The eyes are the windows,
To which, you have the key,
If you search far enough,
You will find honesty.

The eyes are the colours,
That bring this world its life,
Showing all the sadness,
And memories of strife.

The eyes are a painting,
A form of true art,
And beneath the surface,
The eyes show me your heart.

Streamers raining down as snowflakes in deep winter.
Cake, all over my face like armour.
But I sit and ask myself, what is the cause of this ceremony?
One day, every year, no problems, no frief, or melancholy.

But the only thing that seems to change is the number.
Life goes by so quick, who'd have thought?

Every year I say the same; seems like only yesterday.

On this special occasion, that is my birthday.

A washed away pillar of salt and sediment.
Broken by the breaking waves that crash upon its side.
In and out and in again, moving with the tide.

Waving at me,
Far, far away,
My shadow stares,
It strikes midday.

Feline reflexes,
It moves with me,
Without a single,
Discrepancy.

My shadow nears,
Showing her claws,
And showing me,
All of my flaws.

They say when sick in a moving vehicle,
it is best to watch the horizon as it comes in and out of focus.

Watch it as emotions well up to the point of sickness.
Just sit and watch as trees pass your peripheral.
Trying to conceal the sickness,
trying to not let it come up to the surface.
But it stays.
It brews and stirs.

The car rumbles on and
silence
screams louder than ever before.

Don’t disturb the silence.

That’s what she tells herself.

Don’t let your breaking breaths and
muffled cries
disturb the nature of the car.


Liquid daggers rain down from the windows.
You can no longer see her soul
as it has crumbled down to
the particle it started as.

Not a seed,
just a speck.

These daggers drop in

deathly,
dreary
silence,

they dance

down

until they reach a

dead-end.
Nowhere else to go,
only more drop.

The windows have been

cracked.

No amounts of duct tape
can fix this.


Nothing left to do except sit and watch the horizon.

A boy so sweet,
Only a boy is he,
But Tom, sweet Tom,
And his tomfoolery.

Is anybody there,
I whisper to my room,
Where I sit and wait,
For my lonely doom.

Is anybody there,
Please let there be,
I can't stay alone,
Please stay with me.

Is anybody there,
Because if you are,
I've been searching,
Long and far.

Is anybody there,
But there's no reply,
No one is here,
To watch me cry.

There is no one there,
Now I know,
No one is here,
To watch my show.

Waves stagger,
Tall and high,
Horizon blocked,
Ripples fly.

I sit in my cabin,
Mountain top view,
Staring at the valley,
With not much else to do.

I look at passing flocks,
Floundering in the breeze,
Worrying about their lives,
While I'm worried about my keys.

The juxtaposition of us,
A scene like no other,
I see a bird learning,
How to fly from her mother.

I sit in my cabin,
Watching wildlife go by,
Wishing I were that free,
But all I manage is a sigh.

We were running in the field.
She was chasing me.
I ran home and slammed the door shut.

Banging.

Laughing.

Squealing.

Silence.

. . .

I opened the door.
She was just lying there.

Bruised.
Bloodied.
Torn apart.

What I heard was just my mind playing games.


Pleading.

Crying.

Screaming.

Silence.

Eyes of a snake,
Slithering near,
Symbolizing terror,
Showcasing fear.

Sneaking quietly,
To unsuspecting mates,
Changing the course,
Of everyone's fates.

Firsthand experience,
For this sort of thing,
Comes with time,
And a heart on a string.

Holding your heart,
Away from you,
Protecting it from hurt,
Until you know what's true.

Hypocrisy strikes,
With an iron blade,
But the pain,
Will never fade.

It's not the concept,
Of hypocrisy alone,
But when someone uses it,
It rattles the bone.

Whether intentional,
Or just misunderstanding,
The darkness is left,
To continue expanding.

Eyes of a snake,
A crime to commit,
The story of,
A hypocrite.

