Matthew Holloway Poems

Type, write, place
Words upon the page in verse
Pour out a poem
From the soul, echo
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There's not much to them
These winter skies
A strike of white breaks
Across the softened grey
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It was in the late February
Or the early March I recall
Sitting perched on my windowsill
In the early hours nursing a coffee
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You can spend a week or a month
Writing and rewriting, editing
Working through lines with a fine pen
Work and rework the ink over and over
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What is this about
A force within many of us
Creating and denying sleep
The painter, musician, writer
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Don't be elevator music
A background noise to life
Something heard but not listened to
Something that's there but never noticed
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Sometimes I like to try
Curl into a bottle and hide
From those thoughts about me
Those thoughts which haunt
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Loneliness is like an old friend
always there in the sleepless night
the distraction throughout the day
the over familiar and unwanted guest
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The ocean stole the beaches memories
washed away the footprints and castles of children
beneath the full moon each wave came
rose up and down the beach
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