Misery sticks
to your skin
like the solitary smell
of your family home.

For he liked her,
And she he;
But it had to end.
They both were in love
With melancholy.

As we age
Our minds grow and
Our bodies decay;
But, at the end of the day,
They wish it were
The other way.

If sweet silver
poured from my
languid lips,
laying out the lies you so long to hear,
would you keep me near?
No, probably not.

Your morning dew breath
trickles in early
As we walk with the foxes,
by the rockpools by the shore;
By the lilies by the glade.

Die for your applause;
Collect your cause.
Just keep your flaws,
Away from my claws.

We are all eternally tired,
but it's not sleep we lack.
Your resilience should be admired,
but it's time to
hit the sack.

These Gnarled Roots
Withered from time
Will forever control
Those shoots from reaching
The Shine.

Thick and stubborn
Taking everything of
Worth.
Pillaging the earth of
its fruit
All "in the name of the
Shoot".

We are told
The shoot can't be
A shoot
Without the
Root.
But what about
The "root" of
A problem?

So, little shoot
Chew on the bitter root.
Chew and
Survive.

It is the most creative of those,
who can find enrapturing prose,
from deep, deep within his clothes.

O come in time;
Bring the wine.
A friend you'll be,
A friend to me.

Or take your time;
Forget the wine.
Just stay with me,
Just bleed.

That
Self-Made
Noose
Is
Living proof
Of our
Existence.

When you decide to work the hand you're dealt,
and an eye for your lie makes everyone see,
let your sleeping dogs die.
Ah! Sure, it's all bleak to me.

Fiddly bits and
Mismatched shapes;
Come into my house,
Shut off the drapes.

I'll piece them together
This one and that.
But you don't believe in board games
So it's bound to fall flat.

So let us start from the beginning,
The corners and the bottoms;
Work inwards.
But do not be surprised
If you are not that missing piece,
But just a part of another's
Puzzle.

Tick-tock
Went the clock
The day I wanted to stop.

The pitter-patter,
Chitter-chatter.
The walks,
The squaks
And the all 'important talks'
The day I wanted to stop.

Intrusion, confusion, pollution
And social 'evolution'
The day I wanted to stop.

The swearing, the caring.
The 'how are you faring?'
The day I wanted to stop.

The girl, the boy.
That unexpected smile.
Kindness flowing
Kept me going;
If only for awhile,
On the day I wanted to stop.

Promising words not
Followed by action is like
*** without the attraction-
******* useless.

A rhyme or two
makes happy the man
who lives in a shoe.

The past has past,
and from it I have decided to flee.
I no longer care about what
happened then.
So, don't wave your history at me.

Technology is supposed to
lessen the load,
and somehow make us feel free,
But all I see are chains and rooks.
So, don't wave your gadgets at me.

In the educational system I trusted,
through it the world I could see,
But now I know
it's all a show.
So, don't wave your grades at me.

Poetry is an acquired taste;
As dead as it can be,
But write we still,
As words can ****.
So, don't wave your lines at me.

In love I used to trust;
the one and only key.
But then I learnt,
and caring was burnt.
So, don't wave your happiness at me.

You came unexpected and briefly;
Like the sun on a cold winter's day.
You dived and soaked in the waters,
and caused ripples through and through.
Changing the surface for a brief moment of eternity.
Now you've bathed and done;
had your fun.
For this I decree:
I am the errors you left me
So please do not wave at me.

Come misty-mouthed girl,
To a not so wonderful world.
Make me forget.
The investment of the other within me
has come to fill me with regret.

O take me back to before I could see all their flaws,
Before the familiarity of friendship clouded our view.
Back to when I could have believed in this so called 'love',
And could have believed in you.

Now a thick, dense obsession rises day to day
from within locked cupboards.
But not the naive, self-named kind of days once past;
The kind that clings to your personality
Like your sugar stained teeth the morning after cider;
A repulsive grit.

But I am looking for you.
Not an emissary of my misery,
But an idiosyncratic icon of
My ignorant days before I knew of
Poems, plays or 'Liberation'.
Just come and be my salvation.

My misty-mouthed girl.

I only write from
one heart,
one hand,
and two minds.

I am no source
of poetry or art;
Music or prose.
I am not your one true love or
Your spring of inspiration.

Sensible,
"Down to earth",
Trustworthy-
Normal.

My passions and
Ambitions are unanimous
to the average class.

Anything I am that's
Good
Is reflected in the surrounding
Mud.

The sea is
to me
As to Yeats Inisfree.

Day breaks;
Presence aches.

Someone cries.

Someone dies.

Happiness is your self-made bliss.
Go seal it with the billionth kiss.

Night falls;
Repeat it all.

Your face
is
distorted
in my
screen.
It's
the clearest
image
I've ever
Seen.

Do not weep for me,
For I no longer weep
In anticipation of you.

Long gone are the days that
I stooped to conquer, or
Be conquered by you.

I would come.
We would see.
You would conquer.

So do not weep for me,
As I won't weep for you.
You've never weeped for me,
So I will stop so for you.

Cleverly-crafted crumbs created
Are fabulously fantastic when framed for framing's function,
But accurately articulated actions
Are better for freeing feeling's function.

Now I can see your
Creative crumbs are cause for chaos.
The creator capturing caring compassionates
With each wilful, worthless word.

Sure, if all
Yer sorrows
Aren't fixed
Wit' a pill
Then fer
Jaysus' sake,
yer jus'
Not ill.

For in the end
it will be the belief
in my
potential
and the hatred
of the
conventional
that kills me.

Inside the universal set:
Circle A and circle B;
Circle you and circle me.