A tattoo is more,
Than a blotch of ink,
A drawing on skin,
Is more than you think.

Regardless of what,
Your tattoo may depict,
The fine illustration,
Isn’t just what you picked.

It is a symbol,
Of humans alive,
And how permanency,
Is all that we strive.

But a tattoo fades,
And we do as well,
Tattoos share a secret,
That man cannot tell.

Just, before you fade away,
Tell humanity to **** it,
And go live your life,
Before you kick the bucket.

Focus on the present,
I try to tell myself,
Do it for your future,
And your current health.

The past is in the past,
Focus here and now,
I try so very hard,
But I don't know how.

I keep looking back,
Over my shoulder,
And time just passes by,
And I just grow older.

I don't know how to forget,
Or rather, not to dwell,
I'm struggling to escape,
The hole in which I fell.

Life is racing by me,
It's going much too fast,
But I guess it'll keep going,
Because I can't ignore the past.

Memories faded,
Locked with no key,
Hidden in great depths,
Wandering, but not free.

Sometimes I sit,
Staring at my reflection,
Noticing every minor,
Flaw and imperfection.

A mirror is an opposite,
A flip of reality,
A twisted, woven lie,
Of our actuality.

What we do not see,
On a mirror's face,
Is the flipped perfection,
We yearn to showcase.

We only notice what is wrong,
Never what seems right,
And that is a mirror's fault,
Altering our sight.

But it is just a mirror,
A mere, flipped reflection,
But everyone is filled,
With inner human perfection.

Roses are red,
Violent, sharp,
With love and life,
Music of a harp.

Roses have thorns,
Making hearts bleed,
Stealing their dreams,
Of ever being freed.

Roses have petals,
Soft as a smile,
Falling down slowly,
As they gather in a pile.

Roses help people,
Trying to win hearts,
But why do we use them,
We'll just get torn apart.

Roses are danger,
But are used to propose,
So many faces,
Of a single rose.

I'm a writer,
Of the night,
Shying away,
From bright light.

I work at my best,
When no one's around,
So I can write,
In peace, no sound.

This may seem odd,
And it is, really,
But I like to write,
And often, ideally.

But that's not how it goes,
I can't write every day,
Sometimes there's no spark,
And it won't go my way.

But when I get going,
I will not go to bed,
As the night is my ally,
A mate, a good friend.

I prefer the darkness,
It gives me better sight,
This doesn't make sense, but,
I'm a writer of the night.

A word can have,
Such interpretation,
And the word sinking,
Exceeds expectation.

It can be joyful,
Sinking into love,
Or sinking into sadness,
And sinking from above.

Sinking can be a ship,
With memories aboard,
But when this ship sinks,
They're forgotten and ignored.

Sinking can be anger,
Or sinking with fear,
Hiding away,
From those we hold dear.

Sinking, what a word,
But I can't help and think,
What if I'm waiting,
And am destined to sink?

A lost love is,
A loosened grip,
A stumble, a fall,
A slip, or a trip.

A lost love is,
A tear down your cheek,
A heart so bland,
A soul so bleak.

A lost love is,
A downcast day,
A maze of misery,
A wall hiding the way,

A lost love is,
Though unwanted, there,
And for it's arrival,
We can never prepare.

I'm crazy,
I'm weird,
I'm whack,
I'm feared.

Unnoticed,
But seen,
Invisible,
I've been.

I get these looks,
Though, what do they mean,
I haven't a clue,
But they're rather obscene.

I am an attraction,
That wasn't meant to be,
I've learned that I,
Just shouldn't be me.

"I posted a poem,
So don't scroll past,
Read, like, but please,
Make it fast."

"I'm yearning for approval,
The attention of you,
Just write a nice comment,
What more am I to do?"

I've gone through the effort,
But don't give me my fame,
Because asking for your love,
Just isn't the same.

"Life is like riding a bicycle,
To keep your balance you must keep moving."

