A single candle lit.

A solo fire burning in solace to flip,

That which is dark within my soul

Into much more than that which is known -

That I’m broken,

and need redemption.

Quitting Is no easy job.
Packs of 20 get thrown away,
At least 5 times before the words
‘I’m done’
Can be released for your mouth to say.

So what’s your burden?
A traumatic incident formed from a full grown man, a child and some ****?
A mountain of reading, endless literature to form your statements into ones that are good?
Or is it an occupation?
One that you’re punishing yourself with, as a realisation from all of your revelations?

Burning sticks only point to one truth,
That you need more in your life to do.
Rather than let burning sticks do what they do best,
Fill your lungs with so much mud,
Air no longer passes through your chest.

But maybe it isn’t a burden.
Maybe it’s simply a yearning,
For you to finally feel something,
To give yourself an experience that reminds you of loving,
Or hating.

The game ends anyways so it’s alright.
Burning sticks may go out but you can always relight.
You may burn your lungs until you delight,
But just know that at the end of the day,
This is your own fight.

Steel gazes graze the fine lines of iron.

“Tin man, whom does your heart beat for?”

A man asks - voice roaming, ringing bells and bashing gongs.



For a moment all is still.

The shrill clanging of metal stops, the heavy puffs of air suspend.

The tin man looks at him and smiles.

“For myself good sir.”



The answer given adequate time, silence and negative space - the man responds.

“Yourself? Sanity and livelihood or selfishness and arrogance?”

The tin man stood quiet once again.



He had laboured for those who did not labour for him,

Given oil, rust and dirt for those who only lived to use and to hurt.

Why would he beat to give when those who would get spoke only to take?



“I once beat for others. I once donned flesh and matter, but it left me as a shell of myself - a diminished core and deafening chest.”

“I encountered a being of whimsical strength, who woke me up and took my shell to then place a pearl within me.”

“I now beat for myself as gratitude to him who lifted me up when all I could do was lay down.”



The man grabbed him round the neck, nails marking and whispered.

“Dear child, you’ve gotten it the wrong way round.”

“Your pearl was given to be taken away, to return you into the shell of the past."



And the tin man took those words, looked away and continued,

Walking off with the girl and her dog.

Away from the wizard, entrapping himself.

Do you know that feeling?

That feeling where your soul feels rotten

Whence a storm laid, now lays barren a silence

So quiet and empty that nothingness seems to spark a light


Your body lays so still,

You mind remains unfilled

With thoughts of happiness and hope.

But instead infected with reality and doses of truth

Inferiority seeking to turnover

Into superiority - attempts to become fail and reveals

A wolf in sheep’s clothing

Filing its fangs to a bite never opening but always closing.


Do you know that feeling?

Of pain and insanity?

Overthinking, reacting, turning vanity into insecurity.

Fearing that first step, to face your demons hidden as angels

valiantly.

Let the father reminisce about the,
shepherd who failed to lead the sheep,
Lucifer falling asleep,
The souls he fails to reap,
Fall on blades of hellfire,
for the nether monsters to hold
And keep.

The figure is not a wolf,
Not a leopard,
But an innocent child.
Shrouded in the darkness of the wild.
His crimes,
Deeply filed in between,
His nails.
His responsibility to protect,
He fails.

A preacher,
Solely depended on,
A leader,
Solely repressing on,
The lies of a book.
Ones that cannot be overlooked,
Much like a rook,
On a chessboard.

I am the sheep that leads the shepherd,
not that the shepherd would ever lead me.
For you see,
good things don't come in threes,
they come in ones.
One bee.
A forest with one tree
One snake that made Eve flee.

I am the thunder that frightens the child,
scaring even those who are wild.
For you see,
butterflies don't fly,
they soar,
wings causing waves,
so strong,
it disrupts even the planet's core.

I am the pen that writes the tales,
a myth,
a legend,
attempts to amaze never fail.
For you see,
It is the writer that feels,
and the reader that touches.
My stories,
live,
not messed by airbrushes.

I woke up like this.
Face caked in sadness,
eyes swollen of pity and anger.

I woke up like this.
Heart slowly starting up,
veins warming up.

I woke up like this.
Arms bent out of shape,
legs spread out for -

I woke up like this.
Head spinning,
body sinning.

Did I sin?
Or did you?

If I ask you,

will you say yes?

Or will shallow feelings,

take over and mess?

Witness my heart,

beat off the chart.

For I fell for you,

the first day I saw you.

His hair,
striking down,
Zeus's thunderbolts in the sky.

Her hair,
Flowing round,
waves of the sea, clouds of the sky.

His skin,
dark as can be,
akin to coal,
darkness warps as far as I can see

Her skin,
pale pastel,
image reflects on a white seashell.
void of colour.

His job,
paying much,
respect and such.

Her job,
paying little,
a gap that men find acquittal.

His eyes,
grey like the storm,
pupils dilated as he felt her warmth

Her eyes,
blue like ice,
blocks of reflection,
of her cold heart,
of her body made of ice.

Is equality just sameness,
is that what you want to be?
Just like the next one,
prove your uniformity.


Or be different.

Lines,


red ink flow down his arms.
Depress the pain,
for the death of his brother,
had not simply cursed Cain.
Smiled when they call him deranged
An affidavit of sadness to rage.

Lines,


cut so deep, structured so fine.
It's a pain of a pure sort of nature,
A pure kind.
It's this way, or he goes away.
For good this time.

Lines,


pastel skin so sharp,
the colour red colours and warps.
Church bells toll for a funeral.
For one must accept the pain
to return and become sane.

Or they deny the lines.
Let it be for just one more moment.
Just own it.
The anger, the rage, the pain, the sorrow.
Soon, there won't be any feelings left to borrow.

It was an AR15 that the kid used.
A gun that, in this free world, men can indulge and abuse.
A boy who saw him load his gun,
the gunman saw and simply said run,
A word that made the child flee for his life,
just before waves of bullets came upon the school,
The kid looked on and asked himself
why is life so cruel.

How many more people have to die,
before its ****** metal, not tears, that your children cry.
This free world, rife with argument by silly politicians
Men that make decisions, without experience of the repercussions.
This gunman was not a delinquent, he was a child.
Born of your failed systems, born of your sick traditions.
A boy who without second thought, took up his assault rifle
and headed into war with the children that learned ambition with him,
emotion and sudden movement that made them all feel just that little bit stifled.

This free world is one with a core of rights,
A doubled edged dagger,
a topic of discussion that makes the average fat man want to fight.
‘Over my cold dead body’ he said.
LET ME HAVE MY GUN
Because whilst others use it for fun,
the protection I have outweighs the fact
that when a 19 year old comes to school,
all the other kids have to run.

It’s ridiculous, heck its thoroughly imbecilic,
How children have to be careful of the education system,
not because of a
nationwide test
but a,
nationwide threat
of grown men,
looking to prove their ego,
men that can’t go against the party line
that fail to realise that life is more important
than the next donation
than the dollar sign.

You want protection? That’s completely fine.
Just don’t use the bodies of your children
as meat shields and pretend everything’s fine.
Don’t say you’ll do something as if something will change
because nothing will change unless it does.
This free world is not filled with love but truly its filled with hate,
A bloodlust so dense, even children’s blood cannot sate it’s thirst.
Until it's more than just a child hurt, but a country with a bullet wound
Caused by people, who love guns so much but blame it on the loons.
Your pain, I cannot prove.