POETRY

Poems which I have written myself. Some may seem very obscure – it’s poetry. I consider poetry to be one of the highest and most artistic forms of writing.

Stamped

Here we go, standing in line
with the sweet smell of innocence
and screaming delight.
Thus with a push we arrive
in our ferris wheel seat.
The light is as bright as noise,
and up we go.
It’s curious how it looks
from up here, still a bit strange
moving backwards but upwards.
The wind blows, and we shudder
but keep going till the top.
Oh look at the fireworks,
look at this climax!
But we dare not look down:
fear.
But a steady decline:
six feet under awaits, patiently
because Death knows eternity well.

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Difference

An idea, a thought
elusively gone
like so many lives
lost to conformity.
Difference is far off
like those memories:
a scatter cushion
faded red from the years
of indifference;
or that curious conversation
about the touch of a lover.
Time is almost still
but the shadows still move
yet this can’t be seen happening.

Why is this happening?
These thoughts?
What god?
What cruel creature
on Tuesday plays Candy Crush
yet on Wednesday breaks my heart?

Seasons

There’s a burning bush
down in Eden
(inside our mind,
igniting our hearts)
and snakes in apple trees
because temptation needs.

And who are we?
Lost wanders in jeans and tees?

See the leaves –
green and clean.
But autumn snaps!
(we do too)
And winter steals.
Spring doesn’t mind,
(time for growth)
and summer is but kind.

Who are we?
Wanders in jeans and tees?

We are weird and kind:
it’s a compliment, to your mind.
We crave to be touched
like the warm, gentle sunlight –
it kisses our skin without fight.

Are we?
Yes, it is us
in jeans and tees.

Statistic

When you played me that song
that’s when I first knew
the ending was coming too soon
(going to come?)
A paper bag filled with popcorn
and fingers smelling of salt;
dilated pupils.
I sat in class listening to
a god’s voice telling me about our minds –
a public session with a professional;
but the seat next to me empty
except for a cut in the blue cushioned seat
shaped curiously like a question mark
(or was it an exclamation?)
The sun hurt my eyes as I sat in the traffic
but I could still see the car in front.
It’s only when water filled my eyes I knew
(before I got glasses the tears
welled and I could see again through them).
Prescriptions from Prof. Dr. Dr’s…
I just wish they’d prescribe me some rest.

Heart </3 Break

I’m quitting the show
Ain’t my time to shine
Time to quicksand myself
Deep into my mind

No silence up in these fires
Can’t catch a break in these tides
Don’t know which way is up
But I know I’m going down

So mad at all these spectres
Don’t know if they’re mine
But they whisper me stories
And I can’t sleep at night

I’m afraid of that silence
But I need that constant buzz
So I just sit here ruminating
How nobody else hears these sounds

 

 

Skin Lane

The workbench wood winks at the rays
familiar with the feeling, and
the knives sit sharpened
waiting for duty.
And he stands silently, in 1967:
unblinking, dead-eyes reflect back,
but they’re unfamiliar,
so is that pang of confusion.

The workbench wood feels:
strange tongues of a different heat
and the knives, sharp as ever,
slowly sink into ash.
He only turns back in memory.
And nobody knows why.

Except one naive, chance encounter
with blonde locks and sapphire eyes.

An apology, unaccepted

It has been a few years now…
The roses have bloomed five or six times,
five or six times petals snapped off
in the winds, in the rains.
A few loved ones have passed;
a few scars have been gained.

Yet, here I wait, hopeful;
somewhat, perhaps.
A life unexamined
is a life not worth living,
yet still a life, surely?
I washed my hands of old times
and I know the dust is yet unsettled
On those ornaments of a grudge.

The dust sits thick and brown,
like my apology:
forgotten, but not quite lost.

Mendes 

He wants to hide with me 

in a tree-house of secrecy, 

cuddle into me 

and plant himself in my fertile soil.

He smells like wooden cologne 

and he holds me like he needs me:

up here we’re safe 

from shutters and flashes. 

It’s some kind of dream 

but I feel this like it’s real. 

Mendes, who are you? 

Why did you come? 

And why did we leave? 

A Scene 

Little Liam falls down the well 
Hits his head in some hell
Shakes it off and blames himself 
Now he sits on Hedone’s shelf 
A twist and tale, smoke for the screen 
Skinny jeans and kidney beans 
Acetone and Ritalin 
Falling short on Serotonin 
Little Liam lying low low 
So? SO?
Who gives a 
Cause Little Liam thinks he’s stuck
It’s all done with money 
The chopping and rolling of the honey 
And he’s in the making 
It’s easy once you’re used to faking