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Her mind has become a tangle of webs.
Her memories fight against each other as she tries to recall her wedding dress.
Words mix and mingle as her grandchildren tell her about their day.
Past and present blur as her loved ones dance beside the lake.
She weeps and she frowns as she realises that she's not well.
She smiles as she bids her daughter farewell.
This is a poem I wrote about dementia.
I remember your feel
And the poetry you speak
I remember the bliss
And the joy in your laugh
I remember the sorrow
And the reality that hit me
When you did
These feelings apply to the weakness of my mind and the negative space in my lungs and heart. How they creep up on my dark and lonely soul will determine the cycle of my mind and the termination of my alter ego. Define me as I would in my darkest dreams. I'll be revived
“if i was an object i would be a sprung board from the floor of a ballet studio
i’d specialise in brushing dreams above themselves
unravelling heartbeats
and the stitching on ballet shoes
once tired
you’d cremate me
but i’d have the history of pine forests in my grain"


the rabbit

   o   l   e
h             h
o             e
l              l
  e   h   o
Bold, striking figure
Piercing, unblinking eyes
Staring across the eternal sea
When Icarus falls
Who can say that
He does not turn his own back
To the fact that
The ploughman’s family
Are shrivelled on a diet
Of failing crops
And that the only two
Imperturbable components
To the serenity of his fallen world
Are the sun and the sea
That wash blue and gold
Over the evidence
Who can say that
Icarus is not so consumed
With the boiling wax upon his shoulders
And the screams in his throat
That he has casually
Failed to realise
That the ploughman on the cliff
Has just as far to fall
Well... Reading 'Musee des Beaux Arts' in school yesterday I began to wonder where I fitted into the picture - whether I was even present, whether I was Icarus or the ploughman or the boat and I felt like I was probably all three...
We live in a world of high speed wreckage, so much so that I fear our youth
Have been desensitized to the sight of death and destruction; It's only a
Few clicks away with our media addiction but, that's not what I'm here to
Talk with you about today. No, I think it's time we take a 3 minute break
Of high-speed mentality, to break free of swift reality if only for a moment.
Speaking of moments, I need everybody to close their eyes for a time. No, seriously, close them.
I want to tell you a story that sight cannot settle, no semblance of reality, for
Some things are meant for eyes, others for ears, still yet others are meant
For the mind. For the soul. Let us sail on a ship of sound, a journey, collectively.
Now sit still, and listen.

So what is it we percieve behind eyelids shut tight? Before we fall asleep at night?
On one hand, it is nothingness; no light to comfort us, such a solemn black.
I guess I can't speak for you but, at times I get sad before I sleep. I think back to
Every promise someone didn't keep, all the words I was too scared to speak; or
the whispers my lovers' lips never returned, like "I love you". In short, I
Was lonely. There is something in the act of cutting off sight that leaves me
With a crippling sensation of isolation. But something tells me I'm not the only one
All-too familiar with this sense of suffocation. Somehow I feel as though this is
Shared not only with you, but with the person sitting next to you, and beside them too.
But, I'm not here to depress you, and so let me share some words I once wrote with you;

Lost souls
Drink ink.
But only wither,
With the weather.
Like roses,
And dead.
But they're beautiful,
You know.

You see, it was a poem I had written around the age of sixteen, and I didn't really get it then but,
"But they're beautiful, you know" was a seed of thought that blossomed in the next few years;
The thought that sometimes the broken things are the most beautiful for they are perfect in the story
That they tell. The story of imperfection; of affection; of sweet affliction; whatever words you
Deem worthy of describing our time here on Earth. Put simply; we are stupid, pointless, silly, exquisite humanity.
Like shattered glass, we can never be what we once were but only arrange ourselves into a magnificent stainglass window,
Allowing the sunlight of our lives to paint a picture of whatever unique self-disciplined blessings we choose to give
And when the sun starts to set, allow me to remind you of this; being along has never hindered the beauty of a sunset over a meadow,
Visible by standing in the treeline on top of a gently rolling hill. And so I dare you, I dare you to live alone, yet married
To the aesthetics of one eye, instead of two. I dare you
to fall in love
with you.

If you haven't already, you can open your eyes now. Our break is coming to a close; soon we'll be back to tweets on twitter
Instead of outside our windows before the sun rises each morning. But after I'm done speaking I hope you can take something with you.
Specifically, the next time you feel like crying yourself to sleep at night; remember this poem. If not in it's entirety, remember just this;
You are stupid, pointless, silly, exquisite humanity and there is not one bone in your body that is not broken or incomparably beautiful.
Know that somewhere I'm out there, hoping that you drift with a smile into sleep.
Hey guys! This is a slam piece I just finished. I plan on performing it at a slam on thursday, so critiques/insights would be REALLY appreciated. Thanks so much!
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