So I’m being brave, this is possibly the only thing that I’ve written recently that I don’t dislike (well, not yet anyway) and feel comfortable actually sharing. No doubt I will hate this with a passion very soon, so I’m posting it now so I can’t back out and not share it.
I don’t claim to be a good writer either so in terms of poetry this is awful but I enjoy writing (so pls don’t judge too much). Also, if anyone has any comments/constructive criticism that would greatly be appreciated too.
The hue of pink
a delightful illusion,
reality and hope on the brink
my mind a confusion.
The petals are misleading
far from me reaching,
the happiness I’m feeding
from the illusion it’s breaching.
Stem twisted and tangled
far away yet clear in my mind,
nothing but this rose, not yet mangled,
is the only thing I want to find.
Waiting but searching still,
with the optimistic sight,
that comforts and thrills
my downhearted might.
Ignorant of the now, the present, the living
that you need to take as a virtue,
‘It’s expected of the future for giving
better things’, gloats the pinkish hue.