Poem: Recollection

Lately I've been looking through all the poems I've written over the years and the vast majority of them were cringe-worthy but this was one of the better ones. It was from a time when I had lost sight of my dreams and was just what I needed to remind myself of who I really am.

Also I decided for September to write a poem a day. Most will be terrible but maybe a few of them will turn out well. We'll see..

Anyway, here's Recollection

He used to be mad.

Conversing with people who didn’t exist.

Bearing witness to events that never transpired.

Describing these other worldly phantasms, these fantastical apparitions to friends, family and strangers only to be met with the same blank faces, concerned looks and confused stares.

He used to be mad.

But now he has locked away the demons.

He ignores the spectacular phenomena around him.

He chooses to turn away from that other world that only he can see into.

He used to be mad.

He used to be a sorcerer.

Transmuting the mundane into the extraordinary.

Conjuring mighty beasts, the likes of which never before were imagined.

Channeling great power from within to move mountains, divert rivers, and shape whole continents.

He used to be a sorcerer.

But he has closed his mind to that power.

He has become out of practice, his spells feeble and weak.

He dares not stir up those forces again out of fear. Fear of failure.

He used to be a sorcerer.

He used to be a God.

Creating whole worlds with just a thought.

Crushing civilizations with a simple gesture.

Dictating the wills of men and authoring history at his pleasure.

He used to be a God.

But he has grown complacent.

He has turned away, forsaking the very people he breathed life into.

Leaving unfinished what he had started.

He used to be a God.

He used to be a writer.

Dreaming up worlds so vivid, so real people might have thought him deranged.

Working like a mad sorcerer with tomes full of handwritten notes scribbled so frantically, with such fervor they appeared to be nothing more that cryptic symbols.

Shaping the universes he had created like a God, molding them to perfection to suit his visions.

He used to be a writer

But his once unshakable spirit has been crippled by heartache.

His seemingly endless ambition is held back by doubt.

And his energy is stolen from him daily from a cruel and unforgiving job in a cruel and unforgiving world.

He used to be a writer,

And in fact.. he still is.

He just needed to remind himself.