This was said by Einstein,
A man of talents, many,
Who would share his thoughts,
For much less than a penny.

He did have a point,
Life simply goes on,
It needs to be savored,
Before a chance is gone.

"It is as easy,
As riding a bike."
But life is harder,
Than we'd like.

It requires skill,
Focus and time,
And sometimes life,
Doesn't go by design.

Sometimes it feels like,
Make-believe, pretend,
But it is still life,
Until the very end.

Here I am,
Away from home,
Surrounded,
But on my own.

I'll live out here,
Until it's time,
To go back home,
To what is mine.

It's my duty,
My obligation,
To be here for,
This relocation.

It feels like years,
This is my void,
But here I am,
I was deployed.

I feel so homesick,
Tears tracing my face,
I sit on my own,
In this new place.

We’ve been here so long,
Longer than a year,
But I miss my home,
Homesickness. My fear.

I miss all the people,
That I left behind,
In the first couple months,
Everything was fine.

We spoke all the time,
But now, barely at all,
Only ‘Sorry wrong person’,
And ‘Accidental call.’

I’m sorry that I left,
But I’m sorry to me,
For being locked up,
And throwing out the key.

I put this on myself,
I left those for which I care,
We’re no longer friends,
Why isn’t this fair?

Why am I so sad?
Why must I cry?
Why am I forced,
To tell them, Goodbye.

Christmas is near,
Summer is here,
Mozzies we fear,
Presents appear.

Bring out the thongs,
And barbecue tongs,
Where Santa belongs,
With our Chrissy songs.

Bondi is packed,
Beer bottles cracked,
Pressies are now packed,
Those, Santa has sacked.

But Australia is burning,
Our stomachs are churning,
A lot we aren't learning,
From how this year's turning.

This is our New Year,
We may shed a tear,
As we live in fear,
As Christmas comes near.

Blinded by the dark,
A light, nowhere near,
Able to hide my sorrow,
And my escaped tear.

The absence of light,
Is comforting, and not,
But is it really gone,
Or had we just forgot?

All the lights in our world,
Shine with utmost pride,
But in this room of darkness,
The light dares not stride.

I wonder if it's there,
Watching me intently,
Wiping away my tear,
Caressing the dark, gently.

I'm calling out for help,
A light in the distance,
I know you're there, please,
I know of your existence.

So please, reveal yourself,
In this room with only me,
Because you are all the light,
That we just cannot see.

Wind through my hair,
Like water through a drain,
Running through life,
Running through the pain.

Water is of the little,
Rain is rather scant,
Dehydration of the people,
And death comes to our plants.

Drought now lives among us,
Down here in Australia's lair,
Water restrictions are higher,
And no one seems to care.

Who cares about our water?
Or how we waste it all?
They won't care until it's gone,
When there's no water left to fall.

Australians need to know,
Of the dangers we may face,
Because if we fail to understand,
We may no longer have this place.

My eyes water,
Smoke grasps my breath,
A steady hold,
Expecting my death.

Fire, smoke, ash,
Winds passing them along,
Roaring, blazing fire,
Singing it's ****** song.

No bush nor grass,
Is any longer safe,
It yearns our surrender,
To steal and end our faith.

We can't defend forever,
We'll run out of supplies,
Please save us before our end,
Before the fire cries.

Delicate,
Fragile,
Exterior,
It's own style.

Sitting next to those,
Who are the same,
But unique in the eye,
Of a loving dame.

A cute little tea set,
Identified by spots,
A woman yearning dearly,
For these matching pots.

Staring at the cups,
Along with their price,
Which seems to be as much,
As a god-worthy sacrifice.

But regardless of the cost,
The woman had the will,
To save up all her income,
Just for this thrill.

And that is what she did,
She got that tea set,
But to drink out of it,
She never let.

She couldn't handle it,
The risk of the task,
To drink from a cup,
Was way too much to ask.

