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Oct 2019 · 231
Sun Kissed Smiling Breeze
Ackerrman Oct 2019
Sun on Shoulders,
Tingling sensation smoulders,
Sinks into skin,
Golden glare- Serendipitous sin.
Rippling rays-
Meanders, and plays
On waves of melody-
Moves on water like electricity.
Switched on.
Winter is gone.
Raa has control
Straight thinking on school-
To teach the waves to lap
Lazily and playfully, map
The ebb and flow
Of breezes that blow
The ship to the middle,
Raise anchor and kindle
Magic, eternally
Float majestically

To sun kissed Golden shores.
Wrote this while sitting by the side of the pool in Ibiza- beautiful day in November
Ackerrman Oct 2019
Old rings grow great
But the circles are less perfect.

Have to squint
To make the shape
Stand Stout.

Purple on black-
Looks bright!
******* on ****;
High as a kite.

Some mornings
Stay stale
As old cheese in the fridge.

Stagnant.

No matter how hard I stare,
Or how much I squint,
I can’t make the blood
On palace walls
Look like liquorish.

I cant make the holes
In my shirt
Look like button holes...
Find the perfect partner-
My hand in hand;
To lead me across this ravished land.

To make it feel alright.
Like human means human.
I once dared to dream of an Oakland beholder, whose maker held a misused, trusted scheme.
Oct 2019 · 181
Dear Michael
Ackerrman Oct 2019
Faded as that 90’s graffiti on the train station walls,
Old locomotives, their engines cease to spin and sputter.
Little mice, too famished in their task, caress cogs and messages,
From places, too dark to read, the notes pile up.
Some, I think, may be blank.
Some, I could not read, as I scribbled those promises too fast.
A great mound of empty words made from a tree now dead.
The cogs move no more, I doubt they were ever connected before…


In line for a one-way ticket out of this grave land,
My baggage gripped tight with both hands- makes it difficult to keep in check,
I try to hide it with a smile, no one offers to help.
Surprisingly sullen, my every movement seems to echo from bold, cold walls,
The insignia behind the ticket master’s house is sprayed in red and it reads:
‘This was always a one-way trip’
I bite my lip, try to understand how to turn menace into sand,
This station is run by ghosts. I can feel them watching from holes in the wall.


I was asked by a stranger, “why did you come here”,
My staggered recoil from justice and reason must have been enough,
When I looked back, my persecutor was lost to an empty hall,
And the bones of this room can be seen when it breathes,
So clear, not seen the sun shine in a long time,
Startled like a bird falling into a pool, I wonder why I came here at all.


I talk to the ticket officer, this hat worn low, talking from a dark place,
I want to know, “the time of the next train please”,
But the man only holds my gaze, from beneath his low cap
Motionless, the spindly man holds all the cards, then blows away into the wind.
Left his own station in search of tracks. Somewhere remote
The sun is shining, and life is dead upon this new day.


Perhaps it is too early, I sit and wait for someone to talk to,
“You know that bag must be awfully heavy, please let me carry it for you”,
I shake my head and grip what is mine a little tighter,
“Don’t be afraid to let me in, I only want to help you free your light”,
But I don’t care for skin or bones, I set down my bag and watch,
The man of bones, with dreams larger than his stake,
Perhaps, if you were not so far away, you would have the strength to exist,
I look up to see the man who tried so frugally,
Met by dead air, perfectly comfortable- without a friend in the world.


I take a stroll down the decrepit tracks, cold air grasps at skin and sense,
Just to see the colour of the rust, and what the reaction was,
The trains and tracks are turning bitter-brown and discoloured purple,
Holes are manifesting themselves into the carriage, much less comfortable than I ever knew.
I step on the dead cartridge, much less comfortable than I ever-
Reliving a time when the carriage was bright, and laughter echoed the halls,
Far down the musky, dark-grey scope, I can hear the faint sobs of a child,
Inevitably, I find the kid, small and frail, sobbing into his hands from under his hat.


“Dear Michael, this carcass is the last place that I expected to find you”,
I kneel down beside the boy and tell him what comes from inside”
“You didn’t spend much time here when we were alive, I am leaving you Michael, your world is cold and dead”.
The boy trembles before sobbing turns to cold laughter,
He lifts his head and I peer into two dark and empty sockets,
Pristine, white bones contrast the encroaching darkness,
Michael tells me: “There is no leaving this place”.


The skeleton child’s words are empty.


A little while down the track, darkness pours from every crack,
Each train looks as dead as the one that was mine,
I follow a trail of disfunction to the end of the line,
Where I find a train, most unlike the rest, its silky black skin has been kept intact,
Monstrous, foreboding and intimidating, the conductor keeps the fire stoked,
Red mist puffs from the window, horror stagnant beauty feels and flows.


