Words Unspoken - Piotr Kopij

Come darling

Rest in me

Don't you worry

Don't you fear

Don't hesitate

Erase all second thoughts

I am your harbor

I am your sea

I am your sky

I am you.

You are me.

Don't you worry

Don't you sulk

Don't believe a word that's not delicate

I am your way

I am your help

I am your moon and your stars

I am your everything

I am yours.

I wrote a poem

It was rather short

I kept it simple

No story was told

I wrote a poem

Basking in the moonlight

I wrote it quick

But felt it was quite right

I wrote a poem

Though words were hard to find

It still felt decent

It soothed troubled mind

I wrote a poem

And shred it to pieces

I started again...

And I wrote a poem.

I go through the life, a simple writer

Barely any hope, but no fear either

They say - a dreamer, so poetic

They think - a weirdo, probably ascetic

Word of truth that's not so scarce

I sink in this all like everyone else

Hopeless, but I don't bicker

Hopeless, but yet getting thicker

I put those words on pages of life

Simple my strophes and nothing to hide

I am not a saint, but God is my way

I am not a saint, that's not how I play

Sometimes, when forcing a fake optimism

My head is full of dry, bitter cynism

Yet sometimes I feel nothing at all

Weirdly, right then I feel just so full

Some more truth is to be added

Sometimes my strophes are rhymeless

long

forgotten.

I still find it oh so full of thrill

How little we know, but yet still

Everyone just knows better

"Sure I'd do it, but maybe later"

Everyone so perfectly perfect

Self-conscious, not a single defect

Why merely the big mouth then?

Life is not just talk, my friend

I don't claim to be above it

I don't do too much myself, not one bit

I alone must be the worst to be heard

About how easily I just follow the herd

One thing I know, though, so very sure

With lots of respect I go back to the core

I go back to the path of my life

Simple my strophes and nothing to hide.

Simple my strophes and nothing to hide.

Simple my strophes.

Nothing to hide.

What becomes of one

who created

when the paper is blank

and the pen is sheathed?

Where do thoughts venture

ones that are no more

and roam about just the

memories of yore?

How to find again

the road under one's foot

how to rise again

to whence one had once stood?

Little are those, who fall

and do not get up again

grand - all the others

who proudly endure the pain

Strong - not the one who fights

being full of health

strong is one who smiles

when pain takes words away

The wisest of men

cannot know your way

no one, no one but you

can go fight your fray

What is the one

who creates

...

Having filled the paper?