The Feeling

     Time for another poem, I guess. From last year. Probably like November, not exactly sure though.  I'm not really going to explain why I wrote this poem, but yes, it was my feeling at the time. And that's what it is called. The Feeling.

The Feeling

I wish I wouldn’t lie to myself ever again,

And that the way that I feel, didn’t feel like a sin.

The hurt I feel inside,

This feeling’s made me cry.

I don’t know if it is wrong.

Why does this take so long?

Will this feeling ever fade?

That it will remain makes me afraid.

I say that none of it bothers me,

But it doesn’t take a lot to see

That when I tell myself it’s fine,

That alone is the lie.

Streamside Twilight

     The stream continued to rush by the same as ever, unaffected by the darkening sky, the only difference as the night drew closer being perhaps the seeming elevation in noise from the water because of the silence of the evening.  The small amount of light that remained glinted on the water’s surface and you could see little ripples being pushed toward the edge, despite the main current carrying the water downstream toward the little waterfall, which was really nothing more than a very slight incline in the rocks that the stream ran across.  There was small rock jutting out of the water partway down the incline, causing the water to spray into the air a few inches as it was pressed into the obstruction by the fairly swift current, giving the appearance of a miniature fountain in the midst of the stream.  The light continued to fade, but it was difficult to notice when completely absorbed in the stream itself.  But upon drawing one’s eyes from its darkened yet still shining surface, it was obvious that the world was growing ever darker, something that would be depressing except for the fact that it was too beautiful to sadden and there is always the hope of light the next day.

Discouragement by the Deception of Description

     Sometimes I have this great desire to write – to describe something beautiful that I wish to remember.  But when I think about it, I get discouraged and choose to look at it only rather than trying to put it into words, for I feel inside me that no words I could ever use would do what I am seeing justice.  Its beauty is beyond words.  How can you write about a sunset or a sunrise and expect it to be accurate?  You could use the best words in your description and it would still not sound as beautiful as it really is.  Why write about something when my words would not truly describe what I wish them to, and when they would instead deceive people, leading them to believe that its beauty was at a certain level, when really it is far above?

The Evening

     Wind blew gently through the grass, causing the blades to wave back and forth – an endless sea of green in constant motion.  Although the wind was not strong, it managed still to move ever so softly through the low-hanging evergreen branches, making it appear as though they had minds of their own – as though they were long, green fingers reaching down to the earth.  The wind would grow slightly stronger ever so often, and as it did, the speed in which those green branches moved would increase, as would how quickly the tiny blades of grass moved.  And that was when you could hear it.  You could hear the sound of the wind.  It was a soft sound, a sound which is hard to describe.  It was calming, yet exhilarating.  It could make you feel relaxed, and yet excited by the wonder of it at the same time.

     The sky was not its typical blue, but instead it appeared to be a white or a light gray, and was still just as beautiful.  Clouds floated by quickly in the air overhead, but seemed to hold no threat of a storm.  The wind picked up once more, bringing with it a bit of a chill as the temperature decreased with the progression of the evening.

     There were many crickets there.  Though they remained hidden from sight, it was easy to hear them in the relative silence, as they all joined together to create their unique song.  The smell of the grass was strong and sweet if you were close enough to it.  It possessed such a beautiful smell.

     You can still hear the wind.  You can feel it on your skin and blowing through your hair.  You can hear the crickets.  You can see the grass waving in the breeze and the branches doing the same.  And now I will leave you to imagine it for yourself…