Poetry by Stacey Denman
| A Place There is a place it, is deep inside my mind- Where I can let my feelings unwind- Where I can keep them inside- Where I can safely hide. There I produce poetry never written- I write on scrolls never quitting. Memories stored like a computer- Scrolls of gold - scrolls of pewter. Memories of love, memories of hate- Feelings that can never be erased. Friends, enemies, allies and foes - Along with souls I will never know. By Stacey Denman |
| Selfish Thing A poem seems to be a very selfish thing- You sit and write about your pain- How it affects everything you do- And all the things you wish you knew- All the things you fail to see- And how everything is supposed to be. All these things you sit and write- Its how a poet knows to fight. You could write poems about other things, But it’s the selfish poem that really stings- At least one person who reads it will relate- And for a moment they can escape. Still it is a selfish thing to do- To sit there and write all about you. Something that has gone for many years- It’s how a poet sheds their tears. By Stacey Denman |
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| Done Tell me once again – Because I forgot Was it you, or me, That was lost? And which one of us Found the other one? And which one of us Decided it was done? At least I ought to be grateful – You are not being mean. But that’s only due to the last Few things you have been Through and seen. I knew your trials and Things you cried about - I might just have done Myself in just to get out. By Stacey Denman |
