Theres a man who walks around with a hole in his head( right through); You can see whats in front from behind him and whats behind him from in front. Sometimes I follow him so I can see whats up ahead. Funny thing is, he never turns to look as if he's being followed; I always turn and look, more often than not no ones there, but when there is someone there I can feel them, their stare burning into the back of my napper, he just carries on blissful.
One time I tapped his shoulder then darted ahead, that was the first time I'd had a look at what was behind. I stared right down the middle and right on through to the young school girl skipping behind him, then I quickly paced off to avoid arousing suspicion that I was in any way mocking his condition. Anyway, he caught up with me and passed me with a " How'd you do, young man?, to which I nodded nervously, then followed him further through the city.
We reached kelvin bridge, where he stopped about six feet ahead of me and sighed full heartedly, I almost felt the wind come out of him. He turned to me and winked, and then began laughing like a manic would prey, " Ohh ** ** **. Ohh you don't see it! Neither do I?" he either asked our told me, " but it's all ******* there, every last ******* bit: The ******'s carpet, the first time mothers first *** after quitting, the wheeler's turning, the dealers loot, its all ******* there, and its all us that see it". I looked over to see the soft crashes of the river below, the whispering breath of the wind shifting the old tree's around the banks, and thought " What the **** are you talking about?"

The noblest, normal little chap
had eyes of the dawns red rise,
and beliefs like bubble wrap that
would pop to his surprise.  

Cloaked in the mornings mist
he'd speak of the night like it was never to come.
He'd take the hours just to twist them
and hold them under his thumb.

Sucha noble savage, sucha champ!
Such an intriguing little creature.  
Some call him foul, Others a *****,
but to me he is my treasured teacher.

He runs soil through his scarred hands
and talks of the life that he holds.
" This here is my love, my little land,
it can crumble but it never ever folds"

The rush of the first time- just an echo now.
The lush grass withered, dried and caught alight.
As the flames grew we stood round and made a vow;
" Never again shall we do the morning like its night".
Show me clear skies, truth and the only way how.  
I've stood and watched my home burn for spite,
greed and no good deed could ever undo.
Show me clear skies where the sun shines through true.
              The last time's like the first but it quickly turns
to the second, third, fourth, fifth ungodly time.
And once again we're stood hear with burns
as our stomach churns and shatters our spine.
I have no heart to stop myself from stopping
the start of my own bodies natural rotting.

Im a moulded mind,
shaped from junk mail and scam sites.
I’m a point that I can’t seem to find.
Caught between it and an apology,
caught between my natural state and drawn rights.
my poetry doesn’t fit in a ******* box.
Natural flows of emotion. Wankers posting
their unique feelings. Just like everyone else.

Guess what?
I do too. so ******* sue. Then buy yersel a ******* clue.

I thought that you thought that we think the same way.
So I’m thinking, if your thinking is the kind that can sway
to one side, then I’ll go to the other so that we can play.  

Recycled heads atop our thinning frames.
Recycling thoughts of the greats,
but don’t worry-noone remembers their names.
So we’ll shout till we wake them
and then we’ll pass on the blame.
Some will choose to swallow, others
spit when you try and force feed them their fame.

I think that you think that I’ve really overthought this.

I BELIEVE THAT YOU BELIEVE THAT I BELIEVE THAT WE BELIEVE

IN NOTHING

"Today my heads a little cloudy.
I don’t think it will rain though. "

A fog rolls in over my mind in the morning,
and I get lost when I think of anything but nothing.
The cities sharp shouts disrupt me, cutting
through my head as they call out their warning.
The clouds in this conscience turn angry, start storming
as all hell falls from them and the river starts flooding.
The ground shakes, quakes panic me with their thudding.
But at the back of my mind and idea is quietly forming.  
    It bursts through the clouds with sun by it’s side
like fist love beats through a young mans chest.
It fills every darkened corner with a passion that won’t rest.
It conceives hope, and like our mother nurtures pride.
And as the fog lifts my mind is free to quietly wander
through the landscape of our her- to reflect and to quietly ponder.

Such crude and foul filth fills the minds of us,
all of us, no pure, sweet angels exist.
Beneath the surface- all that we ever discuss-
and amidst the house shrouded in mist
Is where thoughts leak out like a cuts soaking pus,
Where wrong bends to right and wrongly persists,
Where woman are stripped and men are whipped,
Where colours are scratched off and blood runs from fists,
Where truth is only true until someone twists
it like a noose for a neck for their unassuming victim.

This is what we live in- A house with a thousand ceilings.
This is why some give in- Above them another man is kneeling.

And when their old ceiling becomes their floor,
they pour pennies down through the cracks
and laugh at those scrambling down below.  
They watch them feel the walls for a door,
making smug remarks at the class each lacks:
“ Not a single painting or books in a row.
How on earth can they expect their riches to grow”.
But its not about how you know it, you know.
It’s not about having any fine things to show.
It’s natural persistence- the breeze and the rivers flow.

To climb the construction in which you have been confined,
is to fall for a foolish notion- a Fugazi another man designed.

I was born in it’s basement, among crowds
and foul, rotten breath. Flesh was scratched
from our backs as we were standing bowed,
they left some shoulders with their heads detached.
But I never fought to the top or leaped,
Never fought back in any fight I was matched.
I crawled, sickly on the splitting wood floor,
in search of what lay behind an old closed door.  
It took a lifetime time for me to find,  
but it lay there wide open with sky falling behind.

Our Mothers beauty lay within our Fathers patient arms,
and I ran to greet them while the house sounded it’s alarms.

His hands did not shake, her sea’s didn't boil.
But that old building now lays deep beneath their soil.