For those famed in their titles proud and keen
in high esteem the public eyes behold,
whilst I, of lowly birth pass by unseen,
yet my gems are most treasured more than gold.
I see unrest and pain in wealth and riches,
a complex web of lies, deceit and rain,
yet none would have a need to do the dishes,
or beg for cash when nothing’s left to claim.
Or take up arms to fight protect and save
and die on foreign lands, so’s we are free;
or know the sadness of a soldiers grave,
to sacrifice oneself as guarantee.
So I am lucky not to go to war,
and live in peace with no wolf at my door.

I tire of fight, when my love desserts thee,
all that I held so dear has disappeared,
your word of rage was never meant to hurt me,
despite no explanation volunteered.

When faith is lost, a voice cannot be heard,
and doubt will creep into a lover’s heart,
until past joys are ****** into the dirt,
burned down to blackened ashes from the start.

And all that’s left is sorrow and regret,
misunderstanding feeds a shallow mind,
and opening the door too much a threat,
for honesty is now the purest kind.

When love can be rejected when it’s true,
then there’s no hope in giving love to you.

Not from the cards do I my fortune pluck,
and yet my luck seems adequately sweet,
I seek a higher ground to reconstruct,
my self esteem is much less than complete.

Now should I turn to drink, and drown my sorrow,
roulette would keep me up until the dawn.
Would tranquillising bring a new tomorrow,
or should my fate decide which path I’m drawn.

For lately love has turned into decay,
and broken every vow it undertakes;
the only solace left is my bouquet,
red roses and selection of cream cakes.

When playing cards a win is always mine,
but love can be so fickle ev’ry time.

A beautiful mind locked in doorless corridors
where repetition stabilises and calms.

A determined path of adventure into unknown waters,
then drowning when reality chokes optimism.

A blameless existence, where selective thoughts control,
and anxiety sabotages and destroys all things beautiful.

Joys pale into distant dreams . . . to the outside world normality prevails,
behind the curtain, a nervous tension builds and grips the spirit ******* out its life.

Sleep is usurped and any pleasure of tranquility is alluded.
An exhausted mind and body writhing in pain and falling into a bottomless pit.

No one can help,  No loving can change the hopelessness,
A behaviour that is repeated over and over in a cycle of torment.

Tranquillisers relieve the symptoms, but the episodes continue,
The ups and downs, the highs and lows, and the suffering is hard to observe.

A curse on glass, as it reflects true time,
and when we look we see life in decay,
a path ensures our ultimate decline,
the ticking clock that never will delay.

And so we try to cheat the image shared,
conceal our age, adorn our fake façade,
behind the mask the clock is still prepared,
to **** our time with its cold disregard.

No mirror can reflect the inner soul,
where timeless words are written on a page,
unique is ev’ry footprint on our stroll,
like great philosophers, we never age.

The clocks preserve the moment we embark,
reflections mean that we have left our mark.

There' s an Olympic runner called Mo,
Who had lots of get up and go,
He went for the gold,
And low and behold,
He won four medals in a row!

Red roses bring joy to our eyes,
Orange juice to quench our thirst,
Yellow sunshine fills our skies,
Green countryside in summer burst,
Blue is the feeling of our broods,
Indigo ink flows into writing,
Violet tastes are sweet and smooth,
and rainbows are exciting.