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C J Baxter Oct 2015
I asked the bar man for a pint of patience.
He said I'd have to wait in line.
So I waited till he wisnae facing,
and then I bumped two bottles of wine.
C J Baxter May 2015
Blood soaked barrels roll down the cragged hills
Gathering speed and flattening all life  
in their path, until they run into the mouth of the sea.
And though you might hear their desperation  
shrieking madly across the sunburst sky,
do not pay it any mind.  Close your eyes;
and drift away in the thistles of Summer.
C J Baxter Dec 2016
Oh, the wave of insincere condolence
that drowns the tragedy of a heroes true legacy.
Why don’t you play a record and stop your whining?
Why don’t you read rather than reach for the tissues
to wipe your forced, phoney tears?
You’re not fooling me. You haven’t even fooled yourselves.
Did parading your opinion like a ****** with his **** out
really gratify your ego as much as you hoped,
or did it just show you to be more full of **** than
a politician stuffed full of laxative with a sewn shut *******?
But what do I know?
I’m the kind of guy that writes about you.
C J Baxter May 2016
There’s a bench in the park across from my house. It sits atop a spiralling path on a hill, and it oversees everything. I would sit there every night watching the bevy of swans take flight at one end of the pound just to come swooping down at the other. Their take off’s just like planes: momentum is gathered until that vital second when they lift, and I would almost feel the sensation in my stomach as they did so. Such beautiful creatures. It baffles me how someone has a claim to them: “ They are mine. All mine”, she says without saying.

One night, with nothing but the moon lit reflecting off the ripples of the pond, I sat there watching the swans. A group of young men dressed in a deathly black appeared, moving swiftly to the pond. I watched them split up and try and round the swans up like they were sheep. They struggled at first, but eventually they grabbed one and bagged it.

I guess that’s the problem with ownership.
C J Baxter Jul 2015
The patient clock sits ticking on the wall.
I half expect him to wink and then fall
onto the ground and expose his illusion:
his time stays still, its the object that does the movin’.
But he winks, and stays just where is.

I hear ticking as I’m followed down the road.
Surely that can’t be from my abode?
Surely it’s just an episode, a trick of mind?
A confidence trickster sneaking up behind?
Someone to make me doubt my sense

Or a glitch in time in a world ill designed?
C J Baxter Apr 2015
A crawling blue veined nightmare
drags itself through the hole in my head;
drooling, *******, and vomiting.
It's nails dig deep, and peirce through my mind
like the screech of'a rusting train,
grinding itself to a halt that never comes.  
I can taste his filth upon my own tongue,
as the air of regret starts to fill these lungs.

Nested, now, behind my ever open eyes,
he and his filth pile up and clutter my sight.
I blink and I turn blind,  
as sleep wakes him into white and a blinding light.
C J Baxter Mar 2016
To no-where I go in the nothing I feel,
Spinning like an old coin or a wayward wheel.
I tumble as I twist, throwing myself on
through the falling mist of the new red dawn.
Battered as I bounce, I trip on with zeal;
Spiralling, Spiralling, Spiralling on,
till I’m spiralled from anything I thought to be real.  
Till concrete crumbles and the green grass is gone.

Here, I stand, in those bizarre acres of mine.
Where geometry fails in the plans I design.
Where math melts like memories of my boyhood,
and the laws of motion ******* to be understood.
Come falling upwards, plummeting to the sunshine.  
We’ll swing and we’ll sway on the old wise wood
of trees that hang from the skies like a shrine
to nature in reverse, and truths in falsehood.
C J Baxter Oct 2014
The last bark scares off the little kitties.
The full picture broke into little bitties’.
The horizon fell and crashed upon the cities.
The best friend of man is tired oh his cliche.
But feed him man does. Need him man does.
Him needs mans love. Man’s love needs him.
For he is without  sin while we try play to to win.
We are flawed, He is pawed and simple in step.
Oh the past! Is it tense?
Does the last laugh hold suspense.
Does the fat lady return home once she has sang above us?  
Push came and shoved us. God came down from above us.
But the dog lay still, breath soon did escape, never to return.  
I wonder if amongst this silly feeling I have a lesson to learn.
CJ Baxter re-imagined
C J Baxter Dec 2014
I took my devils out and broke
their hearts. Took them out for
dinner and watched them starve

Feast on your beasts.
Feast on your beasts.
Feast on your beasts

Till deaths done its part and parted us.

