Argh!
Pain and torment overwhelms,
Trying to express saddness,
Is like giving birth to death —
Which has led to denial, distraction and disconnection…

Ohhh!

Stunted grief equals stunted growth?!
But…
Reconnecting equals reclaiming;
Not fast,
But slow —
The slow food movement has infiltrated my grief,
On trend,
Or just on point?!

Have we been sold a lie,
That has kept us from ourselves?

It doesn’t have to make sense.
No pretty bow is needed,
No sugar coating,
No sweetness full stop.

Grief is messy!
And freeing —
And long,
And painful,
And healing,
And sweet.

But it needs working through,
For blossoms to bloom —
New beats to croon,
New tastes to tantilise,
New colours to be canvassed,
New sights to be seen.

Don’t rush, just stroll.
Don’t shrink for others,
But rise up,
Against the machine,
Let anarchy wait,
For new life to be claimed,
In due time…

Step outside the box,
Nothing makes sense as,
This is a new experience,
Made just for this season.
Don’t fight to control,
It’s just for a reason.
Release and let go —

Life gives and life takes,
Those that mean the most -
Burrowed deep within us,
Dwelling close to our hearts -
Clinging to our souls.

Some unexpected,
Some unforeseen -

For it is those losses,
Those weighted losses...
That hurt the most.

Leaving us with gaping holes,
In our chests -
Body aching...

Leaving us with only memories,
Pieces of them that continue on -
Replaying on loop.
Slight nudges to help us remember -

Remember they existed.
Remember they were real.

Those losses.

Those. Weighted. Losses.

Old crippled man, charcoal burnt and ashen,
a thousand days debauchery molded you in this fashion.
Haggard and stiff, you can barely walk across the stage--
no one ever thought that you would make it to this age.
Your girth has expanded (although it’s covered well),
but still your piercing voice summons demons up from hell.
Not as strong as it was once, but eerie just the same,
calling those who’ve followed you, who now chant your name,
to assemble in our legions, gathered in this shrine,
where we repeat the catechism, in throbbing metered rhymes.

Are you a madman? Or just a troubadour
who lends melodic shimmer to verses dark and dour.
Whose singing slides and skims along the edge of sanity,
but who never surrendered to the true evil of vanity.
Recovered from drunken, dissolute despair,
to call the faithful masses back, never mind the wear and tear--
to plod the journey of your craft, to sing before the crowd
whose loyalty, to your band, forever is avowed.

Love means to be here.