There is just too much

Too much to feel:

       Eruptions of emotion channel from my core to the surface
        Only to be siphoned off and returned to the callous cauldron
        The magma dashes at my inner walls and
        The wretched pain it causes is tightly sealed away;
        Kept such that no one would suspect…

        No one suspects Mother Nature is alive within
        And she is restless

There is just too much

Too much to think:

      Contemplations accelerate through my mind's eye
        Ideas and reminiscences claw the pupils,
        Each one consumed with self-importance hence
        driven with desperation to tumble through that narrow opening,
        Falling instead into the cauldron
        Wherefore they agitate its contorted contents

There is just too much*

But,
Like a calm ocean,
The surface waves are *gentle
Healthy blue-green water dances to the shore and back
Crisp, salty spray permeates the air
Which invariably caresses the lungs of the living

Like a calm ocean, the surface waves are gentle
Masking the horrors lurking in its murky depths.


                                                       ­                                          -A.M.E.N.

Concentric circles spiral towards me,
And I am engulfed
The darkness screams at me from all directions
Sight is but a fantasy

But sound, sound is my friend.
Echoes of my voice greet me with pictures.
I do not collide with my prison walls,
As I soar through the cylindrical black

And suddenly I am free
The skies welcome me
And clothe me in its gentle blues and greys
The air licks at my face

In my jaws I carry glorious meat
Triumphant I am -
And soon I will be returning
through the tunnel black for more

                                                                                               -A.M.E.N.

I'm over the precipice but I don't fall
Whether by sheer will or providence, Earth doesn't yet greet me - face to face
I'm left to my own devices
I'm in a crisis

The alarms ringing in my skull incapacitate me
The fear is electrifying as my eyes shift downwards
I float briefly in my trance
Wondering shall I meet my demise at the bottom?



        What a mighty bound she takes as she leaps to the skies
        Who told her she could fly?

        The Wish, yes it's attainable
        But what is her sacrifice?

         What foolish thinking
         That she has control over what is not hers
          She will not fly yet

           How pitiful is the untimely realisation of one's futile actions
            Her gaze lowers as fear scampers across her features
             She knows her fate


Regret flies into my face; It's slender beak nips at my curled fingers
And as time awakens, the grace period goes to sleep
My glance quickly returns to whence I came
I feel the unbearable longing for a foundation that will not fail me
But alas time is up; It is about; It will act on today's victim
There is no return

What I thought was tantalizing only just previously
Now feels like a weight in my hand
My mind whirls
I cannot breathe at this height
My grip loosens;



                 Look before you leap, they say
                  Leap and ask questions later, you do
                  Miserable child, no one is up there to answer your questions
                   And when you return down here, you can no longer ask


With trembling fingers The Wish escapes
It feebly flutters to greater heights
Abandoning this doubtful creature being tossed and thrown by the wind

                      My heart weeps for you, child

I close my eyes

                       And I do not envy you your ignorance

I raise my head to the skies

                                  Never again

Never again will I-

                                   Fill your head with such lies

.
.
.
.
.
.
.  
.
.
.
I fall
                                                            ­                                              -A.M.E.N.

My canvas, my art
My pottery to mould
My statue to sculpt
My treasure to hold

Inspiration is welcome
Appreciation offered in return
Glad to make a jewelled vase of this urn

No idea is enough
The shapes seem all wrong
The paint too dull
The song too long

My craft is no longer mine
From whence came this technique?
This form, this approach,
won't produce what I seek

Passionless correction grasps my hand
Once again I remove the sheet from the stand
Once again I place the brush in my hand
Once again I kneel before the furnace to plunge my mess-in-a-pan
Into the blaze which will return me near to the beginning

But not quite at the start

The canvas, now devoid of heart;

Of soul

All mind but

None mine

Tattered and torn; But still amendable with time…



And still, this is my canvas
And yet still, this is my art
A reflection of me; of what's in my heart

Who I am;
Who I want to be
I will design what I want to see


No. I won't put your favourite colour
Of course, I won't include your favourite quote
(With all due respect, Shakespeare is an excellent writer but he won't   fit    here!)
With all due respect, things must change now and it will be done without a vote.



This is now.

                                                                                        -A.M.E.N.