further - Hello Poetry

I can feel hurt, and I can feel pain: Yet I Am Trouble. Treated like dirt, tainted with Jezebel’s stain: It seems that I Am Trouble. Alone in the midst of my inevitable abyss, I shy away from the blame: Yet I Am Trouble. A moth billowing, drawn to the chaos – my face seared by my shame… I try to deny. But I Am Trouble.

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Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC

I Am Trouble

I can feel hurt, and I can feel pain: Yet I Am Trouble. Treated like dirt, tainted with Jezebel’s stain: It seems that I Am Trouble. Alone in the midst of my inevitable abyss, I shy away from the blame: Yet I Am Trouble. A moth billowing, drawn to the chaos – my face seared by my shame… I try to deny. But I Am Trouble.

9

Spirituality without religion, politics without opinion My knowing soul blinks into the ebbing light Outrunning the plodding clockwork: My inner intrepid sprints into the hazy night All at once, the arc slits the velveteen, The searchlights are pounding Their harsh silence crashes in my ears, My beatnik – she’s drowning The magician holds a rope ladder Spun of parotted truths and ink print thoughts: My knowing soul blinks, And stays its lonely course

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Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 6:24 AM UTC

Wander(lost)

Spirituality without religion, politics without opinion My knowing soul blinks into the ebbing light Outrunning the plodding clockwork: My inner intrepid sprints into the hazy night All at once, the arc slits the velveteen, The searchlights are pounding Their harsh silence crashes in my ears, My beatnik – she’s drowning The magician holds a rope ladder Spun of parotted truths and ink print thoughts: My knowing soul blinks, And stays its lonely course

12

The flag hangs in the window, only three corners tacked down - Forlornly it droops, its patriotism stooped – As the red and white stare out at the world, wearing a frown. The ivy smacks of Eden, a paradise in a cage - Entangled in the wire fence, snaking exotic and dense – Coiling its way past the bouquet, an epitaph to a grieving mothers rage Warriors of the Empire, heads bent low to the driving rain - The fight ****** their defiance bucked – Sheep bleating in time, soldiers marching in line, to the shepherds refrain

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Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 6:19 AM UTC

This is England

The flag hangs in the window, only three corners tacked down - Forlornly it droops, its patriotism stooped – As the red and white stare out at the world, wearing a frown. The ivy smacks of Eden, a paradise in a cage - Entangled in the wire fence, snaking exotic and dense – Coiling its way past the bouquet, an epitaph to a grieving mothers rage Warriors of the Empire, heads bent low to the driving rain - The fight ****** their defiance bucked – Sheep bleating in time, soldiers marching in line, to the shepherds refrain

9

There is absolutely nothing about these words that will, or should, make me famous. They are just words – an outpouring that means everything to me, and not a thing to anyone else. You see, I’m not the only person that has felt as though their insides are barrelling down into a bottomless void. I’m not the only one that feels a tightness around their chest whilst they flail inwardly – cursing at their longing in the face of indifference. I’m not alone in staring beyond seeing at an inanimate object – echoes of significance attached that only make sense to two people, and one of them doesn’t care anymore. It’s easy to say that I opened my heart – the hard reality is that the invited slammed the door. It’s easy to say why me, what did I do, what didn’t I do, I did everything… but it’s not what I did. It’s not what I didn’t do. It’s not who I am. It’s who I never have been. I don’t fit. I don’t fill the mould. I never met the criteria, I invented my own. I was there at the right time – and I was still there, when it was the wrong time. Still waiting, still fighting, still working, still figuring it out. Apparently it gets easier. Apparently I will move on. Apparently there are fish, in a sea, and I hear that one of them will be right for me. I see the logic, I am lucid enough. But I also see him saying “no”, when I ask if it’s me that he loves.

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Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 6:16 AM UTC

Someday these words will make me famous

There is absolutely nothing about these words that will, or should, make me famous. They are just words – an outpouring that means everything to me, and not a thing to anyone else. You see, I’m not the only person that has felt as though their insides are barrelling down into a bottomless void. I’m not the only one that feels a tightness around their chest whilst they flail inwardly – cursing at their longing in the face of indifference. I’m not alone in staring beyond seeing at an inanimate object – echoes of significance attached that only make sense to two people, and one of them doesn’t care anymore. It’s easy to say that I opened my heart – the hard reality is that the invited slammed the door. It’s easy to say why me, what did I do, what didn’t I do, I did everything… but it’s not what I did. It’s not what I didn’t do. It’s not who I am. It’s who I never have been. I don’t fit. I don’t fill the mould. I never met the criteria, I invented my own. I was there at the right time – and I was still there, when it was the wrong time. Still waiting, still fighting, still working, still figuring it out. Apparently it gets easier. Apparently I will move on. Apparently there are fish, in a sea, and I hear that one of them will be right for me. I see the logic, I am lucid enough. But I also see him saying “no”, when I ask if it’s me that he loves.

10

Music in my soul, in my veins, in my ear, Rhythmic hunting, a low pulse that only I can hear. Separate seats, separate lives, A brushing meet, competing prides. The force pushes, always peering, The pressure mocks, its grin is leering. Crawling upwards, invading the interior Onwards it claws, I’m nearing hysteria My stomach churns, my throat is tight, My chest burns, my mind alight Souls all around, but souls are worth dust, Empty and worthless, ****** dry as a husk Eyes averted, pointed blank gaze Still my mind flames, calm in its rage The stations flicker by, spiralling down the hatch The names pass too quickly, too quickly for me to catch Closer to home, a new home I’ve built, Borne out of upheaval, decorated with guilt Stepping towards a future, try to shoot from the hip, But it’s all a façade – loneliness has me in its grip.

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Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 6:05 AM UTC

Music on my Mind

Music in my soul, in my veins, in my ear, Rhythmic hunting, a low pulse that only I can hear. Separate seats, separate lives, A brushing meet, competing prides. The force pushes, always peering, The pressure mocks, its grin is leering. Crawling upwards, invading the interior Onwards it claws, I’m nearing hysteria My stomach churns, my throat is tight, My chest burns, my mind alight Souls all around, but souls are worth dust, Empty and worthless, ****** dry as a husk Eyes averted, pointed blank gaze Still my mind flames, calm in its rage The stations flicker by, spiralling down the hatch The names pass too quickly, too quickly for me to catch Closer to home, a new home I’ve built, Borne out of upheaval, decorated with guilt Stepping towards a future, try to shoot from the hip, But it’s all a façade – loneliness has me in its grip.

20

Hands clawing outward from a mass grave Mouth gasping for air, Lungs filled with invisible smog Mind too indoctrinated to care Pressed in against the walking dead Face to face, toe to toe – Clammy fingers entwining by seeing Unseeing eyes staring into a blank void you well know Drifting with the metal cage Jerking back, coasting sideways, never flinch Some escape, more cram in – Nearing hellish Purgatory inch by inch A screeching halt, your turn to flee – Into the glass maze obediently file Skinner's rats – jolted by punishment Yet tomorrow you’ll do it again – another card on the pile.

0

Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 5:59 AM UTC

Art on the Underground

Hands clawing outward from a mass grave Mouth gasping for air, Lungs filled with invisible smog Mind too indoctrinated to care Pressed in against the walking dead Face to face, toe to toe – Clammy fingers entwining by seeing Unseeing eyes staring into a blank void you well know Drifting with the metal cage Jerking back, coasting sideways, never flinch Some escape, more cram in – Nearing hellish Purgatory inch by inch A screeching halt, your turn to flee – Into the glass maze obediently file Skinner's rats – jolted by punishment Yet tomorrow you’ll do it again – another card on the pile.

16