Thoughts, opinions and poetry
Can you hear,
The bird’s song -
It’s different from yesterday.
The winds are changing -
Can you feel it?
Can you hear the echo;
It’s about to change.
Why is everything changing so suddenly?
Change is everywhere,
It is written on the walls.
I’am scared and a little bit excited,
But why is i5 so obvious,
When you know it in advance?
I’m scared,
It’s getting to the last days,
Why does it feel so strange?
Oh, Change,
Why does it feel so strange?
Do you ever find,
That if you do one thing,
It costs you something,
If you do another thing,
It costs you something else,
But how do dilemmas start?
Which way do you go?
How are you ever,
Meant to answer them in seconds?
And how do you answer them alone?
Maybe,
We could answer them together.
Maybe,
There might be an answer,
That doesn’t cost anything,
That you couldn’t see before.
But maybe,
You just need to face the music,
And start a new chapter,
And except there might be costs.
But you have to go through the dilemma.
My thoughts are like a river,
They lead me somewhere downstream,
They’re rough and tumbly,
And often make no sense,
Until I think it through.
My thoughts are like a racing car,
They lead me to the answers quick,
So fast I don’t remember,
How I even got there,
And what method did I use.
My thoughts are like the clouds,
Being blown by the wind,
They are being herded,
In one particular direction,
To get the best result.
My thoughts are like a volcano,
All erupting at once,
So many thoughts,
So many ideas,
To be written down at once.
Sometimes,
Especially in winter,
The sun
Likes to trick us,
Thinking that it is warm,
When it’s actually quite cold.
Sometimes,
You just want something,
But it is just not there.
Sometimes,
You want to try something new,
But you just can’t.
Sometimes,
You just can’t get the luck,
The luck.
Sometimes,
You just can’t reach your dreams,
But it will take you somewhere new.
But these are all sometimes ‘sometimes’,
And these might not even happen,
Or doesn’t happen often,
So don’t worry.
Verbal, physical,
Hurts all the same.
Pain deep down,
Given to another.
A never-ending cycle,
That someone else has to stop.
Deliberate,
Repeated,
Imbalanced,
That is the definition of bullying.
And now is the time to stop it.
Music;
Tunes you can make.
Pieces,
Notes that make harmony.
Instruments,
Objects that make sound.
The thing with music,
You can sing to it,
You can dance to it,
You can play it,
Or compose it.
It can have a funky beat,
Or it can be smooth.
But music means to me,
Instruments making harmony,
And the harmony makes the beauty.
Music;
Tunes you can make.
Pieces,
Notes that make harmony.
Instruments,
Objects that make sound.
Music is for everyone.
A heartbeat pounding,
Crashing, turning,
Tossing, playing,
Never keeping still.
It extends itself to the shore,
And then returns to sender,
Again and again.
It is mind-controlled,
By a distant orb,
Always moving it, and never let it cease.
In this unstopping place,
Live still thrives.
It’s busy and erratic, but playful and strange.
Then there are the humans,
Who jump and swim, help and pollute.
They floats things on it as well.
They act as if they own it,
But it really is the Ocean’s.
There’s a force inside, that urges me,
There’s voice inside, that pushes me,
Forward,
Past my fears.
Through, my comfort zone.
The weather is getting dreadfuler,
The rain,
The slashing rain,
The wind,
The cutting wind,
The cold,
The unbearable cold,
The night,
The early darkness.
Why is winter so harsh?
Why, might I ask,
Why?
The snow that everyone loves,
Why is it so rare?
The cold, white snow,
That makes everyone’s day,
Why can you never find it often,
Why does it never settle and stay when it does?
Why?
Why?
Why?
11th of the 11th, Is the time to remember, All those who fought, In the two great wars. Poppies, the emblem, Reminds us to remember, All the soldiers that fought to protect, Their country, Their home. Wherever they were then, Wherever we are now, We will remember them. On the 11th day of the 11th month, That is the time to remember, All those who fought, In the two great wars. Poppies, the flowers, That grew in the battlefields, At the end of the First World War, We wear them apron our chests, To remind us, And we will remember them, Always.