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A silence, saliently insisting on its one day of reign,
Reminding you to reflect before you act,
To think beyond what you could gain.

We look back at our ancestors,
Recalcitrant in the face of the British, the French;
We praise their heroics, remember them in feasts,
Yet still, we are divided, brawling like beasts.

Against the oppressor, we stood united;
A colonised nation, struggling for identity.
Master-less we finally became, celebrating independence;
Yet now, we have subverted to ****** deference.

Men in sharp suits and their slimy, convincing faces;
They like to think they hold all the aces,
That they can and will divide and conquer all of the planet’s open spaces.
They tell us what to think, what to feel, what to do, what to vote,
They’ll tell you when to swim or when to sink,
When to squeal and how to heal,
What is true when you don’t have a clue,
And what to quote when you want to sound profound.
They are snivelling, Rolex-wielding, aftershave-wearing ******* with an arrogant bearing,
And they have no issues with asking you about why the *******’re glaring.

So, I suppose, today there's not much choice;
There is a snarling wolf on one hand,
And an angry bear on the other.
When your choice is that bad,
Why should you even bother?

'By any means necessary', Malcolm X would say.
There seems to be no solution,
Excepting a call for armed revolution.
Anarchists and troublemakers, unite;
Time to take down the state,
Like cutting the line to a kite.
So I found this old, forgotten rant of a poem as I'm reviewing my folders, and I decided to give it a face lift, tighten up a few sloppy verses and upload it again. This was written right before the June 2017 election in Malta.
Julian Delia Feb 14
Seems wrong, feels right;
Feels like longing, seems like it’s alright.
Like it’s alright to ignore sentiment,
Despite my heart being set alight,
Intensely bright, incandescent.

Rationality, grounded in reality –
In opposition,
Spirituality, grounded in alacrity.
When these two are bound together,
We drift through life peacefully, light as a feather.
When these two oppose each other,
Then we must compose ourselves, or otherwise suffer.

There is so much our two eyes cannot see;
It’s the third one that really sets you free.
When internal conflict arises,
When infernal flames contract your irises,
Know that on the inside,
Deep in your heart, where you cannot hide,
Know that you know what’s right.

It might seem irrational,
It might feel insane;
It might be unfashionable,
It might even sound lame –
Your decision is only limited by you,
The perspective which is your frame.

Listen to your heart’s hidden chambers;
Turn its volume up, like your annoying neighbours.
Let your soul speak;
For our lives are not long,
And the future seems rather bleak.
Following instinct = synchronicity.
Synchronicity = higher existence.
Higher existence = free drugs??
Julian Delia Feb 6
I love how we could literally talk for hours –
Lighting a spark in each others’ hearts,
Figuratively glowing like meteor showers.
I love singing that one song with you;
You know the one,
The one we sang in the rain,
The one that always rings true.

I can’t stop myself from looking at you,
Not without this twinkle of wonder in my eyes.
Certainly not without this tingle that runs along my spine,
Not without a heartbeat so loud that it sounds like thunder.
You make me smile so much, my face hurts sometimes;
You take me high to places with better climes,
Spiritual spaces, elevation by design.

The signs are all there –
Lives running on parallel lines,
With no direction, no need to know where.
Unburdened, beautiful, loving care,
Sensations unheard of,
Dutifully calming like someone stroking your hair,
Hearts laid out to each other like we’ve got a spare.

I love how grateful we are for each other’s presence.
The word ‘hateful’ doesn’t even exist here,
It’s almost like you make me forget its essence.
Every second is a learning opportunity,
And you’ve helped me learn so many lessons already –
Maybe we should call our hang-outs ‘life sessions’.

I love how even a hug carries so much weight,
Momentous in its significance,
Enough to make my heart flutter like I’m late for a date.
I’m going to miss you so much when you leave.
Thank you for reminding me how to wear my heart on my sleeve.
Okay, this is probably the best poem I've ever written.
I wasn't joking when I used the title 'Smitten.'
Julian Delia Feb 2
L
I hope wherever you are,
Whatever you’ve done,
Know that I’m sorry I wasn’t the right one.
We almost killed each other,
Became hateful, when we were once lovers.

I don’t want to write this,
I don’t want you to read it;
Part of me still feels you don’t deserve it,
Yet here it is –
I’m sorry for making my issues yours,
For the forest’s worth of used tissues,
For the days of unrest, weeping on the floor.

I hope you’re happy,
Because I know you weren’t.
It was apparent and evident, I chose not to see it;
Selfish needs and the wrong words acted as intermediates,
I wasn’t really there, I shouldn’t have been.
I was recovering, and I was still weak and lean.
Silently uttering, when all I wanted was to scream.

