A Collection of Poetry

By Bianca Engi Music.

Colourful feelings.

Choir of rejoiceful sounds.

Choir of union.

Look up.

My heart is beating out of my chest. All my blood is burning, it rushes away from my head to my fingertips. Red is bursting through my skin. Eyes pierce into my head, the sensation of it sending sparks down my spine. They’re peering into my mind, invading my conscious, judging my thoughts. He knows. He knows, HE KNOWS. “Are you okay?” My own eyes look to the ground. I can’t take it.

Opia- The ambiguous intensity of looking someone in the eye, which can feel simultaneously invasive and vulnerable.

A new normal. (This title is quoted from the name of song https://youtu.be/b4lNq4nhdDQ

by Jack Stuber)

The sky was a murky grey.

Silky smoke flows through the once blue sky like bleeding paint.

A world similar to the beginning.

Where humans are to regrow, from young to old.

And it is quiet.

No birds, bugs, or a drop of water to be heard.

The world is still.

But beneath the rubble of the buildings

A small baby lay, curled up amongst the despair of a thousand tears. Peacefully it sleeps.

It lets out a cry that shimmers gold, and a glimmer of hope.

I don’t want to be stuck in a hole anymore.

I am stuck in a hole.

A small, dark hole.

I can hear muffled sounds from above ground, I can’t quite make out what they are saying up there.

It must be fun; I always hear music.

Sometimes I think I should poke a hole through the dirt, And whisper something up to the surface.

But I’m scared.

Even if I try, will anyone hear me?

I’m an empty wishing well.

I like the quiet.

I wish it was quiet all the time.

I wish the night would last a little longer,

So, I could sleep for a little bit more.

I wish my skin was softer,

So, you would smile every time our hands brushed each other.

I wish I was small,

So, you could pick me up and keep me in your pocket. I wish.

I’m tired, my prayers get longer and longer every day.

Ruff edges. An undisturbed path.

Has anyone ever walked this cold and empty path?

Has a footprint ever marked this settled dirt?

Does laughter ever echo around this vacant road?

Do water droplets ever rain onto this dry place?

Have anyone’s eyes ever peered over this silent landscape?

Does your heart ache like an undisturbed path?

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Lonely little girl

A little girl sitting in a chair.

She’s sitting in a chair alone.

She’s sitting in a chair away from everyone else.

She’s sitting in a chair that is old and creaky.

She’s sitting in a chair that no-one else wanted.

A little girl sitting in a corner.

She’s sitting in a corner that is cramped.

She’s sitting in a corner that is hidden.

She’s sitting in a corner that is dusty.

She’s sitting in a corner that is surrounded by cobwebs.

A little girl sitting in a gutter.

She’s sitting in a gutter that is cold.

She’s sitting in a gutter that is wet.

She’s sitting in a gutter that is crawling with critters.

She’s sitting in a gutter that is unknown to those around her.

A little girl is sitting right beside you.

Will you open your eyes enough to see her?

The water cries until I can’t no more.

You couldn’t possibly get rid of the dam!

What about all the fish, and yabbies,

And birds that drink from the water, and the little ducklings that come out in spring?

What about the little girl who sits by the water’s edge when she is sad?

What about all the memories that the murky water holds?

What about the blooming flowers in summer?

And what about the dirt that has footprints of a lifetime?

Must things change so quickly.

I had planned to write so many more poems than what I have done but something has been stopping me. I have recently been going through a huge writing block. I would try to write something, but I just couldn’t think of the right works, I couldn’t come up with an idea that would lead poems to write themselves naturally. The things I was thinking in my head just were not turning into anything other than words. I had ideas but my mind would get stuck at a dead end after only a sentence or two, my creativity had been cut short. For a brief moment before I began this project my mind was overflowing with ideas, I was writing multiple stories at the same time. I was waking up early in the morning so I could finish chapters and I spent a lot of my time researching. Like one of the lines in my poems, I had a glimmer of hope shining over me. Everything was going so well, and my stories were going smoothly. Typing every word was so simple, it was like every sentence of the story was already made and all I had to do was write it down. My fingers glided across my keyboard in a way that was so effortless that it was like some pre-wired instinct. Writing was quick and easy. Something outside of writing was quickly and quietly draining me of motivation. Over time, my typing became slower and more prone to mistakes. My stories seemed to get longer the more I wrote, every sentence added another paragraph. Even something as simple as my English class at school was becoming more difficult. It wasn’t just my writing that was affected by this silent fog, but also straightforward tasks like getting up in the morning and picking up a pencil. My fingers seemed to be tensed up in a way that made drawing and writing turn out wobbly. My mind couldn’t relax enough to draw anything other than a small doodle. Every mistake I made echoed through my head and overtook my vision. The problem wasn’t the way I was looking at things but instead it was me. But there wasn’t much I could do other than wait for the fog to pass, sunny days would come around sooner or later. I just needed to be patient. My body may sink into my floor, I may feel as if I am drifting in and out of consciousness, my thoughts may struggle through mud before they reach me, every step I take may pull me down heavy, I may sit thinking about nothing at all, I may spend my days doing nothing and I may cry for no reason known to me. But this is only temporary. Nothing lasts forever. Even if I seem to be in some kind of loop of failure.

I’m nowhere near being the best at writing or poetry, I may not even be good at it. Do I always have to be good? Does everything I make have to be good to be considered meaningful? Well, I can’t really bring myself to care if this is really good or not. That’s for someone else to decide.