Poetry of a child with too many words

Artist Biography The Jumbling Mess of Me Author Of Our World Unwanted Celebration Colours of Sound Distorted Colour Monsters Dancing The 2 Step Hiding behind a Glass Wall Misty Lagoon Ballad Testimony To Thy Melodramatic Sounds of a Petty Bassline Canvas of Me I Am Getting Older

I need a smooth shining spotlight To trace across this mist Its touch is wet it smells cold Yet the cold cracked concrete&apos;s not freezing The boat sirens, tired as they sing &quot;Can you see me?&quot; &quot;I know you can hear me&quot; And although that is true All I smell is the rain

Break open the canvas, stare at the mirror Freshly picked pallet, colours full of emotion First stroke, the door behind me has closed Fingertips calloused, rumbling like earthquakes Lines over analyzed Shadows glossed over Prepared too much for my background That I forgot I was half way through my hair My arms urge me too pull back and take a second to analyze, somethings not quite right... There are too many colours, when did they get there? My finger cannot smear them away like an evasive fly I suppose I shall make it work, it is the only choice I have But I cannot get it right, the distorted colour monsters have spun into waltz My feet are tipsy, my head a balloon, This was not my plan, this is not me Dig into my head, what was my first image? Trying to remember but , my brain is too fuzzy Staring into the mirror, desperate to remember My eyes are telling me they all look the same I can no longer differentiate between the mirror and canvas

Each note that I hear Colours bounce inside my mind Yet I cant see them

Distorted Colours Monsters Dancing The 2 Step

Dance behind the screen Hide from priorities Illusive comfort

The pained quarantine Is starting to have birthdays Lack to celebrate

The beginning of a story, start drawing a circle Every thought that ive had, like a grain of sand Mountains build up as if represent where I stand Based on time based on land Values kept locked, as protected as one can The mountains shift, time and time again Yet I barely notice, its truly bizarre Like labels in a language only you understand As the essence of a life only you could star This is the circle of my worldview

Lacking a body and form, yet it narrates our worlds Viewing our history and keeping its truth Predicting the future with past it holds Teaching our children, the next generation Its time is the knife that carves out a meaning &quot;The past will repeat&quot; Echoes from worldview

Hiding Behind A Glass Wall

Original Source: &quot;Soul Eater&quot; by Michelle Paver, the 3rd in a book series known as &quot;The Chronicles Of Ancient Darkness&quot;

Gust of winds stirred the beeches around him It felt as if they forest was trying to tell him something &quot;She hadnt seen the owl feather&quot; &quot;It was hard to see&quot; he said He didnt want it be an omen &quot;So dont tell her&quot; That was a mistake He&apos;d known it was

Dramaticism is a hard art, a histrionic manner But is fueled only by the illusion of a strong voice The mask of an actor, trembling silently If I parade around this thin stage of pen and paper And throw out words like roses to a beloved People think it is then important They’ll dismantle it’s limbs and head, mistaking intestine for liver, pancreas for heart Like how they mistake my words for a meaning That is the downfall of writing with no purpose Though is it up to me? Am I their god? Do I decide their emotions like a draw of the card? Now I stand here, and reevaluate what I thought Suddenly the writing is not so hard Instead of drag, the pen starts to dance Perhaps it was a person I could not see If so I am thankful, for what they can grant For now when I write, the words smile with glee

Feet planted firm, with brand new soles Hugging my socks and guiding my young steps Treading through land, the crunch of leaves fill my ears Though we are both learning as sometimes we trip But as we get older, we gain more control The more streets we walk down, the easier it gets Until it becomes natural; then we run like bears The sun hides from my laces, deciding its best to sit But the hugs start to squeeze as I get old My shoes turn to me, trying not to curl my toes &quot;You can run by yourself, I am no longer your crutch&quot; While we are now disconnected, I still run though these leaves

Hello, my name is Alfie and I am the author of this poetry book. This was created as the final product for our &quot;Working With Words&quot; project and was used to help us learn to gain insight about a written piece, whether it be about the author or the topic. I&apos;m a very big music person, in the school bands I play electric bass and in the school choirs I&apos;m a tenor. I also play acoustic guitar, a little bit of keyboard and ukulele (if you count it). I associate sounds with colours, it&apos;s not quite synesthesia as I don&apos;t actually see the colour, but it&apos;s significant to how I experience music. It&apos;s been very fun but also very challenging to write these poems and describe my perception of the world in different ways. I like these poems and my progression even though non of these are perfect. I am a complete amateur when it comes to poetry, I&apos;d be surprised if you were expecting otherwise.

The Poetry of a Child With Too Many Words

The buzz The pluck of the finger Its sound echoes and engraves itself in my ears It echoes It echoes The growls The murmurs of a bassline dancing with the tune It echoes and imprints itself through my mind It echoes It echoes

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