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May 2019 · 95
Mary's Clearing
Peter Watkins May 2019
A clearing dappled with light,
soothed with the gentleness of the wind,
such is where the knight laid to rest.
His long sword astride his horse,
and his lance upright against the tree,
he nursed wounds endured thus far.

He would build a fire
to fight the chill of his armour,
but rest was all he could manage.
Dropping his shield, a clatter
which eclipsed his armour's crashing,
the knight fell against the tree.

And his weary eyes drifted
with the consistency of smoke,
scanning trees he'd passed
and seeing his slain amongst them.
He feared that, looking hard enough,
would force pale spirits to rise before him.

He struggled to remember if these slain
were his brothers or his foes,
the line of the dead blurred and stirred
until he felt at one and apart from all.
"Oh Mary protect me," his dry mouth struggled,
"I feel my hour is upon me, and valiantly I've fought."

And with his prayer came rustling,
a brigand bursting forth from the brush
and two Catholic knights behind.
Stumbling with his wound,
he fell down to the bluebells
and tried to stand with his falchion.

"Curse you," he cried,
"you will never see heaven,
on God you are not worthy!"
They prepared a final blow,
but stopped when they heard
the wounded knight remove his helm.

"I prayed to the holy mother
and you were what she gave."
He made a laboured stance,
the difficulty clear in his face,
and clasping his lance deftly
"all of you enemies of heaven, all of you!"

His horse was much too distant,
and he stood painfully against the tree
breathing heavy with lance in hand.
No one moved, no one breathed,
least of all the Catholics
who recognised this lone knight.

Exchanging glances
they too removed their helms
and our knight, winded with shock,
he pointed to them with shaking hand.
"How can this be, my brothers...
You are with the church again?"

"And you are not," one spat;
contempt a thick venom in his veins.
But still no move was made
until the brigand tried to run,
at which point the Catholics grasped him
and forced his rebellious body to the knees.

Instead of facing trial and execution,
he was stabbed on the spot
and told he may leave.
He took slow, laboured breaths,
and in five paces collapsed to the blossom,
the sunlight speckled but soothing upon his skin.

"You're cruelty has no reason, my friends.
The church is controlling your hand,
and I shed a tear for your souls."
Taking his lance in both hands,
our knight pushed away from his tree,
and he bravely stood with wavering strength.

"I dreamed of ascending
both of you at my side,
but I see I've been cheated
and though it gives me the will to fight,
I almost wish I had the strength
to drop my lance and give you my soul."

"Our fates will be heroic brother,"
one of the Catholics managed to say
with tears clouding his vision.
"I will not disappoint you,
in delivering you to paradise,
though I know you will fight well."

So they fell to battle,
in that ring of green,
all the world so still,
in wait of the victor.
The birds and the beasts captivated,
the people sensing tremors in the air.

The wounded knight led,
with clumsy thrusts a plenty.
But the Catholic short-maces
struggled to counter the lance-stab.
So they circled and stumbled,
echoing metal throughout the wood.

Knowing he is surely doomed,
yet showing no signs of concern,
the lone Protestant breaks out-
roaring-running and driving his lance
straight toward a single enemy,
and the Catholic is caught off guard.

Past his defence, into the plate,
and somehow through interlocking rings,
on God the strongest offensive
those three men had ever seen.
So he fell back, breathless and still,
his cry but an echo of his former word.

And the Protestant defender fell unarmed,
exhausted to his knees and accepting
the imminent fate before him.
"I've slain your ally, so take your mace,
and slay me now so he may be avenged."
But the Catholic's courage began to wane.

He dropped his mace, fell to the side of his brother,
and his words came out tearful and slow.
"Be avenged? Be avenged, for what?
You have minutes to live Protestant
and that's if I do nothing...
I've lost my taste for vengeance."

"I see her you know..."
Our great knight said.
"She says it matters not,
he will join me, you will join me."
And the survivor was quiet,
he looked over to his enemy.
"Who do you see... Who?"
But alas our loyal protestant had passed.
During my University course I've been reading a huge amount of medieval literature. Tales such as Gawain and the Green Knight, or even The Faerie Queene inspired me to write a Protestant Vs Catholic poem that borrows from the context. I don't claim this to be perfect by any means, and I think that compared to those works it is but a fledgling attempt in comparison, but take it for what it is. I enjoyed writing it.
Jan 2019 · 130
Concave
Peter Watkins Jan 2019
If the glassy concave yields only
to the perceptive eye of a lonely soul,
whose mistakes pile upon
the feather-scale of the psyche,
then that concave shall keep its secrets.

It will remain closed,
for me a clumsy object
that others address as a portal.
An object to shatter,
and bury the cutting fragments
in dew-soaked and sunny meadows,
where innocence may drown out the screaming.

They say it's open to all
call me a liar,
tell me I won't look hard enough.
They say I'm scared,
but I tell them I don't need a **** mirror for soul searching,
and then they shut up and leave.

They always do when I disagree;
Leaving me alone with these spectres,
that rise from stony thoughts and quickened breaths,
placing their ice-fingers
deep into my eyes
and searing truth upon my genetic canvas.

"You are dead, you are history"
is all I can scream,
as the cacophony of memories
drudges forth in plain-ugly confidence.
And it is here!

It is so here, that I would see it,
whilst eye-less stumbling through a sandstorm.
Enveloping and caressing,
integrating,
becoming both me and it until I can't discern
the likeness of my reflection from those fragments in the meadow.

I am lost without my friends,
aimless without my past,
yet infinitely aware of both.
A poem resulting from a writing prompt I took recently. The theme was "looking back" and so it's supposed to focus on introspection.
Jan 2019 · 1.2k
Cocktail
Peter Watkins Jan 2019
The bustling disquiet of shopping centres at mid-day makes me feel uneasy now. The people appear, as crashing waves of peachy white and pastel brown. I can’t stomach this buzz. Don’t they have something better to do? I think a woman’s screaming, clawing after the last carton of milk. A gentleman decks a teenage boy, for having the tenacity to take the last fifty-two-inch TV. I can’t really quit laughing. But everyone looks so serious. I think they’re staring at me, as though I’m making fun, and I am so not!
          
          You’re all a joke regardless of my seeing you! Go on, and on and on and on, keep going like no one’s watching you. As much as I’ve always wanted the rapture, I see now I’m a fool. This wave of people, no, better yet: animals. This flood of ******* genius is exactly what God would send forth. Oh I’m laughing again. What a ******* he is... They really do move like water, if river, ocean or tide had a mind of its own. I can’t really stop seeing their fluidity now. Overlapping and sliding off, and doing the same again, and crashing until frothing over and over, again and again until they flow away with less of themselves.
         
