I often think back to the day, I brought you that place
With graffiti on the walls all failing to decay
And how in the summer’s ending heat I held your hand
And underneath arches I pulled you close and then
I, I kissed you right
Not like the time from the preceding night
But then came a new day, one further from our past
And you started to think about us, seeing this could last
I understand you were afraid, but fear is not to blame
When you held my heart so tightly then stomped it again and again
Three times, and never from a fight
Three times, sweetheart that’s not right
I am shylock,
In the attic barely used,
Barren exuberant floorboards creak in exhalation,
Of your footsteps.
There you find me,
In the dust;
A wooden trunk with brass fixings,
Didn't I tell you I held a million treasures?
You breathe in the sunlight,
From the round attic window,
Preening itself in your vision basked in gold.
I am shylock,
You moved a gilded hand,
Guided by a unknown force of union with the lock,
The air is silent around you,
The room is intrepid in its wanton stranger,
Who dares to enter this chamber of dust.
I am shylock,
You take my fingertips from the cup of a hand I had placed gently on your cheek,
The night before I had told you,
Of this room,
You gently take my fingers and place it on the lock.
I am shylock,
There is a gentle click,
That soon awashes the abated room,
That sways into a tsunami of grandeur,
Of history, emotion, silence and tears,
And it consumes the dust,
The acrid air and essence of my fears settle on your eyes and the homely mouth.
I am shylock,
You know how I came about,
You know how this room became accustomed to the dust,
And the floorboards, the dust,
And the window, the dark,
You are breathing me,
The trunk is open and waiting,
And at the bottom,
A ragdoll awaits your palm,
Your strength, your gentleness and patience,
This is my shy,
This is my lock,
And you entered the room and consumed me.
Burst through the door, cut down the labyrinth,
and found me.
Picking me up,
Became me, attended me, held me,
with grace sensitive to my touch,
with the intention of a protector to my defence,
And the brazen warrior to my battle.
Now I am entered and countered.
Protected and put together,
Unbound and in your arms;
Now I am open and free.
My ragdoll, your love, and me.
together I and you become, we.
when a gin and tonic turns jinn and lost it
chronic, clown face coined comic
yeah, my life is fine
but my blood is toxic
sailed the seas
I rocked the ship
Ironic, iron crosses
aren't half the decoration you'd be
insert m.a.a.d. city catch phrase
catch the connotations to decode what I say
even so, it's pretty personal
you could place all the pieces and still not see the picture shown
how many times do I have to tell you, don't hold me
if you don't want to own me
how do I return to my right now
and explain that my scent is such because of a subscription to a series of you weren't my first choice
sorry, you just don't make the same dent in my bed sheets
or pillow, among other sentimental things
simply put, you got stuck with the short end of the stick
getting lovestruck by someone who's lovesick & starstruck
a patron to the trading block throwing tantrums about daft shit
and aspiring alchemist all because he missed his first draft pick
I'm sick of chasing shadows up and down these halls,
and watching headlights dance across the cold and pale white walls.
This empty home is where love once grew from hearts lined with gold
but now the only thing left is an attic full of mold.
I'm tired of the silence but for the whisping trees,
Their aching hearts moaning as they're nearly brought to knee.
The cold cotton on my bed where optimism used to lay.
The resounding echo of dying parts of me and the booming shades of grey.
Depression seeps in nightly and has its own safe place
It comes in when not welcomed and shows its ugly face.
Thursday brings an ugly night, or morning I should say
The day I feel too much just happens to be today.
5:30 am and still awake from the night before
A hazy tired feeling and every muscle sore.
But having seen your smile before you turned to bed
Has brought some life back to this sad life I have led.
The shadows they still linger, the headlights stay and play
But even through this long, dark night you've got me seizing the day.
and a warm place
Talk to the hand!
drunk, slurry lines.
Tired, cracked, awkward straight.
About once or twice a week the jokes get old.
But I am not alone.
I learned one thing.