Torn apart at the shoulders, rolled heads
like boulders. Hold her head till the end
                   till its breathless and colder.

The last devil sat down with me civil
and said that she was fasting anyway.
So I ate my dinner- she watched, then paid.  

Feast on your beasts.
Feast on your beasts.
Feast on your beasts.
A Love Song For Four Mischievous Little Elves
C J Baxter May 2015
"Hope's a balloon, hope's a balloon.
Pop it ya bastart's and let it fall soon.
To wait is to worry where it will land,
so put the power in that old right hand,
and pop it before the rise of the moon. "

As I watched the cluttered sky above me, moving with the murmur of a waiting room, I couldn't help but feel sorry for those quiet little hopes; Everyone walks around with their neck bent, staring at the sky unable to see the stars, and only able to feel the moon. And they never stop to look around either.  Seems a wee bit sad t'me.
C J Baxter Jan 2015
Here stands the ghost of a hopeless man;
he’s got scratches on his neck and blood on his hands,
and eyes that cry ten different commands.
He says "as the rose grows it causes problems with romance”,
and yet he stands before me with a bouquet in his hands,
and I say “ Why do you pick them apart?
                        He says “ because I can”.

Forget your love me’s and your love me nots,
I’ll leave you to rot. Remove your mind from it shop.
Im telling you stop.
C J Baxter Sep 2014
It's hypocrisy to preach democracy
When you know it's not at work.
Aristocracy is nothing but a mockery
Of the real leaders who lurk
In the dark and write in the shadows.
Because once they barked and they were straight to the gallows.  

Now people don't know what to think,
Or even how to on their own.
Do you know how the worlds now a sink,
And money our water? Well check your phone.
I'm honestly ashamed that I am too a clone
Of this breed of dumb that allows influence to be overgrown
And split amongst a few.
But if we wash ourselves away, maybe we can start a new.  

Down the sink, down the drain.
We'll laugh at the day and dance in the rain.
We'll forget the night before and the stain
It left. Oh the hours we'll gain
When we flush all this away and seize the new day.
Their clock will be ours and our hour it will be to reign.
C J Baxter Oct 2016
Benzo, blur my mornings and bury my feelings.
Beat down my misery and banish my ecstasy.
Steal my sweetness and turn my stillness sour.
Spit out a new me, and the old me, devour.
You stick in my throat like a longing to say
something I had too soon, too easily forgotten.
Trapped and helpless at the tip of my tongue
is each little thought and each one turns rotten.
Now all my worries wash grey and bore me asleep,
as time stops his march and slows to a creep
that claws through my head, and the worries unsaid
are left to fester in a foul and filthy old heap.  
Though they may reek like flesh on a dying fire,
I could take them or leave them just where they are.
I have no heat, no bold and burning desire
to do anything but nothing, and, so, to nothing I retire.  
Leave me be beeping alarm that screams like a maniac
so desperate to jump to his next brewing thought.
Leave me be roaring traffic, so equally manic,
leave me here in my head to lose this loose plot.
Medication. The third day without meds
C J Baxter Jul 2014
How many men make or brake the barriers?
How many more move forward as the carriers
of the message? The presage of the black dark future.
When society is wounded who'll be dressing the sutures?  

Those in suits blur truth across the canvas,
Then paint over it with blood from the youth and the savages.
Ravaging for innocent civilians, to apply the bandages.
While the man in the suit counts the loot as he micro manages.

