What’s this glaze
over my eyes…

A heavy mist
with fingers…
that lingers.
A cataract that
dives and claws
into the black
of irises.

A film,
a veil,
a canvas botched
and vandalised
with arguing paints.
And indelible black
that sings of sadness,
highlights the aches
of dejection
and screams
betrayal.

I will not trade
my serenity for
madness.
This sadness only
lasts a little while.
I don't want to be
in Wonderland anymore.
Everyone is crazy.
whichever way I
turn, left or right,
it's lunacy.

I deal in reality now.
I won't play croquet with
the queen, no matter
how much she smiles.
The game is fixed, and I
know it.
The deck is stacked.
The cards are laid,
and I see the
***** behind
her eyes.

Y'know if ever I was on a TV show
And the guy was gonna introduce me as 'a Poet'
I'd tell him No! **** No!! They'd all switch off... immediately
Or flee to another TV channel...quick!!!
You'd wanna introduce me instead as the person who was definitely 'not a Poet'
Call me a writer or somethin' else
Tell them, this guy he's OK, yea he's alright
Definitely 'not a Poet'.

'Cos I can remember being taught poetry at school as a kid
How it scarred a lot of us
You'd be given a poem to learn off by heart in one single night
And of course you'd never be able to do that
You'd need at least two nights
So you'd be up all night trying to learn the ****** thing
And you'd be thinking to yourself "surely this Poetry it's an Evil thing
Some strange grown up guy's peculiar words
That don't make any sense to me".

And so you'd go off to school the next day dreading it
And then you'd be called upon to recite the thing
You'd stand up and immediately be distracted by everyone's eyes fixed on you
And also by the teacher's withering look
You'd stumble through some of the words, then you'd lose your place, get stuck
You'd flounder about, look lost and panicky... Then you'd lower your eyes...you'd give up.
Then the teacher would humiliate you in front of the whole class.

Yea, Poetry was a ***** word to me as a kid
And to a lot of other kids besides (I bet)
It ought to have been hauled up before a Crimes against humanity Court.

What I relentlessly seek,
to be a soul liberated,
Free from every attachment,
Bound by nothing, tempted by naught,
No unnecessary latchment.

The soul needs nothing, it's true,
To be free is its nature.
But my flaws have held me back,
My vision's a blur, a facture.

What do I really need?
Nothing, if I'm truthful.
Yet greed consumes, my soul depletes,
My life, a wasteful ruth.

Devoid of true knowledge,
I seek what's unclear.
My vision blinded, my eyes closed,
I'm trapped by my fear.

Lies will bite, anger will burn,
Karma's wheel will turn.
I wait for the reckoning,
My soul to learn.

Who will wash away my sins?
My thoughts, my inner foes.
They've led me down a dark path,
Where nothing grows.

My body deteriorates,
My mind fades, my memory erases.
I speak in riddles, no sense to make,
My soul, a maze.

Who will decode the mysteries?
The real truths that liberate?
The answer lies within,
My true self, my fate.

Oh, to be a soul liberated,
Free from every attachment.
To live my life authentically,
With true detachment

How it started
Running around the playground squealing with laughter.
Building stables on the field
Or witchy poo on the fort
Over 2 decades of knowing you. Experiencing life alongside you.
I watched in awe as you raised your family, and held it together all of these years Watching you grow into this unstoppable, firecly strong woman you are today
Ever need me, I'll be there
I'll never be in your pocket, or the other end of the phone every day
You'll always be like family to me, sorry but you ain't getting rid of me

Amazing, this thing, time, it goes on whether you're here, or not, and to come back and see the irrelevance of all, is somehow calming.
Adaptive, time and life, it lives when we die. To observe from a distance, has, in a word, been relieving.
I carried my importance as a trait.
What a weight it is. Its good to know, no matter my place, I have one.
Very calm

Motionless
Stuck where my world crashed all around me
Rotating through the mundane monotony on autopilot
It's time for a new book, not just a new page or chapter.