The walls of the carriage are meticulously decorated,
Framed pictures resting on crimson silk, a life frozen in time,
I am not welcome here,
Presently, a feral scream from far away- the engine room,
A mad man armed with fire eyed fury,
Jackal Rushes through moment and memory in fear and panic,
The first thing in this nightmare clad in skin,
The man stands still, full height, coloured in… I look into his eyes:


I fall back through twisted carriages.
Light.
Butterflies protecting fire from rain.
I sleep safe knowing that no one thinks of me.
I am writing a book. One day a character wanted to say something...
Oct 2019 · 1.8k
7 Days of Decadence
Ackerrman Oct 2019
Woke up,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Held hope in my hands,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Held hope in my hands,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Tried to be better,
Held hope in my hands,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Tried to be better,
Became a victim of my own humanity,
Held hope in my hands,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Watched the sun rise,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Tried to be better,
Held hope in my hands,
Became a victim of my own humanity,
Had existential crisis,
Went home to bed.

Woke up,
Saw God tread on an Ant,
Succumbed to darkness,
Tried to be better,
Became a victim of my own humanity,
Held hope in my hands,
Had existential crisis,
Watched the sun rise,
Went home to bed.
This was a lot of fun to write
Oct 2019 · 253
Poppies just want to Dance
Ackerrman Oct 2019
Bouncing bubbles, thin dew stands jubilant
Atop Poppie’s vibrant, happy colour.
Poppies in summer time are in a trance,
Smiling rapturously: scarlet music!
C notes rise on a breeze, crimson follows
In a waltz, a samba- zounds, Fiddlesticks!
The garden would be desperately hollow,
Daffodils mope until crimson rhythm
Bursts spontaneous, famous elation
Ricochets, the hanging baskets fathom,
The chain braking freedom born stagnation.
Poppies will dance for the rest of their lives
And drink the sweet nectar, high as a kite.
Third piece  from a series of garden flower sonnets
Ackerrman Oct 2019
Pupils gaze into the sun, I am stunned,
Unearth the power of Raa in your eyes,
Revel! As we lay for long hours, sunned
To death in the warm embrace of your fires.

As we wrap our lives around each other's
Souls as stinging nettles cradle soft skin,
Our life embers trickle, rumbles, smothers-
Nothing. Just- blood. Scars, filth under cover.
And you tickle the hair under my chin...

Time swells and the kind universe cradles-
I can't- stomach this ******* orange juice anymore!
I choke on the bits, I told you before,
How many times- and where is that *****?
What do you mean- “Lucy has gone before”
Good Lord, where has that ***** gone now. That *****-
Cotton wrapped ‘round faithful fairy fables—
Grandad? Is that you? What did you send me for?

This dream bred a silk no spider could weave,
Heavenly nirvana, none could conceive...

You. Child like, notions of freedom. So naive,
Your ****** up little attitude is hard to conceive.

Lucy? Lucy, is that you? -You ***** tease!
I am confused, did you drug me again?-
I shall follow wherever you may lead...
-You’re no better than when you’re on your knees-
Don’t leave me, like a little frightened Fen...
Just ask and I should spend my life on my knees.

My light is yours to – blank –

Tie the rope to the tree and ******* hang.

Lucy must be with Grandad, that’s why I
Can't find them- can't find my love- my bee.

How long until this moment passes by
Lucy, do me the Honour. Marry me.

Lucy?

Lucy.
So I watched the penultimate of Bojack Horseman season 4, and wow, I am pretty sure I have PTSD. Anyway, the episode inspired me. Here is a poem about dementia.
Oct 2019 · 146
Silence
Ackerrman Oct 2019
Where is your head?
Is it here?
You won’t answer.

Did you not hear?
Should I ask again?
You won’t answer.

I am intimidated,
Feel cold,
Damaged.

I am not comprehending,
Banging my head silly,
My stare is more vacant than yours.

I assure you,
I don’t know what to do,
I’m here to help.

But I guess you don’t comprehend that,
The need?
My need to help you.

You have no need of me.
I am more scared of you
Than you are of me,

As default!
I think I admire you,
Your silence.

I don’t know how to push,
How far,
Will you break?

What can I ask?
How can I help?
I can’t.

Can’t I even look in your eyes?
Will it make you uncomfortable?
Can I try…

Again tomorrow?
Or the next day?
Let me stay.

Sit down
Next to you,
Please don’t be uncomfortable.

I usually say,
“I won’t fail again”,
But I think

I will have
To fail
A lot with this one…

Until
I
Understand.
Ackerrman Sep 2019
It takes a very small man
To “Want to punch that girl in the face”,
Or to compare,
A young student to a “Sewer Rat”.

To bully twelve year olds,
Single out young girls,
Transparent fold in time,
Stunted growth.

It takes a small man
To bully children,
It takes a smaller man
To expect respect this way.

“Do yourself a favour
And just shut up”

“Get your head down-
Tick-Tock”

It is like watching a ******
Order 'sewer rats'
To be clean,
Tell the sea to recede.

