Tomorrow

If I were dead tomorrow,
Your heart would skip no beat;
You’d not be full of sorrow,
But full of joy and heat.

If I were dead tomorrow,
You’d sit out in the sun;
No tears would ever follow,
If I were so undone.

I loved you like no other,
My heart now cold and hollow;
For you would never bother
If I were dead tomorrow.

Cupboard Poetry

The other day, I visited a friend of mine who has bits of words on his cupboards. Most of the words and syllables provided suggested sexual topics, so I tried to come up with something more lyrical. This was the result:  

What Do You Know

Wherever I go,
The shadows will follow.
And what do you know,
In filth you will wallow.

At heart and in mind,
You haunt my tomorrows,
You’re one of a kind:
The source of my sorrows.

I dream of the sea
To drown my frustration:
Its only decree
Is breed desperation.

Wherever I go,
The shadows will cry fear.
Yet what do you know
Who left me to die here.

Gone

Memories of days gone by
Are here to haunt for ever:
The essence of a seagull’s cry
Between right now and never.

Memories of days long past
Return to stalk the shadows:
A heart is nailed to each ship’s mast
With blood in streams and meadows.

Memories of days long gone
Add fuel to these fires:
They tell a story, once upon
A time of void desires.

Embarrassment

It used to be a passion,
So vivid and so bright –
I liked to be on fire.
But now it is
Just an embarrassment
To think of it
In retrospect.
And if someone asks me,
All I have to say is,
‘I don’t even know
What you’re talking about.’

The Wrong Way

I do things the wrong way:
I search a haystack in a needle,
Too close for missiles
And too far for comfort.

It is too much for my own good
And not enough to win your heart,
A bit of something
With the taste of nothing.

I do things the wrong way:
A word is worth a thousand pictures,
I hope for the worst
And prepare for the best.

I am too true for my own good
And not enough to fuel your fire,
I chase my dreams
And follow them into the night.