Feed them Faceless,  Tasteless  food for thought.
Get them Pacing laceless- racing to be caught
red handed, then remanded in custody to rot
in a cell, dwelling on how poorly they fought.  

Not to quick to mention their desire for redemption.
The lesson is learned until it's consumed your whole attention
span, quick make a plan- confessing that you're a bad man
Don't change the fact that you were sweating as you ran man.

Who's this man? Who's lurking in the shadows?
The search narrows- he's found hanging from the gallows.  
This harrows the whole world for a whirlwind minute.
Until the media man has had enough chance to spin it.

"He was a reprehensible, dispensable shell of  human.
His soul had creeped out after years of consuming
peoples fears, then blaring it back into their ears.
He was mole for manics, spreading panic to the assuming"
Fight The Power
C J Baxter Aug 2014
Stories boot' boots an' ants
over beats of boots and cats.
The social rants dinnae' stop
till the cats oan the mat, wagging
his tail at the horrendous chat.
C J Baxter Mar 2017
Lip-syncing hymns in the front row of a funeral.

Appearances are key.

Pinch nose for tears as the sighs swell and fill the room.

Appearances are key.

Lift your glass to the lost and try and mask your jealousy.

Appearances are key.

Say something that sounds from the heart but's really from a card.

Appearances are key
C J Baxter Aug 2015
Come to the place where we bury strangers.
We hang them up to dry til' their rotten,
turned mad, and all sides of themselves forgotten;
then we drink their blood, despite the dangers.
Then, and only then do we sing them to sleep:
such disharmony blaring down their ears on repeat.
The will to give up soon starts to creep,
and we listen for the last breath and the last heart beat.

Come to the place where we bury strangers-
I know that your at least little tempted.
But many have failed when they have attempted
to hold on to their heads in these chambers.
We can and we will sing you sickly to sleep:
such disharmony blaring down your ears on repeat.
The will to give up soon starts to creep,
and we listen for your last breath and your last heart beat.

We were crazy before you could catch it.
We walk in green mazes with boxes of matches.
We bury bodies and we've buried a few hatchets.
We were crazy before you could catch it.

So come to the place where we like to go.
I think you'll find us to be easy in nature.  
We do not pass judgement on any creature,
nor do we kick someone when their down and low.
We just drink a little blood and bury a few strangers.
A poem about making friends
C J Baxter Jul 2014
The two takers took to the start, their heads grew
with  the fumes and they thought themselves smart.
But She was harmless, too  heartless and headless to start with,
soon one was consumed and then thereafter parted.
Your Patience is a waste of your time
he kept reminding her, but it was fine to draw lines
as long as they weren't defining her. “ cut a couple
more, the floors couldn't be shinier. And do us a dance  
its my man’s first time here.”  

“I wanna make a show out of this”, “ a sick game”,
A fowl minded sin for men that know no shame.
the praying sick side of a man that cant be tamed.  
“After all she’s mine, only my mind can be blamed. “

I drew the lines a week ago today: It’s “hideous” and  
riddled some will even try and say of it
But My mind seems to sway very little on this day.
And I wont apologies for how he likes to play.

these straight lines will leave you mindless.
They’ll wind you up on the other side of kindness,
one too many times to wanna find it.
C J Baxter Sep 2014
Our arrogance deceives us.
It blinds us in our walk.
Those poor souls believed us.
They recite us as we talk.

The circles are in motion,
The potions all been taken.
The purpose wasn't spoken
It was entirely mistaken.

Misinterpreted; lovers hating
love like it was over stating
itself. And harvested wealth
like it was the only thing
more important than health.

