I'll try to create an image of this convex feeling.

It's imperfections on a perfect painting,
Or dull colours in the sky on a beautiful day,
Or roughly shaven, golden stubble, with a part too long.

It's the sound of loneliness in a room full of extroverts,
A fire alarm blaring through a heavy metal concert.

The taste of strepsil.

Can't I decay while I progress? I want to go somewhere, and I know where, I'm helpless, since I know how to help myself, but don't want or need.

Gentle stars stroke the long sky
And soft smells of night tickle the air,
It's peaceful, flawless, quiet; not too dry,
Until my silent voice is still but bare:
Shh, slip your trembling arm in mine,
Press, enfold, and hold my gaze so tight,
Your pretty gaze glints and then it shines;
Your warm, careful, noiseless eyes are bright -
They stare until they burn my heart demure;
The sort that steal my thoughts and sanity
And make my mind naïve; the perfect cure,
Such pearly, pretty, perfect, profanity,
Pretty, pretty ugly,
I don't want
It,
Perfect, perfect *******,
I don't want
It,
Like begging a shooting star
Doesn’t work.
I don’t I don’t want
A salesman selling a smash-
ed car,
I
Don’t,

I do

n’t

Can you hear her?

Is she blonde,
Or a cute brunnete,
Or curvy?
Or slender,
But you wouldnt understand;

She stands tall, though,

She doesn't understand my jokes, hic,

She can't see my love
Until it's perniciously obvious, hic,

Or care until I deeply know,

She deeply knows.

Maybe you can't see,
But, hic,

She wouldn't know if I fantasised about gazing in her eyes.

This isn't the sound of love,
Or pain, or washed up loneliness,
Or chalk being disintegrated across a board of nails.
Have you heard the silence of emptiness,
Well, almost emptiness, not enough not to write a poem.
Not of despair, but of emptiness.
It's easy not to know where to go, but once you have fixed everything,
What happens?
Do you stay, or go, or dissociate.
The choice is yours.

Why pity the fool
when he is free from thought?
Because he tried to look cool by writing a 3 line poem.

Life is catching up.

All those suppressed problems are
Bleeding into reality
So they can't be hidden anymore.

Force boiling water onto your head
And acknowledge change
Without altering yourself

It is hard, that's agreed,

Walking away is easier because
It's like you are revving
And your paint is being scratched off with a key.

I know you'll drive into a wall again,

Wanting everything hard to get, but
Come on, at least try to accept for now.
But don't melt into anyone's viewpoint too easily because

Perspective is corrupt.

Even the brightest of people
Could deface the most beautiful words
If they had just ****** themselves laughing -

It depends where you look.
But for sure, wherever you are
If you look behi-

Life is catching up.

And when it does, you'll  be

Slapped
By the absurdity of reality
And you might understand it.

The icy river glides away,
In it, scattered, glints the sun,
Trickling out of a mountain,
Enveloping it all in a piercing yellow.

Yet it is serene;
No birds or music,
Just a glazing chill
Tickled by golden heat.

A time ago it was stronger,
Warmth filled the rushing river as if it were a spring,
Overwhelming yet not boiled nor burned,
A perfect, sleepy, tender mist.

But then, it decayed,
First mild, then to an acrid, consuming, cold,
Through which no ray could cut, until
The glimmering sun distracted the frosty river into serenity.

Now, perhaps, as the sun is eaten by the riviera,
As it stretches in passionate, auburn glory over the winding body,
The glistening surface might trick the unmelted ice.
But that's all, nothing changed. For this sun, it's time for goodbye.

This night, as glimmering fades to twinkling,
The river does not sleep. There's hope that
The chill will fade, feeling will return.
And as a new glow sprays the sky,
The icy surface shines as he weeps.

Today I have some hope.
I hope it lasts
Past the careful tiredness of interaction,
To the investment you can hear in her voice
And feel in her form,

I hope that she hopes too,
But beyond a lustful desire,
Or lies I'll tell myself,

Though it feels refined,
Convex with experience,
It makes me giddy in anticipation,

The perfect balance between wanting
A tentative balance,
Or flowering anew.

Sometimes I forget
I can do this;
Memories last,
The emotions curate,
From depths of dashed
Hope, it feels invisible.

Sometimes I forget
The real level
Is unholily watching me above the clouds,
While I swim in a mild, synthetic sea.

I'll wait tentatively,
But not really;
I hope I don't.

Watery words
Flow across your ear,
Can you bear to hear,
Something you feel but can't see,
If you love enough.

This palace of psychology can't tell
If it's being carved from the inside.

Soon there will be serenity, I fantasise,
While plodding along uniformly along a turbulent path,
But if a bump is too big, what should I do?
I'm not in the state to buffer in transit.

Am I walking as though I'm in the place I hope to be?
Though if I were there, I would know how to get there;
I'd be experienced in traversing this changing climate.
But I've experienced a lot, so what exaggerates my response?

Is it delusion? It's hard to tell sometimes; my desires gets ever closer.
Perhaps its a logical error; correctness is often relative in such matters.
My surroundings must contribute, but shouldn't.
Or maybe it's simply habit? Addiction?

But as time proceeds, everything becomes more convex;
Views layer on each other, with the fundamentals out of sight.
Other's views can help or, more often, obscure further.
Though still, every so often, I understand and see a little more.

Every day is winter,
Cold, but inside its warm.

I like sitting by my fireplace,
It's tucked away where nobody else can see.

Sometimes it burns.

Do you hear the sound of all these poems,
Of heartbroken girls,
Of pained, tormented men,
That love or hate their swollen, melancholic voices.

Can you hear words, too many words that mean the same thing,
Again and again, ricocheting a message,
In person, singing the same song that everyone sings,
Or even carefully thought out words that ring to everyone who wrote it too.

Ingenuity is precious but so subjective,
But equally subjective to everyone,
Clarity sounds nice.

It sometimes hurts to think of everything at once,
So that when it comes out it is so simple.

Ingenuity can exist with clarity, but rarely does.

Thousands lie in rows, for years,
Brewing with impressionistic tastes,
Making their debuts all the time,

Or are they clinking and rolling out, until
A poster is discoloured down the range, or
Someone's back painted red.

But in honesty, I don't get what you mean here.

Because while
It's true I'm ageing a little slow for my liking,
I'm not sobering up, yet I wasn't drunk to start,
Yes, I'm being a little too selfish,
And I guess I have played paintball before,

You see
I don't seem to need to hit the metaphor,
Or play on words, or wonder,
Any more.

Will I be able to wander as I get older? Either I'll mull myself to senility, or maybe I'll get a hole in my foot.

I'm a bit tipsy on your hair,
Your grey eyes,
Or perhaps the way you play with it, your gaze,

I'm tipsy on life,
I only seem to think straight,
When I'm tip
sy.

Maybe I'll stop so
on, it's rushing to m
y head,

No, wait.

The more I think, the more my head swirls,
Maybe I can keep it together
Long enough.

And then we can run away,
And be tipsy,
On our smiles.

We'll s
ee tomorr
wo.