Reality grounds you.
Corroding the substance
of your dreams. Leaving
all your whimsical flights
.
of fantasy to die.
Wishes withering in
acidic truth are left
to decompose. They will
.
lie neglected to rot.
Their entities become
skeletal remnants of
a dilapidated soul
.
You will go on living
with your ambitious ghost,
knowing you won’t succeed
to fly with rusted wings.
.
©Jacqui Slade
From a poets point of view I find that most of the time readers of a poem will just think that what you’re writing about is your own personal life or feelings.
They don’t ever stop to think that maybe it’s about someone else’s life or an empathetic write or just a piece of creative writing.
Poets have imaginations.
There’s always fault to find
and the criticism
is never constructive,
in fact it’s destructive
and I will never be
the ideal that you want.
.
I’m embarrassing.
My clothes are too young.
My hair is unkempt
and my tongue you would
wish to be constrained.
.
And it seems that
I am only
loveable when
it pleases you
.
and you can
exert your
control to
.
make me
someone
.
else.
.
©Jacqui Slade
The Poetic Life Of Me 