Seams me together
Horse shoes and hand grenades
One spicy pepper and a glass of lemonade
Duct tape for the words I shouldn't say
Free hands to rip it off and say it anyway
Three notebooks, maybe four
A few pens to help spill out my core
Some caution tape for the ones who don't know me
Last but not least a heart full of hollow so the pretenders can let me be
**
sink into the night sky
and exist within the touch
this crystallized soul
smells of
things once felt
blood that hides within a hush
floating under the rivers of thin matter
skin flushed with a fiver
I am your river
I am your tide
the rising and falling of your heart
a rhythmic expansion to those pulsating stars
each of your thoughts are mine to swallow
a light sip of chilled liquid
on a summer’s day
sink into my river
embrace the tide
breathe
**
Impregnated
The tension inside me is crushing. My own blood boiling so hot that it fills me up and drowns me. Heated copper brimming over, bursting my veins, enveloping my lungs. And it rises from the pit of me. Spews out my mouth, geyser-like. Flowing faster than I can release it. Until all I see is red. Until all I breathe is scarlet. Until all I feel is crimson. Until I’m so full that my own hungry shadows consume me.
The Reason
I write because my demons are illiterate. My grief can be poured out onto the screen and my inner tormentors are denied the bitter intoxication of my tears. I can proclaim joy on the page without the darkness dimming its light with regrets of the past. I put words to paper because it allows me to express anger without the demons twisting it into a mechanism of self-destruction.
Catharsis...
Don't know when it started/or how I'd gotten so lethargic/being easily distracted and overly outsmarted/making myself too often an easy target/certainly wasn't at my sharpest/broken down discarded/back burner placed on felt long ago forgotten/dismissed and disregarded/but as i continued an artist starvin'/my work only grew more cathartic/the pain which in my heart lived/i was able to find the beauty and art within/found the strength to start again/enough gumption to know the status quo i want no part in it/rather the numbed out and dumbed down try to put a charge in/haven't the time nor desire to conspire or plot against/tell me what's the logic in/trying to argue with/you til my face turns blue and eventually lost all sense/not again will i allow myself to be disheartened/don't forget there'll be nothing left to harvest, if we don't tend to our weed infested gardens, too long neglected for what in actual value is far, far, far less...
Beneath Her Skin
And beneath her skin, she holds a whole world. Despite of the cruelties and betrayals of the outside world, a world of her own. A world where there's no concern with the way she sits or talks or walks or thinks! A world where she can dream her dreams, listen to her thoughts, conceive herself invisibly, hear herself in the silence, realize her light in the dark. "She is strong," that's what they say. Not knowing about the broken pieces of her soul that she gathers everyday, to be broken again. "She can't do it," they tell her, but she does new things everyday to be told that again. "She is not our type," they challenge her, she changes her nature every time, to be challenged again.
Among all these, there are still people who know about the hidden realities behind her eyes. People who can be chosen to be with. People who enlighten her soul and heart hidden in the dark. People who know all about her. All this Beneath Her Skin!
Red Pill
We work;
To spend 5% of our time on holiday.
We work;
To spend 10% of our money online.
We work;
To spend 20% of our income on taxes.
We work,
To spend 30% of our time recovering.
We work;
To spend 40% of our dedication on someone else.
We work;
To spend 50% of our time stressed.
We work;
To spend 60% of our life paying a pension
We work;
To spend 80% of our time disheartened.
We work;
To spend 90% of our leftovers on things we don’t need.
We work;
To spend 100% of our lives in modern slavery.
The matrix is real, give me the red pill.
May sings
bustling crowd of sparrows sing chanterelles
along to the beat of tiny green hands
on trees no longer brittle as the sap swells
the fine reaches and hidden aging bands
fighting seagulls wag tongues from grey beaks
a yobbish language a contrast in pink breaches
strut their Burgess Nadsat in pecks and squawks
that must end where roof territory reaches
a passing van is painted to entice
the favours of tourist and the dollar
a repeat distorted call to buy ice
creams and flakes that children follow
like a mob of birds . No discernible words
in this May day operetta a story of buds
bursting with colour and scales heard
from high pitch song to percussion thud
the season is alive it’s spark and ignition
the streets are bursting with springtime frisson