Where does the time go?
How did I get this old?
Only yesterday I was a child
It went by so fast
Suddenly a third of my life is gone.
Can I recover that time?
Right around the corner is middle-age.
And soon after that I’ll be elderly.
I may have wasted my youth, but
Going forward, I will not waste my future.
Category Archives: Poems
Who is Craig?
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Where are you?
This poem is about my search for a lot of different things, and a lot of different people.
I’ve been waiting quite a while.
I assumed that you would come.
Of course I didn’t get a promise.
I didn’t think I needed one.
It seems that people all around me
find you every single day.
But I’m still waiting calmly
for you to come my way.
But maybe waiting’s not enough.
Is it ME that should find YOU?
I wouldn’t know where to start.
Can you give me a clue?
Everyone deserves you whole,
not just a tiny shard.
But if everyone needs you,
then why is finding you so hard?
Chained
Now I am free, but I used to feel like this for most of my adult life.
I feel like a bird, chained to a branch.
I want to fly free, but I don’t have the chance.
Like a worm’s very nature, I want to dive deep.
but worm can’t dig through solid concrete.
Like the donkey chasing the carrot up front.
As fast as he runs, he doesn’t catch up.
As a child did you ever pull the wings off a fly?
Without its wings, it might as well die.
I feel like I’m chained, not allowed to run free.
Here in my prison, how do I be me?
Through the Window
I was trying to describe what it feels like to wear glasses my entire life.
Its like looking through a window,
I’m not really there.
I see and touch, it all feels real,
But ultimately bare.
I don’t connect with people,
They seem too far away.
Even when they’re right in front
I can’t hear what they say.
Its like NPC’s in games.
There are people of all kinds,
I can talk and interact with them,
But none of them have minds.
Its like living in a bubble,
Peering through the soapy sheen.
I can see things in the distance,
But nothing in-between.
Its like living in two dimentions,
Though everyone has three.
I can’t see the truth of things,
I can only see me.
The Silent Room
I wrote this poem a while ago. I was trying to describe a particular thing without saying what it was. I wonder if people can tell what it is?
I sit here in a silent room,
Awaiting my impend doom.
I grow weary in my tomb.
I can feel my ending loom.
In my silent room there is a door,
Black as night through to the core.
I don’t know what this door is for,
It does not open, what a bore…
When the light grows dim, and I grow cold,
My mind wanders to days of old,
And medieval dungeons stained with mold,
And prisoners from a time untold.
I long to see the sun once more.
I never noticed it before,
Its morning rays I never saw,
And sunset on the ocean shore.
Instead I have this plain white room,
Dim at night and bright at noon.
White despite my constant gloom.
I hope that I can leave here soon.
Through sleepless nights I’ve cried and cried,
And willed the door to open wide.
Many times I’ve tried and tried,
But every time I am denied.
At times when everything is still,
I sit quietly until,
A touching hand gives me a chill.
There’s no-one there, but I feel it still.
My memory is not so clear.
I really don’t know why I’m here.
I try to bring my memories near,
But can only make one image appear…
I was driving, I presume.
Along the highway past the tomb.
A car swerved out, there was a boom,
Then I awoke to find this room.
I don’t know how much time has passed,
Time here seems so wide and vast.
I watch the door but it holds fast,
But I know it will open one day, at last.
Where did all the pencils go?
I wrote this poem while in a particular boring Marketting class at College, years ago, then found it suddenly while going through my drawers. I’ve contemplated turning it into a childrens book.
A tear formed in reality,
Through which came tiny specks.
The tear did then close up again,
Leaving onlookers perplexed.
The specks, they searched the land
For pencils, high and low.
Coloured pencils of all sorts,
Though they preferred yellow.
The specks, they saw a pencil,
One they thought was fit to grab.
But a human used this pencil,
This was one they couldn’t nab.
They didn’t need the pencils,
Chunkas would’ve done.
But Chunkas were to hard to find,
So far they had but one.
Then they spied another pencil,
Beside a pot of glue.
And they liked the look of it,
Even though it was blue.
They crept up silently,
And hid behind the pot.
They planned to take it by surprise,
Which worked, more often than not.
The specks, they leapt out yelling,
And grabbed the pencil tightly.
They dragged it back behind the pot;
it only struggled lightly.
But they were surprised,
when a human man appeared!
He was looking for the pencil,
and its absence he found weird.
They wondered what to do,
Should they keep their prize?
The man did miss the pencil,
They could see it in his eyes.
The right thing, they decided,
Was to set the pencil free.
Let it roll back to it’s human
Where it could write in glee.
You see, they never took
That which would be missed.
So if it was being used
Then the specks had to resist.
So when a tear formed in reality
The specks, they were quite sad.
They would go home pencil free…
Though their sock-count wasn’t bad.
A tear closed in reality.
The specks have all gone home.
The pencils are all safe.
Just be careful of your comb.
I wish I was selfish.
I wish I was selfish
I wish I didn’t care about anyone.
I wish I could just say F**K everyone, I’m doing whatever the hell I want to do, and I don’t care what you think.
I wish I could put myself first.
I wish I could turn up at work whatever time I feel like it. Day… night… whenever.
I wish I could have an indefinate lunch break. Come back whenever I’m ready to come back.
I wish I could take off to another country at a moments notice, and stay there for however long I like.
I wish I could sleep all day, play all night.
I wish I could study full time without worrying about paying my bills, or my car loan.
But I can’t. I actually care what people think, and I hate it.
