Trying to smoothen out the edges
On a jagged surface of Jade.
I will cut myself if I am not careful;
This girl is as sharp as a blade!

She's vicious and she's charming,
In the most enchanting way.
If Jade asked, with love, to cut my throat,
With love, I would die today.

The moon, it seems to steal its shine
From the eyes of my sweet Jade.
When I'm with Jade, and day turns to night,
The sunlight appears not to fade.

Mentally beginning anew,
Shower and storms scramble,
A mind, a mess, stuck in the cold of blue,
Writhing in pain without preamble.

A season after the cries of winter,
The tears of petals shed,
Flows hope once more enter
Where a broken heart bleed.

Relief of breath ooze,
As fragile blooms of forgiveness peek,
Through darken days of self abuse,
To nurture the delicate emotional physique,

Healing in time blind,
Pure instinct survives,
An emotional breakdown of the mind.
Until finally, awaken spring arrives.

silence is stronger than hate
silence beautiful sings

hate destroys itself
worms into victims

the worst pandemic
Mankind could face

so sing poets
sing of love sing for us

these hard words

are the only fruit my hard-rocked soiled-soul produces,
my alliterations secrete no beliefs, quench nothing,
the poems I don’t write are my most successful,
the songs that comforted, now find no-entry orifice

skin cold wet clammy sweating unsuitable for tilling,
my horizons natural, felled, underground swallowed,
replaced by the man-made barriers, guardrails of words
leaving body, utterances shoutout, exiting non-permissioned

lurch from one guilt-carrying, black leather-straps wrapped,
round my arm, to the ones strapped around my temple,
honorable acts owed, responsibilities fear foundering
unfulfilled lists, griefs, signs of cowardice, badges shameful

deep sighs, open groans, me mean asking questions of myself,
laughed off, city noises turned off, silences of colorless colden,
the sirens loudest inside reverb endlessly, still give nothing away,
a final exam, an all sided, annual checkup reveals nothing but


these hard words

7:48am 10/15/19

..and often down by the river Lune when I'd bunked off from school and the day passed too soon
I'd hide in the reeds and watch the moon as it rose above
the priory,
why me?
but it was me angling down to the sea marking my route like an old ship when passing the quay,
seeing the stars which looked different every time they shone
and now the memory dissipates and it's gone.

the trick in cherry-picking is to pick the ripe ones, the sweet ones because the taste lasts much longer.