         Gentle, sweeping ecstasy floods my mind in tsunami. The pleasure overcomes the little ***** which festers in my skin. It gapes at me, that festering wound: red and raw. But I’m too busy, staring at the wall, seeing faces and writhing bodies struggling against the dense brickwork. I drool as I watch my shoe and the ******* sprouts wings.
          
          I feel him struggling, flapping, making me laugh tryna’ get away. I wiggle my toes and he giggles too, and I ask him “Hey little shoe, you like that so why you run away?” And he goes all dead serious, and straight away I know things are starting to turn out bad, as he says “Mister, it’s just what I do, and you gonna be running too, soon enough.” And I see the walls moving again, his little wings cover his head, and I’m teeming with all sorts of bad feelings. But for some reason, I keep on looking at how my laces create a little mouth, and how his little leathery hide, spotted all white, flexes with my foot. It keeps breathing and breathing, compelling me to tear it free of its spine; swinging it to beat the terrible walls back, back and away.
          
          But then I’ve woken, such a hacking cough, crucified on a bed of broken glass leagues below my window. On my feet, cracked and blasted bones, stumbling through the neon night compelled by the itch of home. Not particularly sure where this park came from, with tangerine lights and dew-soaked grass. There is a desk in the middle of the grassy field’s expanse. I’d go and ask who put it there but it would start talking all over again. It looks like little hands are clawing out of the dirt, but I later conclude (after stomping one of the annoying *******) that the grass just looks all wobbly. I’d have gasped at this revelation but I fell over first, and it felt like I didn’t really stop tumbling. Call me Alice and give me a dress, it’s **** like this that I live for. I’ve fallen into a slippery pit that’s dark and wet like a huge throat, but oddly cold like being beneath ice. I feel like I’ll never hit the bottom, when a falling candlestick sneezes engulfing me in flames. I’m kind of screaming now, but it doesn’t really hurt it’s more just reactionary. And the great whirring noise! My breathlessness and whimpering, I can’t see: such sublime golden heat and... ****! ****! Thud.
          
         Slipping out of my bed, on to the terrace where the stars may see me; peaceful at last beneath the ultra-marine sky. The Maharaja approves of my efforts for the nation; the blood I have spilled, enshrined within scarred veins. I have journeyed for him, into the chrysalis of the mind. Folds of wrinkled DNA trapped deep in this eggshell cavity. Smash the egg, smooth out those folds and initiate rebirth. I raise my arms in rejoice, oh how proud he is, winking at me in the stars. My brain stretched across the sky, the colours swim and mix; fornicate in the open petri-dish. The truth emerges so.
A surrealist prose-poem influenced by the works of Ginsberg and Burroughs
Sep 2018 · 155
And You Slept Forever
Peter Watkins Sep 2018
The memory is as crisp in my mind,
as the incoming Autumn leaves.
Drifting behind my closed eyes,
thrown useless as they would from trees.
Slowly they clutter the bottom, fallen in fragility,
and the hard crunching of my treading echoes eagerly.

I can't escape the sounds in my skull,
sensations I still wish to forget.
I feel your suffering so clear and cruel,
and true I have much more to suffer yet.
I dream of holding you in place, as my panic sets in,
watching you strain yourself beneath every inch of skin.

That dreadful night relived in my head,
a ****** mouth from a bitten tongue.
The seizure taking hold of you instead,
and tossing you lifeless against your Son.
Such melancholy in that evening's gloom,
so strong that I see it in every room.

It's like an itch creeping under my skin,
groping around in the back of my skull.
Feeding frustration at my inability therein,
to take the reigns, and force thoughts to stay still.
My head is a frozen wasteland, and I am screaming,
I am screaming but no one hears anything.

I am the only one here who understands,
and so who can tell if I'm screaming at all.
No one can hear me, even when I cup my hands,
and no one really sees, when I slip and fall...
Down, down, down I fall ever deeper,
but I never stay down, I never sleep forever.

That fateful day came, months ago,
when they said you would never wake.
And my grieving has come so very slow,
my nightmares now surface at day break.
Soundly I sleep, just as you do mother,
and then I wake unpleasantly to this early hour.

I remember you are not here any longer,
there is a twinge in my heart and stomach.
I think of the goodbyes I may never utter,
think of the apologies I may never pay back.
But again I respect your soul and time of passing,
and again I continue to live because life is fleeting.

And as you sleep, I often remind myself,
it's well deserved for the mother you were.
A beacon of hope, an intricate golden wreath,
a role model that will eclipse beyond my years...
I love you as deeply as your endless sleep became,
and I will never forget the beauty of your name.

Dawn: the time the sun rises, whence we rise from slumber,
where life begins and the skies grow a healthy baby blue.
You gave me a fresh start, and your rays soothed me over,
in spite of anything you raised me lovingly and true.
I can find only respect for you, only love in my beating heart,
and I want you to know that I vowed to save you from the start.

All I did, I did out of love, out of fear of losing you,
just as I know you did for me too...
I won't forget you in your eternal slumber mother,
as I think of your words and revere...
In tribute to Dawn, my beautiful mother, who passed away on July 18th 2018. It's always hard to suffer such a loss, but I always remember that she gave me life and I remember what she would want for me. Wherever she is now, I hope she is happy, and if there truly is life after death, I hope that I will grow to make her proud in my older years. I love you mum.
Jul 2017 · 469
Impassioned
Peter Watkins Jul 2017
Oh my muse and subject,
the ways in which I glorify you:
Place you on a pedestal of marble,
bathe you in the waters of my desire,
stroke your pristine skin until I'm unstable;
how you stoke my heart's deepest fire.

But in my passion is predicament,
as the way I cherish is too strong to last.
Your beauty envelopes me, comprised,
of all the grains of perfection in my life
and they drift through my fingers, one by one,
as they are lost to the wind with every caress.

I almost want to keep you,
locked in a little display case...
Filter all your air, cook your meals,
bathe you with gentle, emotionless hands.
I want to keep you just as you appear this moment,
to retain your youth, your mind, your body...

Yet I can not, for nought could,
impossibility blocks me as surely,
as my own loving heart compels me.
As suns expand skin wrinkles like parchment,
and eyes become jaded with the effort...
Nothing in this world could keep you pristine.

And so I fall to you again,
stumbling with my burden,
and I indulge in you so desperately
that I lose myself in lifted chastity.
I want what I can have, in this impassioned moment,
even as I see how it corrupts the beauty of your sentiment.

