Bill Smith

Rookie (4-3-55)

Deeper - Poem by Bill Smith

In the chill of morning
By moonlights warming glow
In the dead of night calm
To mid-days to and fro
Nothing really changes
Nothing comes or goes
My daily existence
Like the tide ebbs and flows

Within this tired body
Within this confused mind
I battle for a future
I fight the daily grind
I guess I'm just plain lazy
I guess I'm just too weak
To do what is required
To let my demons speak

Trapped inside and muted
Those voices have their say
I alone can hear them
Tis a price I deem to pay
Torment myself with anger
Force feed myself with pride
Thinking when it was
Something inside me died

When did the flame expire?
Where did the fire go?
When was tomorrow stolen?
I'm the hero I'm the foe
Wild dreams have died forever
There's a weight that's pressing down
Given up on forward planning
Sold my tickets to the show

I hate the mirror's reflection
I loathe the man inside
I wake with him each morning
There's nowhere left to hide
I'd cry were tears the answer
I'd scream to make him see
It's a simple fact of life so true
All the shit is down to me

So I wallow in self pity
Tell no one things aint' well
I shower to cleanse the outside
Live with the inner smell
I paper over cracks
Smile and say hello
Sink further into somewhere
I never thought I'd go…..


Comments about Deeper by Bill Smith

  • (12/29/2007 6:52:00 PM)


    smooth writing again but never give up fate can spring surprises on you still (Report) Reply

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  • (12/4/2005 11:56:00 AM)


    I really like this one, Bill. Good job.

    S
    (Report) Reply

  • (11/12/2005 12:39:00 PM)


    Beautiful, Bill. I love your work. The words are smooth and feel good to my ears as I read them aloud....thank you for reading me... (Report) Reply

  • (10/8/2005 5:11:00 AM)


    A sad poem Bill though much enjoyed. Thank you. (Report) Reply

  • David Lewis Paget (10/6/2005 5:50:00 PM)


    Hi Bill, I've read all ten of your offerings, and believe that you have the instinct of the true poet. You fall short in some of the technical areas, but a lot of this is down to working and re-working your lines until you rid your poems of the commonplace. Poetry is like an apprenticeship, work and more work with no pay, and hey, one day you sit looking at a polished gemstone that didn't exist an hour before. Keep at it, but be your own severest critic. All the best.
    David Lewis Paget
    (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Monday, September 26, 2005



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