In the middle of the night they're all over the place.
Which is like a religion to me.
The only place that I belong
is in my bed
But the loneliness I get
I'd rather kill myself
But I want to see you
The only reason why I keep breathing
to see you
on my bed.
I haven't written
My inspiration squandered
Without her, my only muse
Words escape me
As my mind will only
Be occupied by her presence
And a war in my mind dominates
The place she once held
So beautifully, so gracefully
For all those months
And now she seems lost
Or more, I am forgotten
Light to dark, I am left
Saying goodbye has never seemed
So high and dry
I'm trying hard not to assume
And yet again, this war in
My mind occupies
Me even in the days of
I'm fucking crazy
The city buzzes, crowds shuffle
Past me, in a dazed state
I look up, hearing her voice
I escape, I wander, I ride
Territory so familiar
I don't want to lose her
My muse, my love, my
Life source that keeps my heart
Beating, making me crazy
I love her
Three words of such
I feel abandoned carrying only
My heart, raw and exposed
Until it eventually fades
Knocking me out and
But even concuss and
Bleeding, she's all
Love please let me go
Unless she too
© Sia Jane
"A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover."
Like a child enlightened by heightened curiosity,
So is a native swimmer by poetic luminosity.
A prose in sight and sound devoid of modern flair,
For poetic convention the diver does not care.
But take this vague verse as one roaring rhyme,
And take it as verbiage very overdue in time.
Unjustly sunken voices the swimmer seeks to hear;
Battling a torrent history...above, below, and near.
The inquisitive diver infers a present too dismal,
As around an angry sea lies an origin, abysmal.
Rejecting all fables history’s abettors inked true,
The swimmer seeks fair chroniclers as wreckage was their due.
Sought is Illyria, a place far from here;
A land said "not to exist", so how can it disappear?
Most fabricated history our beings cannot fathom;
Quelled grandiose splendor serves political stratum.
So, how does one interpret Illyria’s butchered will,
As her godless schism fibbing history faux fills?
While Illyria’s rebel ship sailed upon history a fright,
Shakespeare's pen amorously inked the 'Twelfth Night.’
Calling curious minds to ponder this hell of a theory,
But consider the diver's roots with impartial query.
What the Illyrian believed in was a life well spent;
Not man-written guidance begging cents to repent.
On modern Illyria’s outskirts sly mythology prevails;
Modern Illyria’s pervasion of such mythology still fails.
But her feeble-minded native is essentially to blame
For their grand, deceptive role in the imperialist’s game.
Brutal eradication of Illyria’s vocal reason
Deem all these conspirators of ultimate treason.
As the State buries the intellect for piercing wits,
The native dog barks, upon foreign command he shits.
In the European south roam these bad hounds of species;
Anatomical sketches of Europe's rear excreting feces;
A pile all imperialists eject with laxative ease;
A pile all imperialists still smear as they please.
Above Illyrian graves, those below made to inspire,
The dopey dog dances, blind to his own fate in fire.
This damned work of art, not a site for you and eye,
Is an emblematic governance gagging an eerie cry.
The dog's disintegration, painted by his foreign master
Is an art to be repeated in future governing disaster.
As today’s worthless pawns in corruption they engage,
Illyria’s distinctive scions remain fools on a stage;
Our bodies dance and sway like silly puppets at play.
Our minds confined to idiocy as the capitalist’s prey.
Now, a poet's jingle jangle on probing minds they should linger,
As besought are worthy scions who must leave behind a 'finger.'
The first time I kissed a girl her tongue was coated in morphine and I’ve been chasing that high ever since. I tried to replace it by soaking my brain with prescriptions: codeine, dextromethorphan, etc.
A chemical storm raging in my brain; a storm that’s aftermath is present to this day. I still feel the bugs under my skin at night, sometimes the room spins and I remember the revelations I had.
the one most prominent being that this is Hell, that there is no place better or worse than earth, we are in an actual living Hell and that comforts me just as much as it kills me.