You tell me "I am yours" again,
so sure with your own dedication,
and I take advantage of your worship,
forgetting who follows in our shared religion:
our cult of two that want to be led by the hand,
and yet refuse to lead or assume the tallest stance.

Well I see the truth in us now love,
as I come to terms with our mortality.
And I prostrate before you, my dearest,
despite the fact you age and hurt just as I.
I will command you to ruin, my mortal Goddess,
for I know the futility of cherishing human flesh.
Our bodies wither with the passage of time, and so do the fires which burn ever so brightly in the depths of our hearts. This poem explores how focusing on these two things can lead to extreme and prolonged indulgence to a loved one and how it can seem like the most important thing in the world. We often worry about losing our loved ones, or the passion in relationships just dying, so this poem explores the realisation of that passion in the moment and the full indulgence of it to the point it reaches excess.
May 2017 · 498
Victor
Peter Watkins May 2017
I've had too many poems already
that indulge in self-pity...
Too many pleas and pleases that embody
some sort of crisis of being.
Guess it's my fault for writing as a teen?
Well, I'm going there again.

If I wanted to be a winner right now,
then the reward is here to take.
But even so close I don't feel like the victor,
even as my limbs begin to ache.
Even as my fingers wrap around the prize,
or my lips tease the taste of well earned sighs.

Because the final step scares me silly,
it could honestly cost me everything.
My family, my love, my job or pursuits,
my legacy tattered and torn:
all ironically because of academia and ego,
the things I exploit to reach my goals.

I'm a conflicted mind of thrashing ideas,
fighting to maintain dominance and clarity.
But then of course that means I just can't think,
as the purpose of my life seems only to shrink.
Wanting to be elite, to not give a ****,
yet caring for everything like it's my own: my fault, my luck.

And so I understand as I come to age,
that I could have it all if I only tried.
If I said goodbye to everything I love,
if I made the ultimate sacrifice...
If I went and killed myself, spilled the blood of empathy,
and drained myself to the point of cold, calculating uncaring...

But I guess I was always scared to die so young,
even if I tell myself it's everything I ever wanted.
I don't have the heart to spill my soul and take the trophy...
To win I have to destroy myself, and that isn't victory.
It's a stalemate, it's mutually assured destruction,
taking this path means no way back from the horizon.

And therein lies the problem...
I don't quite know if the grass,
is greener on the other side.
Just current feelings and nothing more. Exploring myself is a good source of poetry which I suppose it why I do it so **** frequently.
May 2017 · 434
God in his Hands
Peter Watkins May 2017
I'm barely thinking straight again,
dreaming and believing to dispel,
the ache of the mundane.
My workplace is often a hell of tedium.
But something has caught my eye...

Adrian: normal guy, Romanian,
hardly knows any English but
he slaps the dough as though a surgeon,
hands darting with a precision unmatched.
And there is a girl watching him...

In the waiting room, behind the glass,
her eyes grow wider with every revolution.
And Adrian is in his prime, with rehearsed grace
he throws dough left and right effortless.
And for once, I watch him like the girl...

Her perspective is stunning:
To her Adrian is juggling with planets,
and there's charm to his mundane mastery.
This man is nothing special, for I know him.
Yet is God in her eyes so young and mystified.

And that makes me realise,
that every man must be great somehow.
We can be heroes in the eyes of the young,
the pure impervious to the sin
and the unrelenting harshness of truth and reality.

Even the simplest man, devoid of feeling or emotion,
can be the deepest enigma to the unknowing, to the innocent.
Adrian is just a man to me,
to her... Adrian is a God amongst men.
A poem idea I stumbled across whilst day-dreaming at the pizza place I work at. Adrian is a real person, and his abilities in regard to handling dough no longer impress me as they did initially, since we all have to work hard to keep up with the pace of the store. But I saw this little girl staring and I realised that, in her eyes in that very moment, he was the most incredible person on the planet. This one's dedicated to you Adrian, and all the fathers we saw as Gods before reality gave us a hefty slap in the face.
Feb 2017 · 435
Grounded
Peter Watkins Feb 2017
I want to promise you the stars,
pledge to you my legs and arms:
my body yours to keep, my thoughts yours to shape...
But I know, in my heart of hearts, I will never deliver.

My love isn't boundless, and with you darling,
it's never going to be strong enough.
My riches aren't endless, and if anything,
my wealth comes only through how I bluff.
I've got to ground your dreams b'fore I love you:
my cynicism is as crippling as it is merciful...

Or rather, you call my words cynicism,
mistaking sensibility for the unprovoked:
my words embellished, set with hyperbole...
Yet I'm sure, sure as sure gets, that this will set you free.

You need to stop hushing me, I'll tell you the truth,
Whether you like it or not I could never be your hero...
And I probably won't be the last to try to be,
your beauty a treat to tempt my selfish gaze...
Yes I'd love you like I've never loved before,
but, my love, that will never be what you deserve.

Because I can't resign myself to those special words,
knowing, deeply, that "I love you" isn't the right term...
My eyes, my choked tone, all would give me away.
My heart a tyrant to my materialism: it stands to betray.

So hear me, properly, before you fall in my arms.
I'll kiss you, readily, before I fall for your charms.
And that kind of love: that aggressive, brash, stupid kind,
is far from the intimacy your paper-cut heart designed...
I see it in your eyes: the utter, complete infatuation...
Then look into mine: the bitter tempt of exploitation.

I want to promise to you, what you're getting into.
Pledge very little to that cutely-creased smile.
My body mine alone and my thoughts always my own...
But I know, in my heart of hearts, you will never understand.
Same theme of unrequited love but from a different perspective... It's not quite the same as with the previous one on unrequited, the main focus being centred around lust, but it certainly continues the theme.
Jan 2017 · 891
The Dilemma
Peter Watkins Jan 2017
The Bramleys shivered in the wind,
sprouting bloated from their trees.
And I travelled the winding roads between,
my friend whistling something soulful...
He was happy, and I should have been too.
The air so fragrant, the rolling hills of green, breath taking...

But I knew when we came here, I knew full well,
that this whole meeting would make us feel like hell...

All of my traction is failing me, control sapped,
sinking into trouble like a horse in a mud-trap...
I'm so desperate and worried and confused
because I don't have any more good choices left.
How am I supposed to act, what would be right,
with a friend overjoyed, and his girlfriend in flight?

She was in love with him, deeply so,
Until she met me and let herself go...

And now as I go to meet her, a shiver inside me,
I consider the messages she sent in private...
My friend is unbeknownst to this, and on he mumbles,
I said I'd keep him company and now I realise...
What a stupid decision, what a mistake,
a blunder, misfire, failure on my part: as a mate...

