Language is the raw material
Transformation into art
Leaping through Alice’s looking glass
Breaking metaphors apart

Is it dark inside a poem
From whence it first sprang
Deeply repressed panic
Without judgment rang

Bringing pressured speech to light
Images of love and pain
Through clearly heightened senses
Uninhibited refrain

Where verbal acrobats spiral
Words on a poet’s page
That remind us and disturb us
In desperate outrage

With the pathos of a clown
On a winding rocky path
Reminders of death’s nearness
Terror spinning with a laugh

Pictures painted with premonitions
An atmosphere heavy in despair
Remnants of previous poets
Are blinding the reader in its glare

Quatrains moving merrily
Using images and tone
Making shapes with language
Shaping irony unknown

With tones bright and beautiful
Its matrix darkly savage
Through visual impressions
The reader’s heart is ravaged

Freedom of imagination
From whimsy to terror can bring
Surprising facetious word-play
Delivering irony’s sting

A psychological awakening
The tenderest love infused with dread
Blazing pathways joyous and dangerous
Irrevocable loss lies ahead

A telling detail without warning
Takes us to disturbing turns
The risky business of being born
Poets’ authority burns

It brings you to your senses
Through supernatural realms
Exploding realization
Its resonance overwhelms

Allusiveness to brutal honesty
It may sometimes misconstrue
In an abyss of isolation cries,
“What else can a poem do?”

Breaking news....






I’m
Sad
I’m
Angry
I’m
Upset
I’m
Shutting down
I’m
One second away from tears...


Why?

I don’t know !
So many thoughts running through my head
Ever get this way?
Ugh!

Breaking news....


I’ll be ok
When I’m doubt
Cry
Scream
Sleep
Shake
Breath
It out

Depression is like
A spear of ice
Stuck into your heart
Freezing you
From the inside out

Depression is like
Living in a world of shadows
No sun to warm you
Always cold
Always alone
You can hear people talking
But they sound
Distant and far away

Depression is like
Being half dead
You may be alive
To the world around you
However
You feel dead inside

Now I can't breathe
I am wide awake
Going back to sleep is impossible
Help me
Tired eyes and my brain is fuzzy
Maybe I'll think nice thoughts
And that will help me sleep
Really I am trapped in my head
Every night I just have bad dreams

Armies of words gather in my head
To march so boldly onto the page.
They work their wonders
Who knows how?
Why they pick me as their channel
For their landing craft
I’ll never know.

Some accident of birth:
Genetic fluke –
For which I take no credit –
Makes me nectar to these ants
That line themselves into verse.

Compulsion drives me to write
As salmon must jump those water falls
To return to their spawning grounds.

I have to speak, or rather type:
Express myself
No matter what,
Whether good or bad.

Is there a cure for this affliction of mine?
Can I ever stop myself from writing?
I very much doubt it.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\11\2018.

i keep my hopes and dreams

inside a paper sack

i pull them out when i feel the need

the ones that are stale i put them back

those i take down to the shore

and toss them in the sea

the fresh ones like i said i keep

and take them home with me

to pull out when i feel the need

Can anyone hear me
If I’m screaming in my own head
I’m trying to be heard
But nothing comes out
Silence isn’t golden
If your trying to be found
Please send help
If you can hear the silence growing around