So instead it stood,
As a lovely display,
In the cabinet of her daughter,
And it still stands there today.

Compensation,
A man's frustration,
A horrid creation,
Feels like truncation.

Flanders Fields,
Where dead men lie,
And mothers mourn,
And children cry.

Flanders Fields,
Where living men sigh,
Reading mates' names,
Their friend, an ally.

Flanders Fields,
Where land is dry,
In mid-summer,
Of early July.

Flanders Fields,
Where children spry,
Asking themselves,
They were gone, why?

Flanders Fields,
Where dead men lie,
And mothers mourn,
And children cry.

This is simple,
I promise you,
That to my word,
I will be true.

It's easy,
Simple as pi,
3.1415,
Step up, don't be shy.

Don't back down now,
You're in too deep,
Keep pushing through,
And you'll play to keep.

This is simple,
I promise you,
So believe in yourself,
You'll have a breakthrough!

Show me an indicator,
Of what suggests a traitor,
I'll be an investigator,
For this perpetrator.

We have a common denominator,
I promise, it's for the greater,
Good, this will be a creator,
From this treacherous infiltrator.

Because sooner or later,
You'll have to cater,
The need of this gladiator,
So please, show me an indicator.

Half of wreckless,
Half of greedy,
Half of anger,
Half of needy.

Half a God,
Other, mortal,
A gateway for two,
For worlds, I'm a portal.

Don't know who I am,
Useless, I've always felt,
Blood is shed among them,
As currency, death is dealt.

Fruit of the best kind,
Is all I want to give,
Hand-made, hand-cared, hand-picked,
For as long as I may live.

Kept under surveillance,
Under lock and key,
Something for safekeeping,
Special, just for me.

I keep it under wraps,
Secret, hidden away,
Saved for someone special,
For a very special day.

No one can see,
Before I deem them fit,
For the thing I hold dear,
So, deal with it.

About this thing,
I care too much,
To let some commoner,
Feel its touch.

Friendly, pleasant,
Easy to like,
Taking your stance,
Ready to strike.

Regardless of your antics,
I am not intrigued,
For I am not a simple man,
And I'm rather fatigued.

I don't understand,
Why you take your aim,
And fire for me,
I'm not the same.

Not like you,
Or up to standard,
Where you heard this,
Surely, it's slandered.

I'm not likeable,
So why you shoot for me,
Is unbeknownst by myself,
It's very hard to see.

You and I are different,
You, defined by popularity,
Then me, defined by smarts,
And my mundane ability.

You are you,
You're likeable,
This isn't the 1100s,
This isn't a round table.

What is shared,
Is to cherish,
Not to disregard,
Not meant to perish.

Love is a thing,
So delicate, fragile,
Distributed willingly,
Confirmed with a smile.

To give out this love,
Is a simple process,
Something achieved,
Simply needed to confess.

Your job is not difficult,
Just be you, so cute,
And I promise that my love,
To you, I will distribute.

In the bushes,
A man sits still,
A hole in his heart,
He yearns to fill.

By causing this pain,
On unsuspecting deer,
Causing their strife,
Sharing his fear.

How he does this,
Is poetic, at least,
Vicious and blood-thirsty,
This man's feast.

His heart is punctured,
So he punctures them,
With a bullet,
Sharp as a gem.

So he sits in bushes,
Before he announces,
His presence among them,
Then . . . he pounces.

War is a play,
A theatrical piece,
Readying the cast,
Before decease.

Props in hand,
Mics linked up,
To calm yourself,
Drink from death's cup.

A play for onlookers,
To watch and stare,
Ready before,
The speakers blare.

Before the crowds,
We are attacked,
A play repeated,
To reenact.

Dearest Australia,
How much you make me weep,
As we drown in sorrow,
Ash from the sky, knee-deep.

We wait for the war,
Against climates to end,
But we cry for help,
No longer able to pretend.