Your idea of a model student
Is a student who
Already knows
What you are incapable of teaching.
I work in one of the worst school's in the country. Some of the teachers of cowardly, incompetent bullies. But in England, the worst performing schools are given the least amount of funding. In fact, the tiny salary that teachers and support staff are afforded mostly just attracts half-wits who could never earn 20k any other way, I have seen very few members of staff that care about the kids. What is being invested, does not attract professionals, it attracts phonys.
Sep 2019 · 547
I don't Remember your Name
Ackerrman Sep 2019
A desperate, burgeous experience,
Warm red light sneaks through the flimsy curtain
With briefcase and notes, no interference
From reason or conscience, not too certain
About scaling the walls of nihilism
And entering the warm head of dead-space,
Expanding my languid realism,
Rushing the end like a three legged race.
In the dying ashes of apathy
I accidentally caught a glimpse:
Dark and degenerated, flayed clarity,
Depravity... Empathy... Caustic rinse,
To the bone, the skeleton is not white,
I relate most to women of the night.
Must read more Oscar Wilde, or less.
Sep 2019 · 348
Cheering up the Daffodils
Ackerrman Sep 2019
Happy, drooping, yellow blossom over-
Hangs and peers drearily toward the dirt.
Leering with might, towering poor clover
Who trembles and asks, “How was one so hurt?”

Daffodil smiles a wry smile and chuckles,
“Young one, the tides of time meander, break,
Thrash the fearful boat until it buckles,
Naivety led me to this glum state”.

Clover sat in quiet contemplation
Until, “Daffodil, you are a victim
Of turning time’s sad manipulation,
Revere the present- make it your kingdom.

Startled, the proud, tall flower spoke no words,
Craned neck to the sun, drank plentifully.
At length, listened to the sound of the birds,
Saw beauty in the garden, presently.

“Colour, the wealth enriching this garden
Feels to me, a small boat in the ocean
Beating on against the tide- a burden,
An ill-fated, cumbersome devotion”.

A blue Jay sensed the trouble from the trees,
Made a detour from its usual way,
Beseeched the flower, hopped down to her knees,
“Not everything in this world fades to grey.

This life can be free and beautiful, Daf!
Grow so tall but you rarely see the sky,
Take a look in the endless blue and laugh,
The bright yellow orb will never need die”.

Languid flower feels the sun on his neck,
The rays passing through his delicate hands,
He cranes his head toward the ground to check
The answer does not lie in the brown lands.

Eyes as feelers pointed toward the ground,
A wriggling worm wraps around the words,
“Dear flower, you make a terrible sound,
Being so down, I have come to be heard.

The dirt that nourishes you so freely
Has God’s plan in every grain of soil,
The world is connected in every
Facet, in every beautiful smile”.

We are your friends, the life that cares for you,
So if you can’t be alive for yourself,
If you can’t find a reason to live too,
Keep spreading magic for your friends, get through.
One of three poems I have written concerning the life of garden flowers
Sep 2019 · 101
Growing Up
Ackerrman Sep 2019
“You don’t know who I am,” Said the man.
I assure you sir,
“I no longer care.”
Had a confrontation with an older gentleman at the weekend, indicative of my point in life.
Ackerrman Sep 2019
Blood-rich, vibrant, swirling petals dance, swing
Around breezes, tremble petulantly,
Feeling power course: green heartfelt stems sing,
Wearing thorn-mail, blazon, nonchalantly.
Cruel thoughts drift timidly toward the wood,
Shady under-shadows conceal pollen,
Ash bees sing the Roses’ song- Ruby food
Feeding volcanic hearts, single chronons
Bounce between young cupid’s glass heart garden,
Dream half coloured mirage: Wood-Nirvana.
Water drips and sputters, flower haven
Calls from woodlands as Father to Maiden,
Calling gently to sail, meander home.
Rest safe in the halls of horticulture.
Eat my heart out
Ackerrman Sep 2019
From the moment
You came to talk,
My hands perched upon my waist
And they refused to move,

The air became denser,
Stifled my breathing,
The universe narrowed.
Some moments swell in time.

Thoughts that lay on the ground
All jumped up at once,
Flew to the eye of the needle
And all tried at once to fit through.

Eyes flutter,
Looked to glitter
With the light dispersed,
Magic burst.

I can barely move.

My words are dumb!
They aren't clever,
Not chosen,
Words that constitute a conversation.

My chest,
Frozen in time.
I do my best
To untense.

The man of apathy!
Conscious of every second,
Every eye flicker,
My arms of cement.

I must blush!
She must know,
I try to hard to settle
And not show

That the flaking debris
Of my faded countenance
All rallies,
Pretends to be a person.

But it hasn't adopted
That mould in a long time.
The picture is fragmented
And it takes a lot to stay together...

Just so she won't see
The running colours
Inside of me.
I am sorry there isn't more.
Stupid crush
Ackerrman Sep 2019
I’m giving
You a night call,
To tell you
How I feel.

I’m living
At a slow crawl,
Who
Has the shot to ****?

Arms crossed defence,
Haunted
Head
Of dreams.

Standing on the fence:
Faded,
Lead,
Poison-lean.

Blighted youth,
Hidden truth,
Failure to jump…

Cant jump:
Autism,
Pride problem,
No- progress.

Can’t initiate
Relationships:
Doesn’t mean
-Can’t- feel.

Does not mean
I don’t
Need
The same.

Fighting mouth breathers,
At a distance,
Who can tell?

Infected by venom,
Crippled, narcissistic
Venom.

