far from societies grasp
she hides inside her kingdom
lost in her own world
away from the negativity
living positive everyday
letting no one in
to steer her in the wrong direction
she enjoys the peace and quiet
Of being a recluse
Reclusive Writer
Avoid society
Avoiding the light
Always a pen in hand
Footprints in the sand
Ponder the night
Black ink bleeds off the pages
Mind always racing
Reasoning between the lines
A poet is isolated
Solitude in darkness
Just a small candle glaring
My shadow whispers next to me
Focus on my work
A cemetery is planted next door
A reclusive writer
A mystery story teller
Dragging behind on paper
Mind fading at dusk
Empty spaces
Empty thoughts
Sometimes, writer's block
Eyes are blurry
Another cigar burning
Locked up in my room
Pages are crumpled up
A new title
For a new poem
We are writers in the dark
We are chained to the desk
We write on
I Have Finally Worked Me out.
I’m impulsive
I never stay when I want to leave
I’m annoying
They feel it, but are too polite to say.
I’m opinionated
So much so, I show my own stupidity
I’m explosive
My temper sometimes lets loose
I’m a recluse
I love being alone, in my own company
I’m scared
Mostly by things which will never happen
I’m suspicious
I trust very few and allow few people to know me
I’m sceptical
I believe little of what I hear and less of what I am shown
I’m a nuisance
High maintenance, annoying sometimes, irrational, irritating
I’m emotional
My face can’t lie or hide how I feel.
I’m also….
Giving, generous, caring, talented, humorous, funny,
Off the wall, loving, helpful, shy, a genius, if I believed.
I’m me. Who are you?
David Cox 27/02/24.
How far gone reclusive am I?
My favorite outdoor activity is going back inside.
The more time alone I spend apart
From the vulgar traffic of the earth
It is the more wisdom fill my heart
And the more I come closer to birth
Through each metamorphosis of thought
For all my life there was this pressure
This culture of what should be despite
Of what I was born to be. This erasure
Of something substantial for a blight,
A poor fly struggling that sinister caught
And no emotional intelligence that web
Could escape, for how is a fly not to chase
The scent of things rotting when no ebb
Of hunger is present its desire to erase?
It was easier not to fall in love, let it depart
There is so much distraction before the truth
And so much pain after it is known. I see
Every fair thing a little bit of a coward brute
But is more meaningful because of misery.
I sing better with words from a broken heart.
my weary bones I shall bathe,
my wary mind I shall reassure,
my worried soul I shall ease
there in a cool, secluded pool
where chaste rivulets converge
after seeping through ancient rocks
deep in a mist-darkened jungle;
there is where this urban heart
aches to stay, if only very briefly,
where alone, and at peace with itself,
it shall mutely sing praises and thanks
to the One Source of the countless many,
of all that ever was and ever has been,
and of all that is yet to come.
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