nature poetry
An ode to Mother Nature; poems that take their inspiration from the great outdoors.
Only My Pen Knows My Name
NTERIOR - WRITING ROOM - SUNSET Sunset over a lake Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash Craving the attention, all eyes on me. The clicks, the likes, the follows. The who wants to be. Who wants to emulate my stride? Who wants to live in my successes? Who wants to mirror all these kee-kees? And hee-hees that I keep pretending exist, that I keep performing. I thought I had stopped performing. The truth is If all the eyeballs were fixated on the greatness that I think I am, They would also see the flaws. They would see the million and one mistakes and the trips that I've made, The lies I've told, The narcissistic traits. They'd see that I'm good at manipulation, If I put my mind to it, and even when I’m not trying. I listen intently because my radar is familiar With patterns of unwise behaviours. Defences high; I am a rearview mirror, Always watching my back. Now, why would I want them to see all of that? I don't plan to show and tell the other unspoken mess... The other parts, A cocktail of overly sensitive with scientific analysis. Critically thinking and strategically planning. A walking microscope for situations, The one that dissects the inflexion and tones of silence. And if a text message is sent a certain way Or a minute too late, Then, it also has a meaning to debate. The deep thinker, The hard trust-er, The pained lover, They'd see all that too. We want celebrity fame, The Pulitzer Prize in our names, But forget we have to do the walk of shame. Bear the negative comments. Endure praises turned to pitchforks, Career deaths and social media cancellations. The info archaeologists find what you don’t mention. If something went wrong in your past Though you no longer subscribe to, They will unsubscribe from you. Why would you want that on yourself? Why would anyone yearn for that extra attention? We prioritise being open instead of being private. Our life force is no longer sacred. And as hair greys, And youth fades, The masks decay. You start to see others’ real face, And realise you're just the same. This is a sign for change. Reborn a kin to Mother Teresa, High and mighty But can slip on a banana skin Back to le bon ton, "Please, sir, I want some more." We hold out the attention plate. Our bottomless hunger for notoriety. I know that is not the life I need. A wanting life does not serve nor drive dreams. It makes you a drone In this world's simulation. The curse of imperfect humans. My real necessity — Is to stand by the arched French windows. Gaze at rolling saltwater. Surrounded by lush peaks and valleys A crisp breeze uninhibited From next-door neighbours Floating through rustling leaves. It's the thought of sitting by the dock. Fingertips Bourrée on keys, Transmitting thoughts into stories. Reflections and recreation of vivid memories. It's knowing that Like favourite movie scripts My words would Give you a release From pain, loss, and heartache With remedies to heal. Mentally transports you far Your curated home, Made for you, the real Star. Oh, it's the urge to go shopping for new pens. My magic wands. A Master of Emotions, A Wordkeeper of worded bees, Your personal Poet that never leaves. Slightly unknown But widely believed. While the uninvited whispers, Who is she? Then they start the paparazzi drown, Google searches, Or ask Siri, Those hidden lost tropes Would be found. Would they still admire the words we set to fly? If they heard the College rumour That I shed clothes for coins. The Colleague's versions of The "Too Much" girl. The villain role, a fire starter Living up to the expectations Of a strict Mother and a sneaky Father. Competing with black robed and white wigged Brothers and sisters. Before self-loathing vacuums The syllable expressions. Before I surrender to social noises Of performing for everybody: the easiest path to unhappiness. Let me raise my pen. Let it bleed ink onto paper. I choose: Fulfilment over success, Peace over popularity. And when those demons Locate my solitude, They'll find me In the writing room.
By Latoya Campbellabout a year ago in Poets
