Biography of Christopher Withers
I guess I try to explore things which are not easily graspable with words.
I try to write pieces which evoke 'something'. I try to write pieces that I myself would like to read. Ultimately, I try to write away from the well worn path that poetry usually treads.
My writing is first draft, and I hope I am improving.
Some day, I might write the piece which truely defines that 'something' I feel.
Christopher Withers Poems
vision stunted by past deeds leading to my current place, childhood face: disconnected, now adrift on stagnant lake.
Life is fake, life is real,
Frozen Moments And You
a surge of grief washes my senses, seeming to ride the dim, blue, evening light, and suddenly i realise, that
Love Entangles Semantics
what is Love? indeed, what is it to Love? how can one glance truth, fight through the ingrained gloss
willingly, each night we fade, drifting out from structured thought into yawning oblivious depth: willingly, our greatest fears embraced
in lieu of gifts and flowered word, in my stead i'll place your care. at each dawn i'll hold you near, talking of our love so clear.
Bound, The Flesh
'see', I yell, to the gathering crowd, but rather than 'seeing', each eye, slack jaw and gaping mouth
each babe wakes to earths new dawn, mistaking new for what is worn, futures cast before they're born.
screaming bombs fall from the sky darkness washes out the eye hidden people start to die
Death Is Cold
death is just cold.
The Watcher Is Watched
I watch myself watch myself watching their dance, my action is actioned
Do not Be frightened of the 'life', The path which leads through shadows reach -
Together We Crumble, Stumble, And Fall
our future together, we weave from crystal strands, each of which diffracts the sunlight into rainbow hues, painting our hopes, dreams and intentions
needing the bathroom late at night, silently, i feel my way through the darkness, slowly across the bedroom floor. being careful not to trip or bang, i’m
On This Autumnal Day
balding trees echo with
the memory of recent rain,
their quiet voice mourns their loss
with twisted black hands
dormant grass, covered
in blanket, spun
from golden tears,