Poetry Corner: Runaway

I dream of running away.
Running away to vivid, scorching, firework sunsets
To lush, cascading waterfalls which collect in blue lagoons
To the aroma of steaming Lady-Grey tea and banana pancakes.
I dream, and one can but dream, of a place where nobody says ‘No’
At least not in that dreadfully emphatic, non-compromising, stoic way
As if the whole world depended on their authority, and must surrender To the trivial whims of ‘the system’, ‘the norm’, ‘formality’.
I care nothing for unhappiness, for the kind of suffering which shapes a person.
If we must suffer to be original, I’d rather be a recluse in my tropical imagination.

Tell me an honest truth, and I’ll find a million little white lies
Because we never tell the truth, not even to ourselves
For that would be, what is it Conrad says? Too dark altogether?
It is nearing midnight, in this sweltering heat, and I hear a crazy fool
Laughing at me whilst I write
His deranged laughter resonates only too well
So what if I demand eternal sunsets and satisfaction in nature?
Whom else is there to turn to in this damned world?

Every day, another door closed, another window slammed shut.
I’m running – out of chances, out of patience, out of time
I’m falling – out of love with the universe, with people who’ve betrayed my future
I’m yearning – for my moment to arrive
And still I dream of that world where justice functions,
Where everyone’s earnest,
Where authenticity’s supreme,
Where I no longer have to run, because this is It.
I dream of running away.
Running away to vivid, scorching, firework sunsets
To lush, cascading waterfalls which collect in blue lagoons
To the aroma of steaming Lady-Grey tea and banana pancakes.
I dream, and one can but dream, of a place where nobody says ‘No’
At least not in that dreadfully emphatic, non-compromising, stoic way
As if the whole world depended on their authority, and must surrender To the trivial whims of ‘the system’, ‘the norm’, ‘formality’.
I care nothing for unhappiness, for the kind of suffering which shapes a person.

If we must suffer to be original, I’d rather be a recluse in my tropical imagination.

Tell me an honest truth, and I’ll find a million little white lies
Because we never tell the truth, not even to ourselves
For that would be, what is it Conrad says? Too dark altogether?
It is nearing midnight, in this sweltering heat, and I hear a crazy fool
Laughing at me whilst I write
His deranged laughter resonates only too well
So what if I demand eternal sunsets and satisfaction in nature?
Whom else is there to turn to in this damned world?

Every day, another door closed, another window slammed shut.
I’m running – out of chances, out of patience, out of time
I’m falling – out of love with the universe, with people who’ve betrayed my future
I’m yearning – for my moment to arrive
And still I dream of that world where justice functions,
Where everyone’s earnest,
Where authenticity’s supreme,
Where I no longer have to run, because this is It.