Maybe one day we’ll forgive one another,
Until then, I think you know who this is.
I was passing by and I just wrote this,
Sorry for the bother.

* * *

This is not an attempt to rekindle a catastrophe,
This is quite simply an overdue apology.
I’m not accepting all the blame, either;
Excepting the shame I felt for letting you get into my head,
I have become stronger and wiser,
And I wish to use this wisdom to make the world brighter.

I’m in your street because I’m publishing a book,
Or at least trying to;
Not that poetry ever meant that much to you.
But, it has brought me and my thoughts here again,
To the times where our fights were not a matter of if,
But when.

I have found it very hard to love again;
After ‘You’, anxiety killed me, made me upend,
Upend everything, a bevvy of sick feelings,
Memories of every time we had each other begging and kneeling.
I’m still in the process of healing,
This is my way of doing that,
Coping and healing.
I hope you found yours.

_______________
Julian Delia Jan 28
Held back, with a knack for spectacle,
A need to be, specifically, to be beheld.
A paradoxical existence –
An oxymoronic persistence,
An urge to merge unsuppressed emotion with the notion of defensive insistence.

There ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone, indeed;
I paint these scenes with fine lines in my mind’s eye’s canvas,
The thought of you floats through like the haze of cannabis,
You are the source of that which I seek, thou art the seed.

I attempt to gaze deeply, as I love to do,
Yet I cannot do so unfazed, it is a price I pay steeply,
For sadness overwhelms me, leaving me blue.
Instead, I cast myself in a lifetime of debauchery,
Each and every night hoping it’ll be the one that does one in,
That one night it’ll be too much, too out of the ordinary.

Forgive me for making promises I can’t keep –
I guess I am a grown man when I can no longer weep,
When tears have dried out a long time ago,
When pain sears memories that died like an ember’s last glow.

I want to be able to just be inactive emotionally,
To respect boundaries reflective of love that is felt platonically.
I am capable of doing that just about as much as a bull is able to tip-toe around a china shop.
Self-explanatory ****, I don't know what else to say or do at this point
Julian Delia Jan 21
Stricken-down, struggling and stranded,
Dealt a hand that was quite underhanded.
I am done with never settling down,
Always having to run –
I am standing my ground stubbornly,
I am a storm of sounds,
Discourteously curmudgeonly.

I will not accept defeat -
I feel naught except the beat,
The rhythm, the flow, the show –
The hurt dissipates as I let go.
On these two feet,
I fight the finite, finicky, fraudulent conmen of deceit.
It’ll serve you right when you get roasted by the roaring heat,
When mother death cometh with hungry babes at her ****.

Stranded or at ease, it doesn’t matter,
Landed like a breeze, serving poetry on a platter.
I’ve been feeling like my time is really up,
Like there’s the ceiling and all I can do is get numb.
That, or just ******* wander off and die;
Just like that, with no explanation as to how or why.

I can’t go on like this, I can’t blow off life’s bliss.
Thing is, if I knew I was going to die and live on somewhere else,
I can’t even think of what I’d actually miss.
I don't know what to do with my poetry to be honest...doesn't really seem like anyone wants to read it, anymore. Maybe it's time to let go.
Julian Delia Jan 17
Smitten by her charms,
Driven by a desire to have her in my arms.
Here I am again, with a paper and a pen -
My thoughts are devouring each other,
Like walking into a crazed lions' den.

I don't know what else to do;
I have been wrong before,
I have been left wanting more -
But, I can't deny there's something true,
Something real and deep,
Beyond trivial, the stuff of dreams.

I wake up, and I see an imprint of that gorgeous face,
That bright smile that could illuminate the darkness of space.
It's killing me, knowing that this is not happening.
I'm willing to move on, I know I have to,
Yet I am too busy reeling from this crash landing,
From realising that all I want is to hug you,
And hold on for dear life.

I am yearning for you,
But life has deemed I must not;
Our journeys must take us where we are due,
And evidently, what I want is not what I got.
I wish I could explain this urgency -
It feels like a need greater than myself,
Like the call for help in a national emergency.
My thoughts call out for respite,
Yet you override them like an insurgency.

Please, don't get me wrong;
I don't want to stifle a spirit that's so free, so strong.
Just know that should I ever set foot in your sanctuary,
I will leave offerings and heap up blessings,
I will be there, even in the bitter cold of January.

I just wish you felt this as fully and fiercely,
I wish we were just dancing with destiny,
That our lives found a way to intertwine truly and sincerely.
But,
I guess they won't.
I'm back, at least for a while.
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