
I see the end, the final kiss,
The last few moments of a perfect scene-
But the main girl, she’s crying
And the boy, he has no words
This wasn’t the ending we all pictured…
If only I could find the words
To change it.