We are broken.
Our arrogance deceives us.
We are not chosen.
Why did they believe us?
Self-righteousness. Arrogance. Lies. Power-tripping
C J Baxter Jan 2016
Little china baby cracks in my grasp.
Eyes bulge as her beauty brakes
off into little pieces falling softer than rain.
Sweetly striking the floor, they brake off
into more
But still she stares in soft defiance.
Her harmlessness cuts right through me.
It curdles as I swallow it. It swells
in my stomach until all I can do
is throw her down and watch her smash.

But now she’s a thousand times more:
An army of broken beauty
that I can’t seem to bare to see.
So I gather every single last bit of her.
She cuts my hands as I pick her up.
I lay her out on the table
and try and make her whole again.
But of course I fail, I always do.
I guess I was never enough to hold
her close without breaking us both.
C J Baxter Mar 2015
The sleeping pill awoke,
     walked up the stairs
     and down my throat.
     From my stomach it spoke:

    " Sleep's the lie that wakes you.
   The Lord can & will soon take you. "
C J Baxter Oct 2015
Under a tree atop a hill
we sat and gubbed a pill.
We split it down the middle
and sat drowning in the sun.
A pure bond, a cheap thrill,
we lifted weights by the ton.
Our chests empty, but love did fill
them and sent our minds on a run.
Summer climbed up our noses,
the sun shifted into many poses,
the red screamed out from the roses
until the day was done.
C J Baxter May 2015
It’s a celebration!
Balloons drift in the sky
with the quiet murmur
of a doctors wait room.  
Bent necks and fixed staring
eyes follow them faithfully.
It’s a celebration!
The skies completely cluttered.
It’s a celebration!

The over-kept yellow grass
itches my nose with change;
A new beginning? An end?
Or just an idea that'll deflate?
Without the skies distraction
We're free to tend our gardens,
To celebrate worldly wins,
and love our languishing mother.
"Here's to you Mother! ":

The last words the sky did mutter.
C J Baxter Oct 2014
With blood we ran through the city like a river/
The givers gave out and stared madly with a shiver.
" You can take your time... So take it"
screamed the clock, so I had to brake it.
The glass pierced the skin, my knuckles began
to bleed and joined with the river as it ran.

The plan was not to have one. To be a man.
To be good, or thought of highly. But the
blood keeps running on by me / I know
in this I''l drown. Spiral down to the underworld.
To be hurled by the winds of punishment for
my lustful, spiteful, vengeful acts of selfishness.

No doubt theres bigger fish to fry,
but I'll be burning along side them.
In truth I only ever told a lie.
So il wait here until the tide comes.
C J Baxter Aug 2014
It alway's starts with an ending.
A death. An explosion. A whimper.
Sending those into the sense of Impending
doom, as the fear of the future looms.
Descending further from understanding
We unravel as we are tangling
Up in the spinning world- to fast
to to just stay standing. We run
Knowing that it ended as it begun.
Handling our own- Two hands, one gun.

You see I'd rather bite the bullet.
than loose it or fire blindly. Aiming
neither at the mother or the egg- but the pullet.  
Standing behind me is my shadow-
He holds the gun steady- his aim narrows
And foolish he fires inside me.  
He's devilish in nature
But his intentions are pure and holy.
A strikingly dark creature
Who insists the world persists slowly.

