On Souls

I stopped writing
For a time.
Not because the thoughts,
The beautiful phrases
And failings,
Had stopped permeating my mind,
But because there was so little
Of my soul left to give
After the day in,
Day out drudgery.

It’s not that there was less,
But more that exhaustion
And emotional dilution
Built up barriers
And barred the baring
Of myself.

Certain people believe
Taking a photo of someone
Steals their soul,
But souls are much more often
Freely given,
In carefully chosen words
And subtle, engulfing gazes.

I can’t define a soul,
But I’m sure I have one,
Just as I have a consciousness
But I don’t know precisely
Where it comes from.

A bit of mine is here,
Myself, my soul.
You can’t control it,
You can’t change it.
You can only look on,
As if peering into an ocean,
And wonder silently
How profound,
How abysmal
Are the depths within here?

Published by: cynicalwordsmith

I am, by no means, a professional writer. I have no dreams of becoming such. I just enjoy writing in my very sparse free time, both poetry and short stories. If you enjoy any of my works in particular, feel free to tell me. I always enjoy the feedback.

Categories PoetryTags, , 3 Comments

3 thoughts on “On Souls”

Leave a Reply to cynicalwordsmith Cancel reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s