Monday, 26 September 2011

What Makes Me Alive?

Just a poem I wrote in ten minutes.

What is it, exactly,
That makes me alive?

My heart?
That beats to a thousand drums,
Pounding and throbbing,
Aching and breaking,
To a steady rhythm

My brain?
With memories of torment,
Knowledge of loss,
Loose wild imaginings,
Replaying on a broken tape

My eyes?
Mirrors to the soul,
To watch the death,
Of a thousand innocents,
Images never forgotten

My mouth?
Filled with a swallowed tongue,
And pearly whites,
Moving to voice,
An understated opinion

For I sit in my room,
Locked and isolated,
Trapped, taken, tousled,
I ask, what makes me alive?

I do not ask,
A scientist.
Nor do I ask,
A priest.
I ask,
The person who knows me.
Me, myself, my mind.

What is it that makes me alive?
But who is that one that knows me?