He told me we all run fast when we're scared.
It's those who can keep the pace,
Even when the are not dared, that deserve honour,
recognition and maybe even fame.
But it' those same people who- when it ends-
Will take the blame.
Sometimes you're mind wanders off when you think about the earth spinning.
C J Baxter Dec 2014
A rotten little written thought walks across and of my page before my eyes. As I am speaking to you now he walks with a whispering little shadow that mistakes his place and purpose,a cold and cowardly projection of words. But this is what I throw at you each and everyday- I throw the better half of my head, I throw my tongue, my lungs and my every hope and hate filled accusation. I toss begging questions until I’m tired of having to answer them on my own.
I am finding it a lot harder not to be alone.
It’s interesting to see what your head looks like when its spilled out across a hollow blue light- a cold computer’s stare. I do not wield a pen, my thoughts don't talk in ink. They remain in the memory of a busy little computer. They sit their among music and photographs and videos of friends, yet exist without them and unable to interact. They dwell alone until they turn rotten and walk up and off their page.  
I apologise if sometimes they offend or intrude, or if sometimes they take things without asking permission and lie about it afterwards, but they are only just finding their way so please show some compassion whenever your paths cross.
Thoughts walk off and away til' the morrow 'comes the day
C J Baxter Jul 2015
Some people robbed a bank
and had to serve twelve years.
Some banks robbed the people,
and were forgiven after tears:
“ I am ashamed. I am ashamed.
  Isn’t that punishment enough?”
The law forgave, forgot and then blamed
those who were living harshly, cold and rough.
C J Baxter Oct 2016
You stick in my throat like something I long to say
and send a sickness sinking through me.

Then I gulp, gargle and rinse you down
my gullet like I used to do with my carrots.  

With nothing you fill me so full I could burst.
But nothing ever happens; nothing at all.

Colours drain from everything around me
as If they’ve gotten bored of trying.

Night turns in, morning falls back asleep,
and each moment moans like a teenager.  

But I still remember her perfume,
though it’s fading like a car over the hill.

I still remember the backcourts
when boredom used to bang and bounce a ball.

I still remember the scraped knees,
the first drink, the first joint, the first stolen kiss.

I still remember it all.

The memories jump start me into action.
And then I look at the clock.

And you remind me that it’s too late,
and that we will try again tomorrow.
C J Baxter Jan 2017
Eyes fixed on a flickering screen.
Yesterday’s dinner caking itself to the plate.
Sheets itching to get off the mattress
all while you lay there in your filth.
The air of stale sweat and fast food
no longer itches your nose or nauseates.
Instead, it’s aroma seduces you
into staying here another hour.
Open the window for some air?
No, that would ruin the illusion.
Stay here until there’s nothing else to do;
until the shops are shut and your friends are asleep
and the whole world is sleeping with them.
Stay here until the air runs out
with eyes fixed on a flickering screen.
C J Baxter Jan 2017
An Empty carton is sitting in my fridge.
It’s been lurking there on the shelves edge.
It’s the only thing that is in my fridge.  

There’s a fiver in my wallet, coppers in the couch,
maybe some euros from last year I could exchange.
I could always pawn another guitar, I guess.  

But something always stops me at the door.

So, I’ve been taking my coffee black.

My home has started to whine like a lost pup.
The doors cry open, windows yawn, and the taps sing
as widows drowning their sorrows.

It’s a pathetic harmony of melancholy.
It’s a laughable life if I say so myself;
and I do say so myself and to myself,

and I guess for myself, too.

But, at least, for now, there’s still black coffee.
C J Baxter Apr 2015
We sit, screaming secrets that speed through the highways;and from our finger tips we cry out our hearts. We Spill'm across those highways, till languished love arrives at our recipients doors.  They sit and reply in kind. It’s a whole lot of blood, for such little time.

We’d sent each other fifty messages in five minutes, and, although my heart was typing for me, I felt that every word was worthless. Just like each one of these: I want to talk in ink. I want to wield a pen that men will fear, respect and pay heed to. But, here these words appear from buttons bashed by boredoms fingers; the madness of mind renegade.

I guess the thought doesn't count anymore.
C J Baxter Jul 2015
They dance tae boots n' cats
like ants being crushed by boots:
Squirming, wriggling, writhing
wae jaws scraping the flare.  
They scurry like wee rats
under the ground in cahoots:
snidely sneaking, snitching
under the boots n' cats they blare.

"Boots n cats urr booming doon yer ears.
 Boots n cats huv been oan repeat fur years.
 Boots n cats will perforate yer ears.
 Boots n cats huv been oan repeat fur years"

But then sumday changed the beat:
         It Came in oan the and.

