I Can't Tell You That I Miss You

I can't tell you that I miss you,
And that smile when I played with your hair.
I can't tell you that I miss you,
And I can't tell you that I care.

I can't tell you that I miss you,
And how safe you made me feel.
I can't tell you that I miss you,
And how I wish this wasn't real.

I can't tell you that I miss you,
And the adventures that we shared.
I can't tell you that I miss you,
And I can't tell you that I'm scared.

I can't tell you that I miss you,
And I don't get to cry,
Because I'm the one that did this,
Most days I can't remember why.

But I know right now it's for the best,
Even though I can't help but miss you.
We shared too many memories together
But I know I have to see this through.

I doubt I'll ever miss you less,
And the pain won't go away.
I want to wish you love and happiness,
And that we'll find both together again someday.

P for Poetic License

Who are you?

Please be patient while I ponder the particulars of your petition. A puzzling predicament precludes the answer to your plea: a philandering philanthropist perpetually perplexed by his own petulant personality. Neither psychology nor philosophy presents a pleasing solution as both lack the propensity for punctuality in their penetrating pursuit of perdurable positivism.  Perhaps then it is less pertinent to be pensive than it is to be pithy, pointing purely to the more prominent and prevalent of a person’s personals.

In this instance I am neither purist nor postmodern, not professional but more playful in my part as puppeteer. I present paradigms with pleasure, never piously (although eventually posthumously). I play my pen like a pipe practising persuasion to prompt passion from those presented with my pros. I perform to parody both pioneers and paupers, perceptively personifying people and peoples to pass the power to effect permutation, perturbing those pre-eminently placed.

Perhaps though I have procrastinated and so penultimately I pray penance in this persevering parlay. Practical precedent prescribes a ‘name’ to purge pandemonium with all players upon life’s stage ‘playing their parts’. Names provide poor pathways to personhood, primitively pigeon-holing the ‘person’ into ‘people’.  Per contra, pseudonyms provide an alternative to placid public pooling and allow promiscuity to prevail in ‘patents of the person’.  

Given the verbose prologue and preference of personification you may call me a precariously poverty-stricken poet , or more simply ‘P’.

V for Vendetta: inspiring word-play

While perhaps not a poem in the strictest sense this piece delivered, with sublime eloquence, by the masked savior of modern society in 'V for Vendetta' is among the greatest pieces of articulated art that I have had the pleasure of encountering. The ability of the writer masterfully to spin a lyrical, and pertinent message, with no detriment to the message's content, has fascinated me since first hearing it some 5 or 6 years ago. Whether one agrees with the message is a seemingly mute point when it comes to enjoying the sheer artistry involved in creating the piece. 

"V. : But on this most auspicious of nights, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace soubriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona. Voila! In view humble vaudevillian veteran, cast vicariously as both victim and villain by the vicissitudes of fate. This visage, no mere veneer of vanity, is a vestige of the “vox populi” now vacant, vanished. However, this valorous visitation of a bygone vexation stands vivified, and has vowed to vanquish these venal and virulent vermin, van guarding vice and vouchsafing the violently vicious and voracious violation of volition.

The only verdict is vengeance; a vendetta, held as a votive not in vain, for the value and veracity of such shall one day vindicate the vigilant and the virtuous.

Verily this vichyssoise of verbiage veers most verbose, so let me simply add that it’s my very good honour to meet you and you may call me V."

It is in awe of this piece that I have created my own personal take on what is a seemingly underused method of creative writing. My interpretation is to follow.

A quick note from the author

Good afternoon ladies and gents,

I apologise for my absence after what was quite a bright start, unfortunately due to a lack of connectivity I have been unable to provide you with the consistency of fine literature that I had originally hoped to.

Hopefully you have enjoyed the poetry that I have been able to upload so far and I will look to publish more regular additions in the coming weeks.

If anyone has any questions or comments to make on the current pieces please do not hesitate to get in touch.

Until next time, thank you for reading.

Vernacular Ventriloquist

His ventriloquy of vernacular,

Was often thought spectacular;

His rhythm for rhyme,
Kept tamely in line.

While measured in feet,

Or perhaps by his feat,

Of ostentatiously,

And vivaciously,

Ensuring his words would dance to the beat.

A puppeteer of phonetics,

Like grammatical genetics,

He created symphonic din,

With his verbal violin.

Never could he linger,

Flinging melodies from his finger,

While he turned a poem on a penny,

And offered it for your thoughts…

This Is Not A Melancholic Love Song

This is not a melancholic love song,

This is the echo, from the hollow, that a heart once called home.

Like the wind, when it whispers, in the cavities of the night,

Resonating in the furthest reaches of its blanketing shadow.

Echoes of memories that once filled it’s home with a passionate fervour,

Now fade into the darkness of ‘what used to be’.

A space of ‘what could have been’, and stories left untold,

Now silently marks the vacancy left by it’s previous owner.

This is not a melancholic love song,

Just the echo of what is left behind.

Tedman's Sonnet

Love, a myriad of divine complexity,

Which man labors to liberate.

Love, quite simply a valid absurdity,

Which man toils to investigate.

Love leaves an undying scar upon the soul,

Which may flourish like a field of fervid roses,

Or leave men spiraling in an endless hole,

As their very essence decomposes.

Love can hurl a man into the deep abyss,

And pierce his heart like a  raw winter's scorn,

Or raise him to a state of eternal bliss,

Where he finds new life like a child re-born.

Love is too much for any man to define,

God's greatest lesson, learnt only with time