About the Poem
This poem was written at 2 am in the morning. It is rather long but my pen just didn't stop. It comes at a time in my life when things are very confusing. It is my thoughts.
I am at a stage where things are changing rapidly and for lack of a better word, I'm scared. It's about not taking the usual path of life and finding what makes you happy and just doing it no matter what and doing it soon. I have just turned 20 and I know I don't want to be old and wondering 'what if'.
A Different Path
|by Brian Emerson|
|It's time to go, to leave this place
A shadowy voice does cry.
But the voice belongs to me alone,
And still I wonder why.
The time is here upon me now
Like a weight, heavy pounding.
Or has it Lifted? Hard to tell
The Questions keep arising.
The unknown awaits, as it does
For foolish few who dare.
Is it foolishness?
Or something I'm not aware.
For I am scared and poignant now
More than ever at present.
Tears cloud my eyes as pen meets paper,
And I hope for my ascent.
I leave behind what I comprehend
And even with all communication.
I know for now without doubt,
I drift, en route a new location.
But who's to say what shall pass
And what still lies ahead.
I only know that were I'm at,
I'll yearn 'till forever dead.
Yet for now the flame still burns inside
However daily dying.
To light the path less traveled by
In haste I'm already striding.
But am I running from that I cannot?
Escape from oneself is ever brief.
Before we are again confronted,
Hunting for relief.
Yet still I follow my perilous path
To wherever it might be leading.
And well it may, onto something new,
And strangely more inviting.
Or perhaps not . . .
But who's to know, not I as yet
The fate of anyone on this Earth,
I wouldn't like to bet.
For life can lead in many ways
Often now undesired.
Fate can deal a cruel hand sometimes,
But we play on, cold and tired.
And art is born of life
Hard, dejected and trodden.
Hence emerges exquisite beauty,
And some direction from the coffin.
Finding it is a difficult thing
Sometimes left without thought.
But time it ticks, and years they fly,
I'm sure it can't be bought.
So we search, as do I
For things that bring on the 'morrow.
The weak are those who don't pursue,
And languish in their sorrow.
Happiness is that I chase
And hope to find someday.
I'll count the means again I'm sure,
There is always another way . . .