Veins are black,
Self made
Transfusion;
Empathy stack.

Barrier.
A language
I don’t understand,
Barrier.

Never have
Comprehended,
It feels
like…

Everyone knows something
I can’t handle,
Can’t see…

Like I miss
A sense,
Everyone else-
Proficient with.

Like everyone else:
Knows
A secret
That I don’t.

What’s worse:
Is when
I pretend
To know

Everyone
Around
Acts like
I know-

But I don’t,
I never had,
Had your
Super powers…

I pretend
To read
Minds
Too…

I mimic
The language,
The body language:
Eye movement…

Eye brow shift,
Wide open arms,
Pupil dilation,

Shoulders diminished:
Insecurity.
Eye contact…

I can manipulate
These rules
For
My effect.

So I know
Other people
Can do
The same.

Most likely-
Do
All
The time

So how?
Can I trust
A single
Person…

Or what they say
With their eyes,
Maybe I should trust
The words…

ha
I started working with a child with ASD. It has shaken me, I have always scored highly on the spectrum but never enough to cross the line. I have really had to try and strip back my own personality in order to try and relate to him and get on his level. This has opened up a lot of questions for myself. Has me thinking about why I am the way I am.
Sep 2019 · 216
Good Mourning
Ackerrman Sep 2019
There goes the alarm again.
The misanthropic crusader goes into shock,
I calm it down; comfort is mania.
Stare despondently into the void.

A chorus rises,
Violence, people trapped in time shout through metal,
A voice cries, confined, bounces from hall to wall,
I am not sure I woke up at all.

Some higher functioning brain activities
Get bored in their entropic state-
Trade places with whimsy,
Because that is what they do when they lose interest in their task,

As I have lost interest in my task,
And look for more chin music-
To raise a symphony within me.
To make one day look different to the last.
I wrote this a few months ago; It is about waking up.
Sep 2019 · 138
Sobriety
Ackerrman Sep 2019
Well done,
Just like everyone,
I have my
Uniform,
My clean shirt,
My clean mind.

Getting older now,
Cold,
When lonely-
Stay clean!
Build a future
I never thought I would see.

Step back,
Step forward,
But moved,
Always moved,
Though stagnant-
Not sterile.

Focus!
Don’t drift to decay,
Stay!
In the room,
Now,
No psychosis!
Ackerrman Sep 2019
Sunlight pours
On the devout,
Alike, ******.
No moral scout,
A ghost dancing on the moors,
Could just as soon go without.

Morality is a human construct,
The majority of the universe is indifferent to it.
Sep 2019 · 108
A Quoi Bon Dire
Ackerrman Sep 2019
A dream of reconciliation,
Quoi- false- sunlight bursting through rain,
Bonfire of antipathy,
Direful springs of blighted youth.
Homage to one of my favourites
Sep 2019 · 142
My Little Bro-Bro
Ackerrman Sep 2019
I tried not to cry
When you cut your wrist.

I recognised well,
What had happened,
When I walked through your door.

Your eyes,
Agony,
Bloodshot.

You ******:
Wounded,
Savaged.

The bandage-
Hurried.
Medic alert!

White on red
Solemn colours,
All a child’s eyes can see.

How I tremble
As that child’s mind-
Helpless.

All my strength,
My smarts
And I can’t move you

Out of that state,
Out of this place,
This Hell.

Please don’t die,
I can’t live
Without you.
Yesterday was a bad day- still made it into work today though! Not about me, about him. hope he made it into work- i leave before he does.
Ackerrman Aug 2019
The remnants of my intelligence and dignity,
John can take to his grave,
I just wanted to fight, for what was right
But was swallowed in a wave of reality.
I once tried to hold out idealism,
To have it smashed in a thousand pieces,
I thought that people should care for each other,
To be told it wasn’t economically viable.

To another best friend that never really cared,
I loved you more than you will ever know,
You were one of the hardest people I ever let go,
But you used me and abused me just like everyone else,
Pretended to care and dictated fair,
I was blinded by delirium,
And could not see, that the beautiful trees,
Were plastic, lifeless and cold.
/
The music is beginning to sound like silence,
I keep getting the melody stuck in my head,
I forgot how it began and can’t see past
The first verse, but I know the album artwork:
A man in a hearse- the picture looks familiar,
I feel like I was there, somewhere, floating through air,
The beat is inconsistent and I can’t find anything I like,
It just passes right through me.
/
The field where we buried Pete’s ashes,
Will be forever green to me,
It glows with his smile and snowy white hair,
But no one remembers he’s there!
And those that do pass over the spot without a care,
But the light of the world seems darker
Without his wonderful wintery hair.
When you laughed, I laughed and when you smiled- I felt safe.

Of course, to you- my love, the ever lingering
Hopeful lady of my earth. My feelings were always true,
I longed for you with depth of colour unknown,
To any time or place I would have flown,
But just like you said,
You were incapable of love- nothing but spite,
You pulled out my brittle heart out and ****** it.
You hurt me more than I hurt myself.

