Bad Poetry Weekend #3: Sad Beautiful Tragic

Hey look, it’s time for your most favorite bit on my blog – bad poetry weekend… not! Oh my smarts, I’m clueless what has gotten into me why I’m experimenting, trying to put words together and calling it poetry. Won’t you forgive me, loves?

Anyway, in this version, I tried to play with temperature, weather, color, and some sound. There is something so special about them that adds texture, which enhances the imagery and possibly feel of a poem, don’t you agree?

Wait. Don’t answer that. In works that make sense that might happen but with what I come up with, it’s highly debatable. 😆

Enjoy our sappy piece this weekend! Now if you want to torture yourself, back read the previous bad poetry weekend pieces here and here.

Red

The gray sky mimics the melancholy that
is my own: quiet, pensive, possibly weak.
A light drizzle follows, shedding
the tears I never shed and it dawns
On me, how much it hurts more,
To cry without tears; to embrace the grief,
Feel the emptiness that lingers
After it has been done.
It has been done.

Pale, my hands are; my soul a blue I’ve
never known. But I feel my blood hot,
Coursing from my aching crown to the ends
Of my poor, cold feet…
Suddenly, everything’s silent –
Too silent,
That you hear the world spin and a
Dizziness sinks in, after it has been done.
It has been done.

Tick. The big hand of the clock moves,
breaking the stillness I nearly jump.
Sigh. Sorrow may cuddle me now…
Like a long, lost friend. But nothing time
Can’t fix; nothing time can’t heal.
I see no sun but it’ll come.
For now it fits – all cloud, fog, and rain;
Let it roll since it has been done.
It has been done.

—

Photos taken from here.