The Anchor

I have always searched for roots.
Being adrift in space
Is never what I wanted.
I wanted a quaint place

I could call home; my solace
Where I could be just me,
With hot chocolate and books
And love for company.

I have sought for strong anchors
To stop my wayward drift;
Something heavy that no storm
Could possibly lift.

I found them in what I read,
In what I loved and knew,
In what I wrote and learned,
In what I danced and drew.

I became an anchor then;
Roots was what I became;
I dug into the sea bed,
Made a tree of my name.

If you choose to see this,
As being stuck for all time,
I must set you to sea,
Your fruit was never mine.

Perhaps out in the ocean,
Drifting in colder air,
I dare say, you’ll find your peace,
Devoid of me and care.

Perhaps out in the free air,
Like pollen with no aim,
You will just be –
No flower must you tame.

I stay here anchored fast,
Rooted to my haloed ground,
I shall read and drink and love,
No complaint shall resound,

From cold ocean and warm earth,
I look upward to sky:
I am here. Here I live,
Here I love. Here I die.

A Wannabe Sonnet

Smiles have now replaced tears:

They do not come from joy,

But actualization of fears

In destiny’s employ.

I have no cause to trust anyone:

Not a jot of certainty or strength,

Within this heart or mind run,

Of any scope, or any length.

What certainty in principle I knew

Now bows to lessons from lies,

Love exists like it was never true

Tainted by a myriad sighs.

I wish I can still close my eyes and dream

Instead of smiles that hide the screams.

Sometimes

Sometimes the stars refuse to shine

And sometimes you see

There is no hope in the divine.

 

Sometimes the night is just a night,

With a pale sunset,

But no resurrecting light.

 

Sometimes life seems morbidly dark,

The moon robs each dream,

Every inspiring spark.

 

Sometimes all love does is pine

And though we try hard

We find no mercy in time.

 

Sometimes sadness bursts anew

And feelings tangle,

And faithless strength holds me to you.

 

Sometimes my words find no rhymes

So I hold despair and you close

And I go on writing – sometimes.