And everyone forgot how tae dance.
C J Baxter Jun 2015
I went down in search of the bottom.
I Burrowed down through the filth of us all,
past blooded money and bodies turned rotten,
and found myself locked, somewhat, in a cell.
A large cell, however, but still without bottom.
They whipped me for years and with years upon years.
Though I never saw their face, I heard their tears
fall never to find a bottom.

Those tears are chaos- from and for nothing.
My pain is chaos- from and for nothing.
I descended down the structure I had been confined,
only to find it was bottomless, unstable and ill designed.
My journey was chaos- from and for nothing.
My punishment chaos- from and for nothing.
Now I burrow to escape deeper into my mind.
To let the constructs come crumbling- to lay flat those living lines.
C J Baxter Nov 2015
Now this is the saddest sight to see:
a man lying face down and sobbing
into the earth, and the earth sobbing too,
as the sky bursts open and weeps along
with them.

And yet here I stand, looking on dry eyed.
C J Baxter Mar 2016
You’re free to talk until someone listens.
You’re free to walk but only in circles.
C J Baxter Aug 2014
Sloppy cotton- rotten rollers rolling Autumn
into Winters bottom.
Forgotten Summer- runners run wearing hats
with bobbles on them.

Gotten tired of talking? I'm walking winter
back into the sea, you see Springs' a knockin'.
And we'll follow him to Summer even if he
thinks we're stalking.

All for two weeks! What a cheek the wee **** has
C J Baxter May 2015
"Lay down upon a couch of your comfort,
and come walking down the stairs;
Come falling, sleeping, through the sunburst
sky, as your feet find themselves without cares.
Lay that little soul out bare, stripped of sense,
and under the scrutiny of my stare.  
Let me see why the now makes your past tense.
And why your head holds your stomach in suspense. “
C J Baxter Aug 2015
Upon a hill with ecstasy within,
the fool sits staring with a mad old grin.
He lets out a sigh of yesterdays trouble,
casts a waving hand out across the rubble,
and thinks to himself of the first hair on his chin;
He was fifteen, and full of fearful dreams,
spending days on end chasing clouds and the beams.
But the cloud never was within his reach,
and it ****** on his time, like he were blood and it a leach.
Now he sits, watching the skies split at their seams,
and laughs at the cloud, who’s now lost his sparkle.
C J Baxter May 2015
Tidal waves of the titanium sea
threaten but never bring the disaster.
They are great statues stuck on the horizon-
mighty monuments of atrocity.
One day I will set out to see their glory-
I’ll walk years upon this old cold sea,
I’ll run if my feet and heart are able,
I’ll trek till my days end if I need to,
And when I finally get there...
I hope the horizon comes crashing down on me.
C J Baxter Jul 2014
Watch them sleeping.
Watch them slowly drift away.
Does it feel like creeping?
Cause you're never there when they awake.

It takes patience to make a replacement
But she erased my face,
and hid the photos in the basement.  

Oh if I was to be real enough.
Oh if I was to be real enough

I'd grab her by the scruff of the neck,
lay her on the deck. And
Go back to protecting her.

Oh If I was to be real enough.
Oh If I was to be real enough.

Not just a ghostly little gasp of air
C J Baxter May 2015
Knowledge is powder running through fingers.
Knowledge is crushed by a card on the table.
Knowledge is stuck in your nose and it lingers;
each sting brings regret, and makes a mind unstable.
“ A little learning is dangerous thing”;  
A little smoke to make a fool feel able
to lick the dust up with the devil and sing:
“ Theres dust on the graves and ashes on the cradles"

Don’t mistake this feeling for true wisdom.
Don’t get caught lost in it’s smokey shroud;
for each thought is fleeting and their relevance is seldom.
Like this drab, mess of language said out loud.  
It’s a sober reflection, a warning to myself,
to tell the truth, and to think thorough and proud.
To shame the devil, not blame him for my health.  
To lift that heavy head that was bent over bowed,

And crack it open on the edge of that table.