Our sweetest, dearest country,
A place we would call home,
Has become unsafe for families,
Unsafe to call our own.

We cannot keep the children,
Worry and stress-free,
So please help us Aussies out,
Please, Australia, help me.

There are so many things,
About our country we cherish,
But we just sit and watch,
As the flames engulf, as we perish.

Dearest Australia,
I need your support,
So help a mate out,
At Macquarie's Port.

I sit and look,
At children around,
Sitting, chatting,
Playing games they found.

I sit alone,
And watch them play,
Thinking about them,
In another day.

What they aspire,
To do with their lives,
Is currently ignored,
As this room thrives.

But I'm watching,
Waiting for their move,
To life, themselves,
They are trying to prove.

So I sit, listen,
Wait for them to act,
I’ve mastered this skill,
Attention, I will not attract.

A dilemma before a donkey,
Between two hay bales,
Teasing, tantalizing,
To choose, he fails.

Sitting and dying,
Perishing of thirst,
Because he couldn't decide,
Which bale to eat first.

A paradox they say,
Is this idea of free will,
A paradox they say,
Is capable to ****.

The hay is tantalizing him,
Tearing him to shreds,
Causing him to stand and watch,
The hay bales, 'til he's dead.

Getting a call,
At an untimely hour,
Of untimely news,
Causing you to cower.

Receiving news,
Of an 'accident', so called,
Sitting, listening, waiting,
Sat, listened, bawled.

A loved one involved,
A head on crash,
All hopes and wishes,
Put aside to trash.

News, not the good kind,
Not good at all,
And this was entirely thanks,
To that untimely call.

No matter what religion,
Or what race,
Or what name,
Or what face.

Through all the torture,
Through all the hate,
In the end we all,
Meet the same fate.

We are lovers,
Loving those in need,
Those who deserve it,
Who sit broken, they bleed.

We are friends,
Of the paper and ink,
Writing what we want,
With little time to think.

We are tenants,
Of a place we call home,
Writing freely in this space,
Which we wish to own.

We are dreamers,
We live in our heads,
Connecting our thoughts,
With thousands of threads.

We are poets,
Writers of the arts,
Sharing deep secrets,
From the deepest of hearts.

The time has come again,
Of commemoration,
To the men who fought,
At their final destination.

Years and years ago,
Let out, was a vast strife,
And among that war,
A man who lost his life.

Remembering those soldiers,
Lines and lines of men,
Who dreamt of protecting,
Since they were merely ten.

They fell while serving,
But their dreams were met,
And on this solemn day,
We say, “Lest We Forget.”

"Living the same year,
Seventy-five times,
And calling it life,
Is the greatest of crimes."

A paraphrased saying,
Of Robin S. Sharma,
Reliving a bad day,
And calling it karma.

Repeat; Repeat; Repeat,
Stuck on one word,
Repeat; Repeat; Repeat,
It begins to seem blurred.

Repeat; Repeat; Repeat,
No longer sounding of dialect,
Repeat has become faint,
The word has lost its effect.

It seems to be the meaning,
That the word has lost,
No longer sounding real,
This seems to be the cost.

The cost of repeating,
The same over and over,
Yearning for some luck,
A lucky four-leaf clover.

Nothing seems to help,
Stuck in this trance,
No escape is found,
That was my last chance.

You burdened me,
With a name so cruel,
Who names a cat,
After a company of jewels?

Coco Chanel,
Yes, that’s who I was to be,
I did not name the brand,
But the brand named me.

Don’t get me started,
On that obnoxious mutt,
Chua, you called her,
I barely made the cut.

A terrible dog, she was,
I couldn’t stand her breath,
When I decided to catch a bird,
She’d claim it as her death.

And you know who,
Is at fault for this?
It’s you, human,
At the cost of my own bliss.

All because of you,
Alex and Sharron,
You were my downfall,
To the bird's talon.