Then, before I can think further,
the paving gives way to her brown boots...

As he smiles so does she, but she catches my eye.
And her blue lakes are both soft but sharp...
Genuine compassion shines through to strike me,
mixing with the dangerously sharp glint of lust...
What we have is already wrong, even so early,
it's a subliminal, mutual understanding that just... Haunts me.

And when she extends a hand, shaking mine,
she squeezes just a little and the touch is... Divine, sublime...
The only real words I can find that rhyme,
such irony when I consider just how wrong this is.

And it doesn't take long until we're alone,
waiting for my friend in a Restaurant booth...
The leather seats run deep and luxurious,
and immediately she's scooting over to me.
Asking me questions, keeping my mind off him;
but he is all I can think about: empathetic overdrive.

So when her hands drift too close, her lips too pursed,
I tell her no like I've told her a thousand times before...
And just as always she's going on and on and on:
Until I Met You's and pathetic Me and Him Are Through's...

So I tell her "*******," at least in my mind,
and I get up without a word and go for the door...
My escape is made before my friend's return;
wind in hair, the bitterness makes my skin burn.
Then with clenched fists my pace quickens,
10:00 PM traffic virtually non-existent...

As always, I'm running from my problems.
Leaving the hardships instead of bearing them...
But what do I do, for him and her are ruined regardless?
What do I do... What do I do...
Taking the unrequited love a little further than in the last poem. What happens when a love triangle starts to develop, but one party is totally disinterested and only wants happiness for all? Well, according to this fictional poem, confusion ensues...
Jan 2017 · 1.9k
Freedom of the Mind
Peter Watkins Jan 2017
There are things you can't say,
and things you'll never do;
limits on physiology
and social tolerance.
Emotions that hold you back, laws that keep you strapped
and responsibilities you owe to the world you inhabit...

Fear of offence keeps your lips glued tight,
even when you have the answers...
The truth isn't something all want to say or hear,
even if it's the only way to brighten the future.
When their stare is crushing and their expectation's mounting,
it becomes very difficult to stand for what one believes in.

But thoughts don't hurt and are effortless,
thoughts solidify and they heal.
They reinforce our characters until we're whole,
and let us express without fear of ridicule.
We can be what we want, we can do what we want,
all at the cost of nothing but time and space of the mind.

You say true freedom is through communication,
being able to express yourself to others honestly, openly.
But such a method is only half of the equation
and is open to interference, to abuse, do you see?
Whilst people can shape you, proving you're incorrect,
they can also fool you, crush you, force you to admit you're wrong...
When you are not...

But you take a walk, in the glittering sands of a desert,
sun beating down on you as you stagger for days alone.
Enjoy the drooping dunes and hazy, hot horizon,
whilst listening to the mumblings of your disoriented mind.
With no one to talk to but your own senseless self,
sense will be achieved as your soul and mind eclipse

And whilst your soul will not be released from *******,
the cage of bone and prison of flesh still locked tight
and a ball of muscle pounding to keep you moving,
you shall come to terms with your soul, your true heritage.
Your thoughts will make sense, your mind will be cleansed,
and you will know who you truly are.

Sleeping under the black sky, in the freezing cold sands,
your closed eyelids will harbour their own universes...
And the day that death comes to take you away,
your soul will drift free of this terrible place,
to take up its throne amongst the planets and stars...
We make our own heavens, our own hells;
the demons monsters and angels are ultimately us in disguise...
And so we, together, are all set free.
This poem really changed as I was writing it to be honest, and became something bigger than I ever expected it to be. I hope you will enjoy this perspective on spirituality.
Jan 2017 · 906
The Distance Between
Peter Watkins Jan 2017
I see no energy in your posture,
no openness in your eyes.
Yet I can almost see it as though it's there,
sometimes I kid myself that you care...

I can't help but dramatise simplicity,
and embellish the mundane until it's untrue.
Discontent with intelligence,
bored with compliance,
what am I to do but pretend?

And I do pretend, I really do,
so I hope you can forgive me one day.
I've betrayed my composure,
torn off thoughts that enquire,
and exposure has become my every desire.

So when we're talking, mumbling,
all I count are the centimetres between...
So close but far,
physically beside,
but never mentally inside...

You'll never ever let me into you,
and I know that's the ultimate truth.
As I smell you when we talk,
or brush your elbow as we walk,
my pain and desperation grows...

Your presence starts to worry me,
as I examine every element of you...
I can't stop my eyes or my thoughts,
your clothes seem less a part, as though nought,
even when I recall how you told me no...

I am trapped here, my love,
within the distance between us.
Unrequited, the desire lingers indefinitely,
growing with every breath and stutter,
until it's like there's no distance at all...

Fear of the loss, yet desire for the gain,
are the pros and cons of love in vain.
I wanted to write another love poem, as these are always my favourite. This one is specifically about unrequited love, and what it does to the person experiencing it. The feeling is painful, and though one would gladly take friendship from someone they love, they're always going to wish that there was more; both physically and psychologically.
Jan 2017 · 772
Absolution
Peter Watkins Jan 2017
Is guilt a combination of the shame and empathy?
Is it an emotion, or a concept constructed by society?
Should I feel it, should I care for it and if I do,
then how can I ever be truly free...?

Should we do what it takes to better ourselves,
and should we disregard the lives of others,
and should we stay disconnected from our lovers,
fathers, sisters, and mothers...?
Social creatures by nature or by law?
What is the purpose of my empathy and guilt?

Why should I fall, and why should I feel pain,
for moments in the past that I will never touch again?
Hindsight is a wonderful thing, a golden thing,
but too golden for Human conditioning.
It's all tied to concepts of worth and hierarchy,
and my problem is I value everyone higher than me.

And I rattle on and on and on,
floundering in the dark like a blind man.
When will I ever see the truth and forget the stars
and think about the things that will be, that truly are?
When will I disregard the past, act in the present and look to the future;
vying for absolution provides nothing, it makes me a failure...

The only use for the past, the mistakes we made,
is to do things better, to do things right; let the "debts" go unpaid.
Just act from now better than you acted then...
Just a little poem about the pointlessness of guilt... Whilst guilt, empathy and other such emotions prevent us from committing certain heinous acts. I can't help but feel like it's misplaced sometimes, wasting valuable time and emotion when people can better themselves. I think people should stop trying to gain absolution, should stop regretting what they did, and instead should just continue with their lives, acting as they believe is right. Don't regret the past, it made you who you are.
Jan 2017 · 1.2k
The Hummingbird Quartet
Peter Watkins Jan 2017
From beneath amethyst blue skies and pearly white clouds,
dancing above the vibrancy of borrowed dreams;
fleeting as they are beautiful, and cold as they are profound,
the hummingbirds sing until the magic of morning unravels...
Their innocence is unspoiled, their voices untouched,
yet they know more of you and I than together we could claim.

