Random Timeline of Work Over The Last Six(ish) Years

age 13

So while I await for the release of my book, I thought it would be interesting to see a poem that I wrote from each year that I write since I first started writing poetry. This is the result. I included images of the poems in case you don’t want to scroll down. Guess this is to show how much (or how little) I’ve improved over the last six(ish) years.

——————————Written at age 13:———————————

He walks along the ice,
he walks along with ease.
He walks among the forest,
and soars above the trees.

His eyes go to the moon,
he takes to its’ command.
So when he walks without it’s thought,
he leaves his shadow far behind.

——————————Written at age 14:——————————–

My eyes will fly beyond this cloud,
I will give my life unto this joy.
But until my voice is soft not loud,
I will count my clouds to save this broken boy.

So may I give this life beyond my hold,
or will I live as hard as steel or gold?
Break my bones or give me eyes,
to see this hate and loving ties.

So now I stand,
a testament to my sins to try and save their worst.
I must lift my feet if to jump and land,
to give my heart only to watch it burst.

——————————Written at age 15:———————————

I have walked within my empty halls,
with only the memory of pictures to soil these empty walls.
Yet within its frame I see a blood of black and white,
but has lost too much to continue the fight.

So now here I will forever lay,
with shards of glass within my sea-stormed bay.
Am I truly deserving of more than what be must,
when I have covered my stories with miles of lust?

So now here I am forced to crush my goodbye,
is time too cruel to give the reason why?
Have I gained my place in this world of gloom and fear,
or have I thrown it away for a name of once “My Dear”?

——————————Written at age 16:——————————–

Mother father tell me why,
your angry and so sad.
When all your petty wounds,
you said are from the mad.

Mother father tell me why,
madmen are so mad.
Is it because the madness,
is what always made them mad?

Mother father tell me why,
madness is so mad.
Is madness so delusional,
for the mad to kill the mad?

Mother father tell my why,
madmen are so mad.
Is the madness all they feel,
or is mad what made them mad?

Mother father tell me why,
madness is so mad.
When all the maddest things,
are what made you both so mad.

——————————-Written at age 17——————————–

How are my clouds,
falling obscure?
Lost and broken,
forever unsure.

My dream, my clouds,
the rubble enshrouds.
My skies, your void,
forever it’s toyed.

How are my clouds,
broken, unclean?
Ache and despair,
forever unseen.

——————————-Written at age 18:——————————-

Lying still against the brittle ruins,
our silent storms of words trickle out.
Just as rifts of water thunder against the crashing waves below,
our eyes gaze on the out-stretched horizon.

On the edge of this old world we sit,
watching our legs dangle like tired vines on rusted cars.
Faded words exchange the shares of scares on our backs,
with these exhausted wings pressed against once fragile dreams.

Our eyes lost in the midst of the falling ash,
a reminder of the once granite beams holding our glass chandelier.
Shattered now it lies across the cinders of a gilded age,
where towers of glass and steel as gravestones grievously remain.

——————————-Written at age 19:——————————–

It’s been a long silent moment on the graces of forever,
are we really that far gone, or have I just lost track of time?
Old watches never seem to fit quite right on the wrist,
and these concrete ruins remind me of the future we should’ve missed.

Shelling out silly little hopes on a Red Letter Day,
convinced that I feel so much better in the still shadows of greatness.
I don’t quite know what broke, what went wrong,
but I’m still convinced I shouldn’t miss this at all.

Should those be the words that I still try to represent?
To not push money into power; sentiment I couldn’t reject.
Pouring the resources from the frightful and ignorant,
into the concrete foundation of these iron dystopian ruins.

The hands spinning in circles never sounded so alive,
as when they’d beat down on the clock of time.
Yet, I still awake to remember the world that gave itself away,
to fund the costs of these neon gods.

—————————–Current age (19 1/4)——————————-

There’s a little piece of forever,
sometimes hiding in the cold icy sky.
I don’t know if I’m just getting too cold,
but it seems I’ve been watching it all pass by.

I’ve been waiting to sing a better song,
and that poor old mockingbird to finally come along.
It all gouges at the broken heart and a fragile thought;
guess those are the only two things this old boy’s been taught.

Maybe one day when the skies are clearer,
someday, someday, would you feel so inclined?
The world may be getting better somewhere else,
but I think I’m sick of just being “fine”.

I bet this old little world has gone already and turned me away,
into the ashes of a broken heart I’d rather never say.
I know this world is dark, and everything is strange,
so what’s a mockingbird to do, if not just tell me “it’s okay”.

PS: Hey guys, thanks for reading! Don’t forget to like and comment if you like what you see, and if you could, I’d love if you checked out my Facebook page! See you guys around.

Sincerely,
Nicholas Powell

Email: Lecturesonhumanity@gmail.com
Website: Amadmanslecturesonhumanity.com
Facebook Page: facebook.com/amadmanslecturesonhumanity/
A Madman’s Lectures On Humanity Pre-Order link: http://goo.gl/nw68Wo

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