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.

Contemplation of Existence

It’s the opposite of loneliness
but you can still feel alone in it
where wispy word won’t cut it
clear, no. It just won’t do.

Sometimes it just isn’t enough
and the cravings for something else overpowers
this.
And nobody knows what that something is,
that some
thing.

Is this the place affection comes to die?
Will it lie here, lapping the tears away,
while the void expands
like those black holes?
Anti-matter matters much.

What to do with an empty bed,
and a full heart that feels hollow?
What to do?

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.

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.