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John Hawkins Nov 2016
The light of the sun creeps across the duvet
under which you and I are entwined.
Our limbs entangled like a pair of neglected earphones,
stowed away in a now unused jacket pocket;
both of us pleasantly unable to ascertain where our body starts
and the others begins.

The room smells like stale cigarettes and wine,
which is only intensified by both the heat of the sun
and the warmth of our own biology.
The aroma transforms from stale to fresh as I crack a new bottle,
pouring us both a healthy glass,
whilst you light our last cigarette;
Taking a few draws then passing it to me,
along with the over-flowing ashtray.

Our unwashed skin is sticky with dry sweat,
accumulated during sleep and *******;
Our mouths rancid from the wine
and the lack of toothpaste applied.
To the naked eye there is a thick and smokey cloud of filth
occupying the space above our heads;
creating an atmosphere uninhabitable to anyone but us.

This mass of pollution combines with the salt-filled air,
streaming in from the open window;
making for an interesting cocktail of unpleasantness.
To all this we are blissfully unaware,
and we just lie there,
basting in it;
caring not a jot.
Our thoughts only for each other
and the tingling in our nerve endings
when we catch the others eye.

For eternity we lie there,
until one of us has to ****.
I haven't posted in so long, I thought it was time.
John Hawkins Aug 2016
It swirls
as it turns
and it twirls
as it spins
the beauty
is in the complexity
and the emotion is
in the movement
John Hawkins Jul 2016
Editing my thoughts;
A spoonful of porridge in one hand,
a pen in the other

My two main forms of sustenance;
One for the body,
The other the mind

A bite turns into a meal,
A written word into an expression of 'soul'.
The primordial biological urge is constant

Without the food I would not have the strength to pick up the pen;
Without the pen I would have no desire to eat.
Their unison might be the only thing keeping me in motion

Long may it go on.
John Hawkins Jul 2016
The heart beats;
The blood circulates;
The cells receive their required oxygen;
The breathing is sharp and rushed;
The shaking hands and fingers fumble with the packaging,
Nearly spilling the invaluable contents;
The arm is wrapped with a belt to cause the veins to rise,
and await the needle;
The parlous thoughts and feelings of discomfort begin to dissipate
as the lighter heats the spoon.

The skin pulsates and the muscles ripple under the point of the needle;
The natural reflexes of the body try to pull away from the pain;
The prefrontal cortex allows the will to keep the arm steady
and the determination to continue pressing;
The skin breaks and the needle slides into the vein
As the thumb plunges the plunger.

A warm, rushing sensation travels up the arm;
The mouth curls into a smile,
the eyes crinkling at the edges;
With a sigh of relief the needle is pulled from the vein;
The syringe drops to the stained carpet below;
A hot trickle of blood runs from the crook of the arm;
All the muscles relax,
sofa and body now one.

A wave of euphoria sweeps the body
and the mind;
The voice of God reverberates around the room,
revealing the secret to eternal life
and the meaning of everything.

The heart stops beating.
John Hawkins Jun 2016
One day, I will leave this world.
The energy that pumps through me will dissipate;
The body I know will begin to rot and decay;
The thoughts and emotions I feel now,
with great urgency and severity,

The people I love will put me in the ground,
to cover the stench of my rotting corpse;
They will visit 'me' once a year with obligatory tears in their eyes.
They will auction off all of my personal belongings,
All the things I cherished and valued;
To look upon them will be 'too much'.

Slowly I will fade from their memories:
My personality;
My laugh;
My smile;
The way I held my face when I was concentrating really hard.
All the little things that make me me, forgotten;
Like I never existed at all.

In their loneliest moments, perhaps, they will remember me.
Not the real me, of course;
Just my name attached to a sort of vague concept of death,
An idea of what it is to no longer exist;
My memory will serve to give them a sense of their own mortality;
An occasionally present reminder that they too, one day, will die.
John Hawkins Jun 2016
I sit scouring the internet
looking for some easy stimulation;
distraction more than anything

I sit alone,
a special kind of silence looming over me;
it would be petrifying if it wasn't so common

a pulsating energy bubbles inside me,
trapped, with no escape;
it just vibrates there, relentlessly

there is an itch in a cavern of my mind;
buried deep down and hidden away,
under piles of forgotten memories and unfulfilled dreams

sleep feels like a myth;
some old story told to cold scared children
to distract them from the horrors of our world

all four walls appear to be closing in;
the faces of the ones I love slowly disappearing from memory;
I am becoming someone else,
something else

it'll pass
it always does

until then I scour
John Hawkins May 2016
The sky is right there
It takes almost no effort
Behold its beauty
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