And how- I hurt myself- delved into a rabbit hole,
That I was too young to be ****** down,
I cut my mind on razor sharp thoughts:
Potential- and felt like a failure.
I could not sleep for the longest time, I was kept awake
By a tear-soaked pillow that reeked with the fumes of alcohol,
I would lay awake all night long
And scold me for being too stupid.
/
The smallest of spotted and winged bugs,
Can’t set foot on the cusp of my shoelace,
The keenest eyed falcon, misses the outline of fragility,
Cold and stagnant sensation, carried on the wind,
Does not reach my eyes,
Or make the duct empty,
Roaring shrieks run through my ears,
Cowering or apathetic eyes can’t set fire to these fears.

I am so sorry to the smallest of you winged creatures,
You won’t understand- probably ever,
But know that I never meant to cause you pain,
You look at the world through such a small scope,
Please don’t ask me how I struggle to cope,
You are one of the reasons I fought the dark for so long,
To start out- you looked at me and I thought you would understand,
But you turned out uniform- blind and deaf and dumb.
/
I can’t tell you the depth of these memories,
In the garden, where a voice spoke to me so smooth,
And sweet and petals and aroma seemed to float
On breezes heralded with happy sparks, buoyant
Through seas of troubles, until those troubles dock
In a harbour that I wrecked, degrading in grief,
Sweet flowers have been rotting in time and now
The words that were music are now virus, reckoning every moment.
/
My brother refuses to wear his glasses now,
He says he can’t see anything clearly anymore,
For the tears won’t tear themselves away
From the rocky, half dead, sunken terrain, sees
The light of day less often than flesh eating worms,
Sharp teeth grin and the rose-coloured memory
Of playing football in the park after dark,
Or cricket on the old wicket- I hope you miss me the most- I would you.

I flew to my mother’s house,
But she wasn’t home; I let myself in,
Looked over the empty wine bottles,
Stacked in pairs, so they each have a friend.
The pictures on the walls are all forty years old,
And the characters are all face down,
I can’t pick them up,
The image of agony is plastered to the floor with no one to adore.

My father’s tools are all strewn in the garden,
Plugged in without power- hiding round corners, they cower,
The shaky lawn mower cried internally,
Because all it could do was cut the ****** grass,
But could not cut the ties of familiarity,
With tiresome fire, turning the content to ashes.
The door to the shed is always a jar,
The boards are flayed and splintered with paint, dripping to the floor.

Sitting silently in this empty old house,
The creaking of the floorboards seem to know me,
Old memories bounce from hall to wall,
Like an echo of the stagnant fury, that reverberated
From still wall and whispering grief,
Words of narcissism curl in on themselves,
Fatter and nastier than a thousand-pointed needles
Or razorblades, smiling delicately on cupid’s bathroom floor.

Dragging stains and paints across a happy little corridor,
Smiling at a pattern of pure undeniable psychopathy,
A vibrant and living testament to a society,
Cruel and frowning, scolding the colour,
It doesn’t matter what colour!
The deepest shade of purples melts into
Dried crimson mess congealed and defeated on the floor,
No deviance from black, white and grey anymore.
/
My footfall does not make a sound.
Nor does my form disturb the gentle snowflakes.
From falling straight down through the empty air,
No blades of grass twist or move from their
Position of placid translucence.
I feel cold as people walk straight through,
The ethereal outline of my faded countenance.
Shivering shade of something real.
/
The conversation of the officer at the station:
“I can’t say the details of the death were
At any detriment to the case,
He stopped living and fell off the face of the earth,
A simple, open and closed case”
I stare hopelessly through the veil,
As the man put down his phone,
And entered suspended animation.
This was a dark couple of weeks I spent working on this
Aug 2019 · 219
Cancer
Ackerrman Aug 2019
Cut through to the left ventricle,

Like hot knife through butter,

Spreads through life,

Like internal bleeding.

Open hand incision,

Like a drunk surgeon. Having fun.



Burst through the door,

Like riot police.

Get scared,

Like the man hiding squat in the middle.

Chest heaving,

Like the aorta closing.

Wrap my arms around myself,

Like I could stop the world from rocking.



Scream through the crowd at the stage,

Like my words could pierce the veil.



Stand silent under a streetlight,

Like the only light of the world shines

And I am bewildered- dumbfounded; and helpless and hapless.

Like a moth, staring with brevity into the sun until extinguished.

Wide eyed.

Like stepping on a snail.

Digging into supple skin,

Like nails cling to desperate skin

Sinking with the mess we're in.

Like a razor blade,

Held to the edge of your life,

Like playing games with Lucifer,

Who dances to discords of every defeat; every loss of a smile,

Like a wretch-

Writhing in the dark.

Like the smell and taste of dirt

Can't be confined to the ground.



'Like' is a word ready to topple and roll away;

The truth grasps the scruff of your shirt

Like innocent white cotton clings to your heaving lapel;

Holds your hand long after you're in bed.

Like cheap cologne

On a sailor's neck at port.

Like playing-

Alleviates-

Like elevates-

Above the line of filth,

Like a shaky grab-hand trembling under weight,

While your partner looks on in despair,

Like you are fading away

In your fight with misanthropy,

Like a child shouting into a well:

The words come back, but denser,

Like they scabbed over

In the process of burning away...