They watch peacefully, swooping in a formation of four,
circling as they sing, diving as low as the lawn;
perching upon the fragile branches of trees with flexing claw,
the hummingbirds sing until the magic of morning draws...
With minds knowing nothing of violence, thinking not to fight,
they can't know all of us, our race readily inflicting plight.

Oh the quartet sings and sings without a cause,
their fragility crystallised into gentle vibrations;
the chirping, drawn with the depth of mother nature's love,
inspires men to wake and women to care for their sons...
They are nature's angels, the true angels:
singing to the dance of fate beneath that they are powerless to quell...
A gentle little poem about nature and her role in the natural course of the world. Specifically looks at hummingbirds during the crack of dawn and early morning.
Nov 2016 · 769
Cut of the Breeze
Peter Watkins Nov 2016
The dead are all too familiar here,
even along this peaceful path...

I can hear nothing but the gentle falling of leaves,
the deafening crunch of my boot upon them...
The sound's as intolerable as those I loved and believed:
the sounds of the fallen...

I can hear them now so vivid,
so real I feel my sorrows bite.

The feelings of my heart stronger than those of my skin,
as the chill sets in yet serves to keeps me conscious.
Even when I shiver I know it's not for the heat I'm bleeding,
I just can't stomach these memories.

Then as I stand still, so very still,
I breathe as deeply as ones lungs will.

The fresh, cool air does little to calm my nerves, holding arms bare,
scanning the mix of browns and blacks interlocking with the grey.
The gravel is beneath, so mundane in it's pale palette, with no alarm;
now embellished red, brown, black with the dead...

Such beauty, a tapestry to behold,
produced by fatalities on scales most bold.

Perhaps mother nature: with cool blue eyes, her darkest lipstick
and her sharpest scythe, has slain her sons with good reason...
My family, my friends, I miss them so dearly I could be sick;
yet I know as well as her it was their time...

She has severed the leaves from their trees,
slicing limbs with the cut of a breeze.

But this is the way it goes each year, and the way it always will,
as eternal life is just a legend for the ambitious and hopeful.
Weaving and curving and dancing through the wind, all red,
as beautiful in budding, in life, as it is now in death...

Such a single, insignificant leaf: now upon the road of millions...
The wind blows hard again, cold on my skin.
My time is yet to come.
Another poem about nature and the futility of chasing eternal life. It has a nice Autumn theme to it I find and is perfect for the cold season we're in.
Oct 2016 · 687
Jump
Peter Watkins Oct 2016
Don't just stand
don't just stare.
Expressionless and bland
is no way to raise hairs.
Mimic my hands, meet my gaze
and feel the sound building...
It's all energy, the pounding haze,
and you're practically blazing.

Jump! And don't stop,
don't you dare let up.
You want an uprising
you wanna feel something?
Well so do the others,
shouting, jumping, roaring.
We all want this, we all need this!
Show me too, lift your fists!

And jump! Mosh with the rest,
percussion pounds within your breast.
Guitar scrapes metallic and hard
and you're so pumped in the heat and dark.
You feel that crowd, they scream
and everything bites like a dream.
The sound is in you, in everyone,
and all at once you're just gone.

You jump! Part of this body,
all moving like a wave of mutiny.
Everyone calls for a change,
for reform and freedom we feel the rage.
It pushes us to move, pushes,
and we can't breathe under this rush.
The power is building, in the air and in my *****;
chord progressions, louder faster drums and a voice of guidance.

My voice, rising above the noise,
just as you rise from beneath the stage.
I see the fire in your eyes,
hear the heat in your impassioned cries.
It's hot, blazing with sudden danger,
as we all rile against the tide; we tire with ire.
I'm sick, your sick, we're furious
and we're not going to take it no more...

Jump to my voice, jump with the energy,
your countrymen empower you to mutiny!
It has been a long, long time since I wrote anything. I hope this small morsel is a worthy addition to my collection. Please give feedback below.
Jul 2016 · 688
Divine
Peter Watkins Jul 2016
Feeling the velvety twist inside,
crunching heart and stomach hard.
You want nothing more than her
even when the pleasure is such pain.
Your desire is boundless, oh yes it is,
why talk when there's so much bliss...

Tasting the red wine, mahogany in your throat,
and a warm burning in your chest and soul.
You know it's all going to **** you one day,
but you stuff your mouth full anyway.
This is your passion and pleasure, ****** infatuation,
the glorious taste dilutes through excessive consumption.

But you need ever more, more and more,
always more to make life less of a chore.
You're never happy, stuffed with ambition,
hoarding unconditionally for your own condition.
You need more, since your desire's a necessity.
You're tight, you're stingy, you never give to charity.

And you're lazy, too lazy for your own good.
You never do anything or act as you should.
Go outside, get a job, enjoy the world around you.
Start being productive, open your eyes and see the truth.
I'm divine and you need to be too,
stop being a sloth and get out of your room.

Why are you getting angry with me, friend?
I only seek to help and only aim to mend...
So there is hatred within you, a malice 'tward I,
and you desire, over all else, to ruin my life?
You need patience my child, again you must listen to what you need.
All you ever seem to want, are things brought about by greed.

It's only natural you would desire another life.
I mean, yours is so inconsequential and filled with strife.
Negativity pours out of you, as you stay at home,
and cry about being yourself, over what you happen to own.
You want better, you feel entitled to believe you deserve better,
and you want, more than anything, to be everything you're not.

However, you still stare at me as I speak,
fists clenched and emotions at their peak.
You still remain proud of your existence
and take great offence to my assistance.
Dear child, you don't know yourself or your desires;
believe when I tell you that divinity is all that matters.

If there was an eighth point (to which there is not)
that point would be you, unofficially I appoint you.
To my dear sinner, whom I only wish recovery,
your very existence is a sin in its entirety...
If you don't stop, you will rot, in hell you will rot.
For all eternity you shall suffer in damnation and I shall not.
Be divine, accept thy crime, and be purged of sin.
A religious rant from the Christian perspective based upon the seven sins. Is it right to consider lust and gluttony sins? Could they be considered sins against the body in addition to sins against God (since the body is the holy temple?) All of this is just food for thought, and I hope you enjoyed it.
Jul 2016 · 479
Offence
Peter Watkins Jul 2016
Offence is taken, not given, in our society today...

