When I was a teen-ager I was always writing, poetry mostly, and making up stories for my nephews and nieces. Back then I sort of assumed that those creative elements would become part of my adult life but they didn't even make it much past my second decade. But I came across my teen-age ramblings recently and they are not that terrible... what do you think, here's one I made (much, much) earlier.
'Mystery'
Like whispers from strangers that hang in the breeze
and images of creatures that hide in the trees.
All this is strange - it's a mystery to me
like my own personality, that I never see.
Shadows in doorways, resurrection from the grave
and all those little things that people seem to save.
Like 'Where has all the money gone?' at the end of the week
and why are the ones most hurt always the weak?
How come people starve when we've mountains of food
and why does a uniform make people rude?
Why write poetry if there's no-one to read
and why does money inspire so much greed?
Why am I here, what's it all about?
... because if it was all clear, we wouldn't have to work it all out!
Lizbee x (aged about 18)
3 comments:
my comment is short but considered,the poem is wonderful and all the work time and effort put in isfrom the mind of a very intelligent and considerate woman who has more vision and compassion than i have ever seen, if you knew liz you would understand my comments,hope you continue to submit reflections of yourself and get that book started.....james x
well done excellant....james
James, I have considered everything very carefully and decided that I loved all of your comments very much. You might like to know that on saturday night I found the beginnings of my story on my hard drive and 'carried on regardless' so I now have 4 full pages!! Love in a bucket...Lizbee x
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