Like lightning bursting;

Illuminating Magenta sky.

Like the universe creates itself

To fight death,

Like blue flame fights crimson,

Shades begin to run,

Like creating,

A new colour,

Like conjuring,

From air.

Like God.
I wrote this about a colleague that fell ill. Good woman, hope she gets better, she deserves better.
Aug 2019 · 299
Time Swells
Ackerrman Aug 2019
Time is not a line nor a road,
It doesn't pass by in equal integers:
It grows,
Swells,
Accumulates-
In small moments,
Gets caught in the reefs.
larger pools for more prominent moments.
Boundless depth in a singularity.

To see through the eyes of a dead man,
In a moment long past,
Forget the small,
Happy,
Tranquil,
Streams.
Waves career from the bigger ones,
Crashing into my small boat.

To be cast from the hull
And sink in the singularity,
Be consumed,
Drown.

A moment doesn’t pass,
It clings,
Accumulates.
Swipe at the water,
Seeping in,
Try and throw it out,
Before another wave…

The time we spent
Continues to consume,
It swells,
And dwells
In the foreground,
Always.
Time does not pass by,
It is here,
Screaming,
Just as it always has been,
Growing.
Haunting.

I don’t think that I can bare
To accumulate anymore of our time.
My lungs are full,
I have choked on the untameable mass of the lamenting sea.
Fawn and Sukanya Sinha Roy wrote a couple of beautiful pieces concerning time. I felt inspired. It is a bit rushed, but I don't mind so much.
Ackerrman Aug 2019
I am wearing a ***** shirt,
It is crumpled and twice worn before
On days when laughter echoed the halls
Of aorta and vena cava,
But the sound curdled and went stale
As entropy ran through veins,
As my name rang in your ear,
The animosity grew in your cold stare.


I am wearing odd socks.
I haven’t found a partner,
Nor do I understand the use
Of matching two things the same.
If I were in love with the mirror
Then I should just wear one sock,
Let my sock’s noose sink into my supple skin
And slowly cut my ankle.


I haven’t washed my tie
In the entire time I have owned it,
Or the time it has owned me,
I feel the ***** cotton, wrapped
Tight around my neck-
Binding my words,
Suffocating my suffixes,
And the most heavenly of words have bruises…


The whitest of silken beds,
Was marred with blood
Before it was clad in armour,
Now nothing can harm her.


Nothing gets in..


The covers are not warm
And nobody sleeps there.


Less of a bed now,
Thinks defensively, now.
The colour begins to fade.


Ethereal façade


I don’t leave my door open anymore,
Darkness crept in
And I don’t dare let it out.
I have grown fond of the colour,
Or lack of it.
Personal pronouns-
The more I use the word ‘I’,
The less fond I become of it.
"Everything's going so fast, it's all in such high gear. Sometimes it doesn't feel like me. It's as if none of it really happened. As if nothing were real anymore"
Aug 2019 · 116
Fire Flakes
Ackerrman Aug 2019
Should I compare thee to a summer’s day?
So many of my favourite days sway
To dismal states of entropy – deepest
Haze, I float like a red bloated carcass.
Fire burned this skin, curdles- shudders at warmth,
Keep in the shade; degenerate up north,
Spark a conversation- spark elation,
Medusa- overwhelming sensation.
Modest and calm countenance- Athena.
Fierce, warrior clad spirit- Dianna.
Sweet, elegant ethos glides on the wind,
One last nice thought before I am skinned.
Raining down in swarms of crimson raging
Flares- burn permafrost like Hades- Hell- fire.
I have found forming new relationships difficult the past couple of years.
Ackerrman Aug 2019
I still look for you in every room I enter.

I have found myself
Perpetually disappointed.
But only once
Did I find you,
To which I found, myself, reluctant
To talk.

You are still in every room I enter.

The kitchen counter,
The comfy sofa,
My still ruffled and unwashed bed cover.
Like a hammer
Struck to the forefront of my mind,

You are the thing I look for but never hope to find.
A year and I still look at every face I pass and scope every room I enter.
Aug 2019 · 212
Old Wrath
Ackerrman Aug 2019
Wrinkled. Dry faced. Charging down old stairs.
Not what I expected, but I lunged my frantic knife.
Wild eyes turn to wells as aged bright stars stare back.
Heart shattered visage glides, bumbling. Mirage.


Please go do some gardening. Your flowers are
Sick without you. I miss you. Dream spoilt. Crooked,
Half-hearted, direful springs sprout poison youth.
Seedlings blight your wrathful name as petals grow…


The flowers you grew colourless now bloom bright.
They miss grey! True blue is cold- burdened purple.
Feel the life drink backward, clutching an endless
Night you downed tools without final reconcile
Or friend blinded from drugs.
Now staring beyond a time-stained bitter fire,
Burnt images caught and ****** through empty dark
Tortured fear-stricken blood wincing agony- ****.