Political correctness, censorship in excess,
treading on egg shells as you talk to the press.
There's a bead of sweat, dripping down your neck,
as you only talk to please and impress.

Is this really the way we want to live our lives?

Locking our mouths, tossing the key,
telling us it's exactly what we need.
We should shut up, someone is hurt,
and so our words are reduced to dirt.

Is this free speech, within democracy?

Language degraded, to nothing but hatred,
when nothing but plain fact is presented.
When someone disagrees with a social movement:
without a thought, misogynist, racist, sexist, assailant!

But where is the freedom to choose?

There is freedom, there always was,
but I feel that it all could be lost.
When we lose our freedom to offend,
we only have the freedom to pretend.
You see, if a person can't disagree,
they are not being true to their own mentality.

And so I say, offence is taken and not given,
and it's all the same in our society today.
You can't move for "social justice" and police brutality,
ready to pounce because of a citizen's sensitivity.
It's time it ended, a man should be able to say his piece,
without being crushed by a chorus of "that hurt me, he's a beast!"
Something else on free speech. It's been a while and I've missed Hello Poetry dearly. It's good to get something out again.
Jul 2016 · 879
A Chapter Ends
Peter Watkins Jul 2016
My story has seen many a twist and turn
and it stretches out ahead of me like a highway.
But as my school days draw to a close, I yearn,
to take a walk back and stay a little longer.
It's hard to close the book and open another,
when I'm not done seeing the bigger picture.

This chapter is over and I have no choice.
Time is not my toy, this is reality.
And only now do I realise with my wavering voice,
how much everyone else means to me.
I am me because of these people: my greatest friends and enemies.
Every last one contributed to my destiny, shaping me entirely.

My last school trip, so clear in my mind,
and on the way back, a sudden understanding.
As I thought, how could I have been so blind?
5 years isn't a long time, I don't know anything.
It seemed like everything, the be all end all of life;
when really it was a prologue intended to entice.

My school years stood as a taste for the future,
results day will neatly bookend these years.
The people, places will remain as memories
and whilst we step deeper into our futures,
they will comfort us, push us, remind us
of days of happiness long gone and buried.

We will find joy elsewhere, meet new people,
forge new bonds that feel more mature and real.
I guarantee, we will grow, to be assets to society
and this single chapter, is inconsequential, in reality.
This tiny moment in the huge abyss of time is special,
however, my friends, it's something you hardly feel.

In the grand scheme of things, school will feel like a passing moment.
Right now, it feels like the end to a way of life and it's hard to stomach.
But old ends always mean new beginnings, so remember:
your life isn't over, you're just about to hit something higher.
How I see the end to my school years... It's sad and I'm going to miss it all, but there's more to life than education, It won't be long before the real action begins.
Jun 2016 · 513
Surfacing
Peter Watkins Jun 2016
Acting shameless though I have all the shame.
Uncaring despite desiring the blame.
Feeling empty with all I could need.
Wasting my time to avoid responsibility.

I never learned to love myself enough,
I never dared to hate myself too much.
I don't know what to think any more,
is this self-pity or a plea for remorse?

I can't reach the surface, can't see myself;
my inner self is drowning in intellectual wealth.
But I'm scared to break the hard surface
and face the problems I constantly dismiss.

I seem to be a walking catastrophe,
rejecting and welcoming philanthropy.
I'm a living hypocrite and I can't decide,
if my life has purpose or if I deserve to die.

What is my purpose and what should I stand for?
Why do I care so much for something I ignore?
I'm trying to solve the grand puzzle that is my life:
Born with the pieces, I've got to put them together right.

I can't even tread the wild waters of my heart and mind;
how do I face the exterior, when I'm so confused inside?
Just a nice little one about internal conflict.
May 2016 · 1.1k
Roadside Dreams
Peter Watkins May 2016
Always the road is long and arduous.
The objective distant, the journey perilous.
Above all, you need to be patient,
because the only way is persistence.

Though your feet may be bloodied
and your mettle truly tested,
it'll get easier as you progress
and it'll all be worth it in the end.
You may even get a lift, with luck,
from another who sees your merit.

Perhaps others will treat you poorer
and they will make your journey longer, harder...
Such toxic people should be avoided,
if you want to avoid the hard shoulder.
If need be, you can do this alone...
It's your journey, the route's not set in stone.

Maybe you'll gain companions:
lovers, friends, colleagues...
You'll exchange burdens, share care,
look after each other under one and other's stare.
This can be good, this can be distracting,
as long as it makes you happy, who's really counting?

Just don't let your dreams fall to the roadside.
Your ultimate goal, should never be thrown aside.
Trust yourself, know your limits,
but push yourself to the limit;
rise above the challenges and keep fighting,
until you finally get all you've been reaching.

The road was always long and arduous.
The objective now close, still it's perilous.
Above all, don't run out of patience,
because you still need persistence.
A metaphor for life in numerous ways. Life is a test of endurance with a little bit of luck. Some of us are dealt a better hand, to such a degree that not all of us can reach the top. But strong determination in the head of a steadfast personality can carry a person anywhere. Remember to keep trying and never give up; you can make it to that final goal!
May 2016 · 781
Toxicity
Peter Watkins May 2016
Sometimes your lips were like barbed wire,
and your arms, thick cable ties keeping me captive.
Your body was driving me, the illusion,
which brought me to tolerate your words of laceration.
And I did so much more for you,
I know in my heart that it's true.

You might loathe me now;
your hate growing, building to blow.
You might rewrite the past;
screaming, until you scream the last.
But I hate this more, I too could scream;
because I'm drawn to you like a moth to a flame.

Maybe I make it worse for us;
can't seem to let go, even if I've had enough.
I just can't bring myself to take the blame;
this is so one-sided I've got to fight your flame.
But, of course, I was always going to lose this;
there was nothing to be done when you were done.

I won't forget how you made me feel;
and now, you've brought me to the pinnacle.
Now it's like I can't get any more preoccupied with your perfection;
obsessed by the very thing that hates me, my pain in your rejection.
Tell me straight, admit that you're my suffering;
I can't confirm it because it's just a feeling.

You didn't explain why you left;
even if it's obvious that you wanted me dead.
I wish you'd have told me there and then;
you never explained all of your toxic intent.
But thanks to everything I'm a different person now;
an idiotic, hateful monster, too bitter to stow the shout.

For a righteous person, you weren't very right;
I always knew but didn't want to lose you at the time.
I should've never cared for you, for now I have a problem:
I'm drawn to this danger despite trying to seek asylum.
I just wanted some more excitement...
My attitude has brought toxicity, to this whole predicament.