Like and hour glass smashed and spilling,
this kind of learning seems a waste of time.  
But I can see the filth that had been filling
my head,  scattered out across each rhyme.
C J Baxter Jul 2017
Flex military muscles from across the water,
And ***** the shining rods of destruction.
We’ll sit amazed with our mouths open.  
You’ll have the world on its knees
With the mere threat of eruption.
We’ll sit amazed with our mouths open;
Half scared, half angry, half-halfheartedly opposing.
I feel like you'd like us to beg.
C J Baxter Jul 2014
Ive got a fool proof plan; play the fools
till we prove that we can.
no one will know quite where to stand
No one will know who's in command.  

They wont expect this from our own hands
its just a whisper.
something you couldn't hear
but you were jealous of the listener.
something they didn't fear,  
they forgot there were prisoners with
questionable marks on their fists, cementing as they blister.  

We broke walls when they stared at the blueprint, never stalling
nor stuttering our movement.
they’ were left chasing to our amusement,
like they were crawling and crippled with confusion.  

then we moved with the wind and its demands,
just a whisper
to every corner of the city
and the pockets of bitter history.
picking the tongues of the witty-
the lost voices and the drifters -
We’ll take the eyes of the pretty,  and the patience of the listeners.
C J Baxter Aug 2015
Yer heads just a bed for others opinions to lay in;
growing bigger, badder and bolder there,
until they’re covered in sores, manky and reeking.
Yer heads just a place for others thoughts to leek in.
But dinnae get disheartened by their chat.
Remember its your head thats dain aw that.
They never said a word, its yer head that ye heard.
C J Baxter Jul 2017
Hunger is a gun to your head.
Can you feel it pressed up against
your temple or is your tummy full?
Do you hear it cocked and ready
Or does your lunch sit happily on
your warm breakfast and cup of tea?  
I think it's high time someone like you
                                    bites the bullet.

You in your fine-tailored, Italian suit.
You in your penthouse apartment,
who leave homes empty here and abroad.
Yes, you.
I know you know someone who knows
someone who grew up in a tenement flat.  
I know you know someone who knows
someone who works with disabled people.
I know you haven't heard any complaints.
But I know you and we have here this gun.
And I know just what we'll do with it
C J Baxter Sep 2014
Drifting minds unwind till they find
Solace in the simplest of thought.
Other minds can drift from time to time
To find reason where reason is not.
C J Baxter Aug 2015
Away wae ye, dinnae bury yer heed.
This time the morra we could aw be deed.
So take the day by the tail and walk him,
and live a life that yer proud tae lead.  

I'm a sky, I'm a seashore, I'm the day drawing dim.
I'm a highway, I'm a mountain, I'm whatever ye need.
C J Baxter Jul 2015
Here are some words.
Some need say more.
No need to say,
Some words need to say more here. Here are some more words to say
Here are some appallingly structured sentences in a row. No sense to be found.
C J Baxter Sep 2014
There’s a place in the corner of my eye that is only for me. It’s cluttered, a real mess, with things piled on top of each other precariously.  As much as I try and ignore it it is always there lurking reminding me of things to do, things I haven’t and things I will never do. And this corner is growing, taking over my sight;

Pretty soon I’ll be blinded by my yesterdays, my fears, my dreams and my love.

But at least one eye will be kept clear and I will try and see clearly through it. Until the yesterdays become today, my fears appear real, my dreams drown and my love succumbs to pettiness- tainted by green.

Without sight I’ll soar through darkness; spinning, twisting and evolving my other senses. Melody will paint my memories to keep me pushing through my plight, Hair pricking soft fingers will flood my head with colours.

But that fowl stench will linger. The cluttered abandoned mess doesn’t rest in its decomposition. It will invade my other senses until my false expectations appear real.
Don't get lost when you lose yourself
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