He comes home from school
on the weekends –
to the home he doesn’t really belong in.
He dumps his bag of used clothes on the floor,
throws his case gently into a corner,
removes his dulled shoes,
collapses on the bed
and cries silently into the pillow.
He is woken by screaming:
his mother –
telling him to work harder
and blabbering off a list of weekend duties.
His eyes are red.
His heart is bruised.
His life is not his until he leaves this hell.
I have the moves
The purple groves
I feel the beat sink into my fibres
It takes right to the core
I don’t dance to live
I live to dance and dance till death
My body just goes to the flow
Whether fast or slow
I can feel the eyes surmise
I smile and sweat because I dance tonight
I need no drugs, no liquid inspiration, injection
To feel the music’s sweet infection
I tilt towards the floor, drop down
Jump to catch the beat and bounce
Ready to pounce
When they encircle I’m taken away
hallucogenic satisfaction sprints in my pulse
And my eyes close because my body knows
Tonight I’m a winner and I’ve won this fight.
Taken too soon – gone.
Nothing left but broken parts,
Nothing – just new starts.
Due to excessive
self-indulgence and misplaced promises,
the content of
this poem has been
removed temporarily.
Please try again later
when the president’s promises are real.
Not sure why he sits –
like a statue –
he sits.
Still.
The pigeons join him.
He doesn’t look lonely,
but he looks lost.
I can’t help but stare,
each day I stare.
Until I decide to talk to him…
He doesn’t respond –
I think he’s dead – that would explain it.
But nobody has done anything…
Nobody has done anything…
Then I see it: my reflection in his eyes.
A fateful truth I’ve been avoiding:
I am nobody.
He might act big for you
But behind the doors he’s kind,
A family man through and through.
He cries – yet denies.
He bleeds – yet will tease.
But behind the doors he’s kind,
A family man through and through.
If they challenged him he will not tolerate…
He is twisted like that – a true thug.
He will use his means – so it seems.
But behind the doors he’s kind,
A family man through and through.
Look in his eyes – a merciless dealer –
He’ll tear someone apart,
So don’t overstep the mark.
Yes – quite kind – to some (few, really).
But behind the doors he’s kind,
A family man through and through.
Stupid dumb deaf blind,
my friend from a time ago –
you’re still weird you know.
Why so scared?
Is that a hint of guilt in your
nervous smile?
Do you think you hurt me?
Is that what it is?
Don’t tremble at my scars.
It was only a small trial…
You hurt me, but I’m okay now.
I promise.
I promise.
It’s only my life.
I don’t want you to be a balloon person:
They mustn’t twist you
and turn you
and tie you up.
Squeeze you full of this filthy air
and let them pay for you.
You’re worth more.
I don’t want them shaping you,
they mustn’t touch you.
I can’t stand to hear you squeal
as they twist your form to what they want.
Nobody must treat you like a toy;
draw on a face of lies
and then forget about you…
Leave you to deflate
or burst your form into
unrecognisable features
as all the air in your body escapes
and you’re forgotten about
without a care or tear.
Under the misty moonlight
and the thick fog rolling out the club,
I saw him standing with her.
They were next to a blue car –
she was wearing crimson
and he a smile.
In that moment the beat dropped
and their spirits soared.
Nothing else mattered for them;
only the warm embrace of the other.
Mr Individualist 