But no matter how you feel.
I'll never forget the happiness you steal.
The poison remains in my veins;
product of your toxic logic and forever a stain.
Very much a mirroring of the poem "I Will Never Forget." It's about this character's more angry, pessimistic side as opposed to his/her calm and loving side (which was displayed in "I Will Never Forget") Both poems present a duality of emotion as the protagonist's feelings blend and bleed.
May 2016 · 602
Putting Things Straight
Peter Watkins May 2016
This piece: more for my benefit,
probably won't even be a good read.
But I care little, I need it,
just to get my bearings and feed my greed.

I've been reading my poetry, way back from the start.
I've always said I'm proud about everything on this account...
But recently, I've realised it was from a different heart.
I feel like I was a different person then and I need a new start.

Even the way I responded to comments, just wasn't me.
Too evasive, trying to please everyone, I've had enough of that.
I want to put things straight and write confidently;
it's no fun to find yourself disagreeing with your past.

I will keep them there anyway, all of it out in the open.
It makes my development as a person clear.
But from now on, my ideology will be blatant
and this doesn't just go for my presence here.

In my life, things have been complicated recently.
No one here needs to hear about it, people have it worse than I.
But I've not dealt with things well or even carefully
and so I need to tell myself that I'm going to try.

I need to be me and I need to do things right,
it's time that I learned to stand and fight.
No more avoidance, no more words, no excuses;
actual action with real outcome, breaking me out of stasis.

It probably doesn't make much sense to you.
Maybe it actually does and I'm just a fool...
I don't know and I don't care at the end of the day
because whether people like it or not, I'm here to stay.

I'm going to get up tomorrow and smile:
knowing everything, from now, will be my style.
If you feel like re-evaluating your life... Write a poem about it!
May 2016 · 796
Alien
Peter Watkins May 2016
I wake up with lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
there's a valley in my mind and memories are missing.

The metal of the roof curves to the walls,
harsh bed beneath me, I can't even crawl.
I'm looking around in disorientation,
all the metal panelling failing to give reason.
I force myself to sit up, every movement a mountain,
just as a door slides open and I wish I'd have stayed sleeping.

I think it's a she: eight eyes, four legs...
Probably two hearts to go with her one head.
I fall to the floor in shock, covering my eyes.
How did I get here and how long till I die?
But then, she speaks my tongue...
"Can you understand me Human?"

It's weird how she uses her legs,
like a spider crossed with a mammal.
Almost naked but for metal plates,
with long, bare arms like garden hoses.
I nod to her question, breathing heavy,
lifting me, she carries me very carefully.

She takes me through this building,
out through the rooms to an opening...
Down the landing gear, I start to realise,
this is no home but a starship of colossal size.
The planet's barren, brown; atmosphere hot
with scatterings of geysers lined with soot.

Her thin, bony finger points ahead;
in the distant horizon, deep green bleeds.
"The forests of our ancestors are so very close.
It won't be long now." her voice is strangely loose.
All of her deep purple eyes look down upon me,
and I ask so helplessly, "why am I even here? Listen to me."

I was found adrift in another vessel's wreckage.
Her name was Ivughah, she found me looking for salvage.
She'd taken me to safety, whilst on her race's pilgrimage,
against the word of her brethren, my life she'd saved.
She'd nursed me back to health, with 73 others aboard,
and stopped her sisters and brothers from cutting my life short.

Now I was here and along for the ride,
to the jungle, I followed her stride.
She told me of the universal translator.
Explaining it was how I understood her.
In a line formation, our group ploughed onward,
73 aliens, Ivughah and a Human now wayward.

It got hotter, sweat broke my brow...
I swore when I cut myself in the unfamiliar jungle.
Ivughah said I'd be fine, just as the vines grew thicker.
We struggled through, chopping, pushing farther.
Farther? Father... I couldn't even remember him,
how had I gotten to this point with chances so slim?

Eventually, my boots fell upon a clearing;
stone-like structures stretching and curving ahead.
The world was so unfamiliar, I was so lost,
but these aliens were in paradise; a different kind of "lost."
And it was only now that I'd understand,
as one of these creatures pointed its hand.

"It's time Ivughah, no need to be sad.
Do you want to tell the human?" I'd been had...
I turned to face her, but she couldn't face me
and a twinge of fear flirted with my soft sanity.
"Then I shall," the alien brandished a curved dagger,
"you are our vessel of rebirth, dear Brother."

They grabbed me before I could reach five paces;
hauling me towards their true leader, with snarling faces.
I screamed when the armed priest grabbed my hair,
"Ivughah," I roared, "help me! Please, I thought you cared!"
She was all I had but it seemed she had no choice,
as the priest spoke, she seemed even more effeminate in voice.

My saviour, Ivughah, was nowhere to be seen.
"Are all of you ready to be delivered?" the priest screamed.
There was a roar, as I was carried onwards.
The ruins grew denser as we grew deeper, my danger skyward.
Before I knew it, an altar was glimmering underground,
and I was spread across it like a sheet: secured and bound.

With eyes like bowling ***** I stared above,
at the eight-eyed monstrosity about to carve me up.
"And with this dagger, I slice away our curse,
standing above the rest, I forego the rebirth!"
Plunging downward, a golden tower into my chest,
I gasped with effort, at the cold of brushing with death.

Shaking, pulsing, growing, feeling... Alive.
Where am I now, what am I now? Strive...
I wake up with lashes fluttering like butterfly wings.
there's a valley in my mind and memories are missing.
A long, long tale about a Human in an alien world he doesn't understand. I think it can be seen on many levels. Anyone who's lost their memory and their identity becomes lost in the world they are in. Sometimes we grow comfortable in that world, or trust its inhabitants strongly, before finding ourselves moving somewhere else far sooner than we expected.
Apr 2016 · 697
I Will Never Forget
Peter Watkins Apr 2016
Your lips were like cushions;
your arms a refuge, from stress' blaring sirens.
Your body was the gate to paradise;
your words punctuated my very life.
But I didn't do the same for you;
you may not say it, but I know it's true.

You might ignore me now;
denial blocks like a shield of no's.
You might bury the past;
quiet, until  the very last moment.
But I'm not so evasive, I'm confident;
I won't forget the happiness, despite your ignorance.

Maybe I made you happy for a time;
you seemed to enjoy me, call upon me every night.
But I want the truth now my love;
I want to know, did you become bored of us?
Of course not, I never get a straight answer from you;
yeah, I know it was months ago, I know we're through!

But I won't forget how I felt;
right now, it feels worse than hell.
Now, it's like I'm trapped in purgatory;
a place between, where I'm both loathed and loved.
Tell me straight, face me, make your own stand;
I can't forget you because I still don't understand.