Fate lamenting, sharply-flashing, tortured picture,
Lying motionless. Bleeding internally.
My Grandfather died a couple of years ago. I had been living with him for a while. He died in his sleep and I left him covered in his own blood and ***** for 3 days. I didn't mean to. I had convinced myself he had the flu and had convinced myself that every little change in the apparel of the house was proof he had been out of his room. Until the stench broke through the filter...
Ackerrman Aug 2019
I dive left before heading right, more times than I care to admit,
Each time I turn right and am not confronted, it feels like rejection,
A small death of little consequence for the life that could have been
So sweet, so superficial, a mini life grew- as I read your bio,
To be dashed in another instant of silence,
I have a tendency to rush into things without much guidance.

Your voice is sweet and smooth- to read,
Imagine a personality that fits- perfectly in the palm of my hand,
Conveyed in small white messages, poked through smaller holes,
Each one I read makes me feel a little brighter inside,
But each little light catches fire and dies, I must confide
That each one I read makes me feel alive.

But only for the moment, so I conduct another,
Small parcel containing another little piece of my soul,
“If you can feel your soul slowly, slipping away, that means that you still have one”
That is a phrase that will lead you to defeat before you have begun,
It leads to me giving away much less than I can afford,
These ‘one for one’ serotonin boosts are leaving me bored…

So maybe we could meet, go get something to eat,
I am sure that I won’t be bored by your topic of conversation,
Or at least I will try and make it look that way,
Because the cold reality is that we have nothing in common,
Except for a lack of self-esteem and an overestimation of our-
Social skills, next to non-existent,
I am perpetually distant!

I am sure that you were terrifically disappointed with last night
Because your messages are written on withered pieces of paper,
A full stop is the most definite thing that there is,
Subtle undertones have a pulse and it beats,
Black blood to and from a dying heart,
I should have known that you were poison, right from the start.
My bleak outlook on dating is definitely why I don't get many second dates :)
Aug 2019 · 288
I once caught a sparrow
Ackerrman Aug 2019
I once caught a sparrow, small and black, its wings shivered as I took it in,
Fed the poor little thing, stroked its breast and listened for a heartbeat,
There it was, small but strong, its pulse erratic. Scared creature,
After the day, it had recovered and was ready to fly away, as it was born to do
So, I broke my sparrow’s wings.

Now my sparrow sits in its box, its heart is small and strong,
But I don’t let it out to see the light of day for too long,
I love my sparrow, I look at it night and day,
My warm embrace, from time to time, reminds the thing that it’s mine,
I keep my sparrow in the dark

Today, my sparrow was looking as effervescent and as strong as ever,
It hopped with pride and glee and looked so lovingly at me,
So, I took it out of its box and placed it by the open window,
The wild-eyed adoration of Raa was in its eyes as it peeped at freedom,
So, I broke my sparrows wings.

My sparrow is looking a little tired and upset,
I placed it in the box without a friend or a strand of hope to live on,
I told my sparrow that I love it and that it is special,
And it believes that I love it as it loves me, but I only like it because it is black.
I keep my sparrow in the dark.
I am not sure if I am the sparrow or the tyrant...
Ackerrman Aug 2019
I guess it is a relief to see you
Again, my old friend. Cloaked, your head of blue,
You wander among the graves like fireflies,
Absolute darkness, jittering night skies.  
It never seems to fail to startle my
Child-like sensation of life passing by.
Orderly rows, rigid cartridge paper,
Ink and tax reports, functions to cater.
Misanthropic, naïve, idealistic
Degenerative and narcissistic,
Paranoid, poisonous, parasitic
Fear giver. Fear receiver. Entropic
Skeleton, dancing in caustic acid,
Looking on. A quiet, forlorn Aphid.
as i walk through the valley of the shadow of death
Aug 2019 · 296
The dying embers
Ackerrman Aug 2019
It breaks my heart to hear myself talk so distantly,
Of trivial and jovial and boyish nonsense.
It breaks my heart to hear you talk so rapturously,
Of desire and passion-lusting, covetous and obsessive ***.
We both know that we talk in safe houses
To avoid the abrasive fact.
We are avoiding talking of love;
That would break our heart.
One of the last conversations a dead man once had
Aug 2019 · 358
Red
Ackerrman Aug 2019
Red
Red. Blue. Green balloons skip from hand to air.
Their buoyance pulling taught on string without a care
For cutting of birthday cake or pink frosty icing melting
In the sun, party plates pass from Nanna to Papa.
The sleek magic man pulls another trick, waves his hands and ‘ta-da’.

The birthday boy sits unblinking,
Whilst those around make merry clinking,
Stupor with drinking.
Unmoved in his party of one.

Pink candy, fluffy pillows, sugar spun round like may pole in June
Sun, gliding through shrouds of baby blue glue on the day when somebody loved you,
The faded scent of burning popcorn scars memory.
Faint, old, warm voices rise in chorus of lukewarm water, embrace the scene
As children in play, chase white rabbits through hedges all summer day.

The birthday boy sits with guard folded,
and his mind is moulded,
his memory of play is shrouded,
thoughts making merry grounded,
unmoved in his party of one.