To keep things easy,
we started with the numbers on the outside,
but soon grew to the small part in the middle.

That small slither
of similarity.
But the numbers are just there for
Clarity.

Not to mention circles
C,D,E & G.

But circles are circles,
and people are people.
You are you.
I am I.
And that was that.

Jigsaw-
Noun
1. A lively handtool dance for cutting wood or other hard materials with leaping movements, typically with a long, thin serrated blade.

Rhythm denoted with the phrase 'Rashers and Sawsages'

With each and every progression
killing a part of the soul,
and each new experience
blurring the form of a whole,
I wonder why advancement
is our one and only goal?

I broke a mirror today
Clearing the smell of
Someone else's **** from
My downstairs bathroom;
It's wise to have
Future plans.

I and the space between us ebbs.
Your presence, I cannot maintain.
As there's nothing I can give you,
And nothing you can gain.

She sat in the old armchair,
In the winter of her life.
The last of her sisters;
A once comfortable wife.

With bony white finger
She traced the pattern of her chair;
Withered from age
Like the strands of her hair.

For her kids had come and gone.
Her fears, she passed them on.
An ok husband she had;
A time long ago, a time not so bad.

'Love' and spouse,
Kids and house
Were the choices she made.
Unbeknownst to her,
The passion she had
Was bound to fade.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
That man in the corner,
At the end of his days.
A bottle of whiskey;
A familiar haze.

His cold empty house
Devoid of all life.
Followed his heart;
Never took he a wife.

Passion and success
(which he had to confess)
Were great (for awhile).
These were the choices that he made.
Unbeknownst to him,
His desire for love would never fade.

At the end of the night
All wrapped up in warm covers and plight,
He contemplated the answers to his
Internal fight.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tell unto me
Which one was right?

When the penny has
dropped on the situation,
and the silence binds
your obligation,
I am sorry.

The man began
once again to question
whether he truly did not love people,
or whether the people
truly did not love him?

It's hard to think clearly through the
"That's Life!"s,
"No work, no play"s,
The "you can do anything you put your mind to"s,
and the "do what makes you happy"s.

It's hard to keep a personality through the
Ifs, buts and indefinite, fluctuating opinions of right and wrong,
him and her, you and me.

It's  hard to keep personal through the
Impersonal means of communication,
Retold stories,
and the disatisfying interactions between you
and the people you have chosen. The people
who you believed had chosen you.

It's hard finding me through all of this
you.

I am sorry
grips and grows
when I was fun.
And I bore into you.

I bore you.

The endless throes
Leaving you with nothing to say
of the insatiable soul
at the end of the
like the solitary smell
your obligation

But I am sorry that
because of me
like the rip and the hole
you can't enjoy the sun,
and the silence binds
poor man's sole.

Dropped on the situation,
When the penny has
Leaving me clutching at straws.
You never knew me.
I could be sorry that
to your skin
of your family home
Misery sticks.

still smile.
Your silence is a kind of
Yet, still I don't.
A name can be home to many faces.
There's more for me to see
The other way.
I know you more;
You could be the first point of contact,
They both were in love
Make of me, but
And she he;
With melancholy.
Shut;
Unsaid.
An impartial judge to this acquaintance.
Heat,
The words of then are bled.
As to Yeats Inisfree.
Do not be familiar to me.
For he liked her,
But you are self-interested and
If only for awhile.
I am no more than what you
But when swept in a drunken
From words that were left
As we age
But, at the end of the day,
They wish it were
to me
Our bodies decay;
****** upon my hand-crafted pedestal,
But it had to end.
It conjures memories, feelings
Grief,
'Cause I was glad to have known you,
Define me.
No less than how you
Our minds grow and
The sea is.
It's sad hearing yours, although I
and long forgotten places.
But keep your mouth and desires.

Old and frayed are those sleeves.
From the many tricks
that have been worn upon,
and then
washed from them.

They have seen better days,
And have lost their vibrance
From careless machine washes.
But there could be a few more
Hearts left up those sleeves.

I bore you,
And I bore into you.
Leaving you with nothing to say;
Leaving me clutching at straws.

The people say we
Are a force to be reckoned with.

Malleable minds
Keeping up with the
Times.

A comfortable content,
Encouragingly hell-bent.

Let's change lives
Or even just one.
Right
before this feels done.

A force to be reckoned with,
You and I.

Let's set something afloat,
Before it's time
For me to
Rip out
Your
Throat.

Ag an mbuaicphointe
na coimhlinte
Ní raibh siad cinnte.

O come and sing,
Sing with me.
Sing with me,
Our age old plea:

"Tomorrow I will be free,
Tomorrow I will be
Me".

If I had Chopin's twiddly fingers,
Or Freddie's range
Would you look at me the same?
Probably.

The endless throes
of the insatiable soul
grips and grows
like the rip and the hole
at the end of the
poor man's sole.

I am no more than what you
Make of me, but
No less than how you
Define me.

You could be the first point of contact,
****** upon my hand-crafted pedestal,
But you are self-interested and
An impartial judge to this acquaintance.

Je vois la vie
en parapluie.

A name can be home to many faces.
It conjures memories, feelings
and long forgotten places.
It's sad hearing yours, although I
still smile.
'Cause I was glad to have known you,
If only for awhile.

It's hard to seize the day
with such
slender hands.

Still listening to the same music.

Still writing the same poems with different words.

Still drinking the same drinks,
eating the same foods.

Still wanting to be healthier.

Still wanting to be smarter.

Still wanting to be better.

Still hating the things I hated before;
The things that won't change.

Still not moving,
If so, just barely.

Still here.