I’ve recently come to the realisation that I’ve not published any of my better poems. When I say “better”, I mean that they are better than the typical stream of conciousness crap you’d expect to find in a blog, and they are better than autobiographical miserable nonsense you’d expect from young people. This means you might get something out of it! Hoorah!
The first was written in 2002, at age 13 about a man and his psychiatrist, with a heavy focus on structure.
The second was written while procrastinating in early 2008, with a heavy focus on sound.
The third was a challenge put forth by a friend in March 2008 with a rather vague criteria “It should be about accusing someone of being fake, like they were nice to you, but all the time they were laughing at you. Just wasting their time for the sake of it. Humouring fate.” – I didn’t understand what most of that bollocks meant, so I wrote something good instead. They seemed to like it, perhaps you will too.
#1. Back to Your Inner Child
Back in the days when you would run and hide
When your idea of fun was climbing a tree
Back when on horses you did ride
And when you splashed around in the sea
All these things you did with me
So go back to the behaviour that wasn’t mild
It’s time to go back to your Inner Child
Back when you would frolic by my side
When kicking a ball was your cup of tea
When the kite you made started to glide
Those were the days that you felt so free
These things that I speak of were meant to be
This eccentric behaviour was so wild
It’s time to go back to your Inner Child
Back to the days when you always lied
Just to get out of trouble, I see
When your mother yelled out: “Come inside!”
But you didn’t, just to be cheeky
I remember you’d lock the house and hide the key
This true info I’ve compiled
It’s time to go back to your Inner Child
Practice these things in front of me
I’ll just sit here comfortably
When you’re done, make sure I’ve smiled
It’s time to go back to your Inner Child
- A. Snrub.
#2. Time to Write
Do not doubt your time, your time to write
As we stutter, the clutter of my mind’s own sight
We shalln’t wonder whilst wandering any more
Nor spill out a sonnet to plunder from its core
Let’s begin, ringing on the ballad of rhyme
To bring singing, clinging to no pitiable crime
Silliness strikes, pendulums swing
Ticketing, ticketing, each clunk bring sting
Time halt, halt like salt upon an open sore
Slowly burning, churning whilst it’s raw
Hourglass cease, beast of constraint
Time, lend lease, to finish this complaint
- Adrian E. Snrub
#3. Who Plays the Fool?
Actors immersed in performance rehearsed
He strives on with comedic glee.
Clearly though… he hates her so,
And stupid me; I cannot see.
“Bonded at heart, we shall not be apart
My only confidant and peer;
You brought all this joy! To a lost little boy!
We needn’t here… be shedding a tear!”
He’ll happily shout, compassion about
We observe upon Act 3.
Forgetting of course, there is no remorse
Behind curtain, we cannot be certain.
Tabloids propose, this man in the pose
Is only passing time.
Dismissing his friend; “It’s only pretend”
The man, thou slime, commits no crime.
“Curtain!” They call, and all in the hall
We cheer, we smile, applaud;
This use of our time, a free pantomime
Before it’s performed, abroad.
He quits later on, one moment – he’s gone
New friends, new colleagues, new plays.
The actress declined, is now left behind
His friend,
Her talents,
Dismissed as a phase.
- A. Snrub.
