'Broken Futures' - A Love Poem

I have a confession. Sometimes I write poetry. More often, it tumbles through my mind without me writing it down, and it simply fades away.


When I do write it down it's usually on random slips of paper that end up... somewhere. And when it ends up in a notebook, still no one usually sees it. Every now and then I send some to people in private messages. But rarely.

Last year I did a small burst of going to open mic nights and doing readings. It was fun. But for some reason I really just seem to write poetry for myself.

I had a girlfriend about a decade ago that I used to text love poems to every now and then. She liked them, a lot. But she never believed that I had written them. She thought they were too good. Probably a good indication of a bad future for that relationship. Both the girl and the poems are lost to the devouring maw of time now.

For instance, here's a little poem that I did last December. I happened to send it to someone, and that's the only reason I have a record of it now. It was impromptu. It simply jumped into my mind, I typed it out, and sent it off. Thus it was preserved.

- - - - - - -

To define thyself,
a fruitless endeavor?
or nothing more profound!

To circumscribe the limit,
a curtailing of expansion?
or the act of creation divine!

To find what lies within,
and what without.
To choose a life,
and be the fount!

- - - - - - -

I had my last burst of poetic frenzy two months ago. I wrote a poem a day for a week. I didn't try to do it. It wasn't a goal or a plan. It just happened, because it felt right. And it felt good. I sent some of them to a friend of mine. She liked them and encouraged me to do more, and to make a book of poetry. I have not done more since then. I have let the poetic moments of my life and mind go unwritten. But some of these are just too darn good not to share.

I read this one to a friend of mine from Azerbaijan. When he heard it he said I'd have to marry the woman that I gave it to.

- - - - - - -

Broken futures,
only dreamt of, never grasped.

Like a mirage pulling you forward,
toward something that isn't there.

But does it not have a purpose?
A use?
To pull, to motivate, to bring forth.

A new future.
No!
A present.

A present that could not be seen.
And if seen, would not have been desired.

For such is the tragic joy of life,
that it must be felt to be known,
and it must be lived to be felt.

I have traded a mirage of broken futures,
for a whole present,
with you.

And am the better for it.

- - - - - - -

I'm not getting married any time soon. But, I do like the poem.

More to come, more to come.

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