Sweet, suckling, pig aroma, dancing through the air and making merry
all the guests, with hustle and bustle, meeting and greeting with every
burst of laughter, rising and drowning in the air like Ariel,
Enchantress of Garden chairs, thin napkins caped in Tomato,
Children bounce around on castles, kings clinging to memories of tomorrow

The birthday boy sits far away,
Where his thoughts are free to flay,
All memory of that savage day,
Where innocence and virtue lay,
Unmoved in his party of one,

Ice cream Sundaes glitter as diamonds, yawning and smiling
As cream floats down the exquisite vase in timing
To lecherous looks promising requiem to appetite,
A chorus of laughter fills the air with, pop- another bottle,
Warm embrace of familiar friends, we smile soft as a bubble…

The birthday boy,
with stern and solemn stare,
Dares not cut the air,
Or insist on what is fair,
But sits to fester in the sun’s cold glare,
Looking like he does not care,
Unmoved in his party of one.

Sun flakes leaping over my neighbour’s
Stubbly white palace, beams trickle round its walls in party favours,
Death lightning blinding, level-climbing, stupor rising, smiling clowns,
Gracefully rummage through pockets for silver-shining keys,
Embraces kind faces with kinder eyes and another cherished memory leaves.

The birthday boy sat silent as the grave,
His parents want him to behave,
No boy like fancies left to save,
Stooped low in his plastic cave,
Ruing the knife that thought him brave.
Unmoved in his party of one.
One day a character from a book i am writing decided she wanted write a poem about her little brother.
Aug 2019 · 292
Juniper Berries
Ackerrman Aug 2019
I am anxious to look or to caress
A beautiful, blooming, illustrious
*****. Vibrant; sumptuous red flower,
I would steal your time if just for an hour.
I swing between clovers, petals shelter
Forever. Woodlands help her. Athena:
Towering stature- plethora- no measure.
Tiny spots, flicking hair, untamed treasure.
Beneath inconsequential ethereal
Is something smaller, a single blue thrill-
Charging through empty halls at solid walls.
But the Devil smiles when an Angel falls.
This was something I wrote for a woman. I never gave it to her. Timing was always wrong.
Aug 2019 · 271
Lake Windermere
Ackerrman Aug 2019
In case you forget,
In all your darkest moments,
Warmth,
Sunshine dancing petulantly on the water.
I would like to share the majesty-
Windermere.

Endless lawns of forlorn, scraggly grass
Stretches and etches hills into life.
Formed from the hand of an artist,
Stroking the countenance
And beaming beauty into its many folds,

Little hovels of black, vert and emerald
Hide like mice and voles,
Shivering in the sanctity
And uncertain security
That the upside-down mounds afford.

The lane is a wash of blue,
Smiling delicately at a distance
Flowing as it waves,
Languid and gay,
Comfortable in it's age.

Island.
But one tree,
Standing helplessly,
Hopelessly, out of place.
Feeling content, in its lovely face.

Even the sky agrees,
For there is no quarrel
Between it and the translucent, ethereal colours
Flooding the canvas.
What is the work of man compared to God?

And how much more beautiful it is than anything I have seen
A poem I wrote in the lake district
Jul 2019 · 704
Maze Mouse
Ackerrman Jul 2019
The first time
I lost my mind,
The world seemed a destitute place.

The first time
I took it by force.
Left to fend with fiends

Furrowing through time,
Clawing at the day,
Dragging myself against the pull.

Life,
The introduction to
Something dark and true.

The second time!
I could stand no more
Of what I found before

Did not mean to come back,
Sometimes I think I didn’t,
Mulling in a mood grey and grave

The blue sky,
Once bubbly
Now looks blander

Circle of red.
Head of lead.
Lying in my bed.

The third
barely touched
Just scraped at chalk.

After that, I went away…
Opted out.
Nothing mattered.

There I sat in limbo.
Soured.
Dissasociated

Like an old car,
I sputtered,
Bore sitting and rusting.

Consumed.
Floating
Dead-eyed.

And how I laugh,
To say
That I am less

How I laugh-
To say that I am dying
To think that I am sloth

Sloth?
I am greed.
I am pride.

I am failure,
I am afraid-
Of everything.

I died some time ago,
Left company
Alone

So now I am back in the game.
And enigmatic.
Do I scare you?

Because I should.
I am terrifying
And cant be intimidated

I do not fear death,
I do not fear reprobation
But honestly?

I scare my self
And I am afraid of you too,
Fear is my super power.

Depression is my identity,
Something personal to me,
So-

So Welcome death,
Welcome fear!
Welcome Might.

You can’t comprehend me,
What it is to be free,
You have never died

Never writhed,
In fire,
You circuit.

I shan’t come out tonight,
Or any other
Night

But stand afront,
With twisted mind, bald and blunt
And I shall eat you…

That look-
Look down
Disgust

Divert your eyes,
But stand in my way,
And I shall eat you

Your eyes-
Coal,
Fresh grass

Red light
Yellow filter
Green eyes

Pain defies
Lies
Anguish flies

Panic stricken,
Anxiety driven
Rapture.

Quick- Look down now,
Holding back the wrath of Jessu,
This mouse will ******* eat you!
I like Sylvia Plath. This is my Lady Lazarus.

— The End —