You never told me why you left;
I keep thinking and it goes round in my head.
I wish you'd have been more specific;
it never shows, but you've changed what makes me tick.
I'm a different person now;
my bitterness has become paramount.

For a lover, you were never very loving;
I realise now you weren't the only one hurting.
I only cared for you and that was my mistake;
I didn't realise I was taking damage enough to break.
I just wanted your happiness...
This attitude guaranteed sadness, for the two of us.

But no matter how you feel.
I'll never forget what was real.
Our smiles remain seared into my memory;
of days when we were happy...
About a break-up where one of the parties is confused as to why it happened. This person is making not only a plea but a vow to find out why it happened and explain they won't forget how things used to be.
Apr 2016 · 1.2k
Silent Awe
Peter Watkins Apr 2016
The world is gentle on my ears
and soothing to the eyes.
I feel I've finished with my fears,
as the silent emptiness, fills the emptiness inside.

For once my surroundings aren't blaring
and I can hear myself think.
The only noise in the canopy: birds chirping
and deer daintily skipping to the lake's blue tint.

Sitting cross-legged in fallen leaves
my pen scratches along the page.
I lack a certain elegance that nature achieves...
Mother nature's the show and I sit upon her stage.

In silent awe I scribble away to rustling trees.
Sunlight soothes my skin, the air is crisp
and the fresh scent of dew just completes it.
I am truly at peace: the sound of the lake, lapping against the beach...

With a sigh, I know we're missing this.
Our race, living in crowded city streets.
There is nothing more beautiful, than the natural;
our problem is our eternal search for a sight more wonderful.

When the answer is obvious, no search necessary.
It's right here, far away from everything man ever made.
Just a little poem about the greatness of nature. I think I need to find a subject matter I've not covered before honestly!
Mar 2016 · 819
Condemned
Peter Watkins Mar 2016
It was one of those nights...
Filled with rage, feeling like a fight,
I could've turned on anyone and taken a bite.
So I skulked in the darkest corner,
of the blackest club I could discover.
And I waited until someone pushed me...

No one would touch me...
Punks too weedy, needing someone "easy."
I watched them all night...
About three, pushing this woman around,
calling her "*****" pushing her down.
I'm so angry, my glass shatters in my hand...

Without hesitation I rise
and I see the sudden surprise in their eyes.
Blood drips from my fingertips...
I smile as they leave her and pull knives,
bracing for impact they flinch before they dive.
Through darkness, their lunges land pathetically.

I pull the shiv from the first
and push him into the second.
The third falls onto me so easily...
I puncture his body thrice and throw him down,
the other two come back as the heat makes me swoon.
I laugh hysterically as they brutally meet their doom...

Barmaid's shaking on the cold floor...
Yet, she tells me she can handle herself
as I offer her a bloodied hand...
I lift her to her feet and she smiles weakly,
drawn to me, naturally, I ask her to show me.
Just because I was bored, I've condemned the both of us...

We're running through the alley...
Out back, the cold night teases our skin
and the kiss completes our prelude to sin...
I know I'm as bad as those men,
but she doesn't see, I'm the one to blame.
My impulses, my life, is as evil as any petty ****...

In just months we're robbing houses...
Now partners, we're pulling guns on pensioners
and taking anything we can fence to buyers...
She now laughs when she sees blood,
she loves guns and the violent, visceral buzz.
We're both in this together, forever...

Drowning in naïvety and blinding sin...
We were never going to live forever and ever
nor were we going to pass on peacefully...
After a bank we'd bust wide open,
we were drowning in cash, every dollar stolen.
Before we knew it, our apartment door was blown wide.

We'd pulled guns without a single thought...
They wouldn't take us alive, as we opened fire
and pounded armour clad troopers with hell and brimstone.
Smoke choked us both, automatic fire blasted our ears
but we continued to fight through our tears.
I wasn't sure if it was the gas or just me...

I fell into the back-room with my own little sinner...
Barring the door as best we could, there was no way out
and as tear gas crept in we kissed to the law-men's shouts.
With the world collapsing around us, our hearts fearless,
we readied our weapons for one last push...
When the shots started firing, and I started dying, her ferocity made me blush.
The life of two criminals in a world of violence. By no means are these good people but it's interesting to see it from their perspectives.
Mar 2016 · 717
Disoriented
Peter Watkins Mar 2016
The carpet is soft against my bare feet,
red-black and yellow in its gentle heat.
Chandeliers sway above, portraits adorn the walls
and long drawn-out corridors make me feel small.
Windows remain closed, indestructible,
framing nothing but black, so I grow feeble.

I'm the only one in this glamorous prison...
The only soul wandering this lonesome place.
My hands tighten into fists; sharp nails,
biting into my flesh just to awaken my feelings.
Am I awake, or am I simply dreaming?
The pain won't wake me, even if I'm sleeping...

Doorway after doorway, wary of this place,
and still hunting for a way to escape.
It feels like someone is here, I can hear something.
Faintly, it's carried in the cool air, and I wonder if I'm dying.
As I grow closer, I realise it's music
and straining to hear, I feel no urgency or panic.

I have no idea where I am, no sense of what was.
Yet I feel no fear, no breathlessness, as though lifeless.
For some reason... I'm not scared, just simply lost.
In this house of grandeur I seek one thing the most.
Moving towards the music, searching slowly,
I hope to quell my mind's turmoil, and find my purpose...

I reach some double doors, punctuating the corridor
and now the music's so loud, it's hard to ignore.
Niggling at the back of my mind, burrowing in gently;
a warm resonance fills me as I open the doors readily.
Stepping inside the cavernous room, each inch carpeted,
I see no furniture, no people, just instruments absent of their masters.

The air is cold, the emptiness so strange it's wrong.
Slowly, I move to the instruments... Who'd played the song?
I have the compulsion to play something...
Knowing someone had been here, singing.
Guitar, drums, microphone... An old dusty piano.
The thick dust feels so cold, like snow...

My fingers, skim the keys as I move to the seat.
They draw dust like boots do Winter sleet.
And as I push them to full depth, in an elegant flourish,
dust rises, dances in the air, moving as though in a trance.
The sound is loud but gentle as it resonates so easily,
combining with my humming harmony...

I've broken the silence once more,
"what am I to do in this hall?"
And my darting fingers, moving tongue
"How do I escape from this purgatory so long?"
Are my only plea for help...
"Must I help myself?"

Momentarily, I lose myself in the melody.
Caught up in my mind, I forget my body.
I feel sadly about something, but I can't say what.
As though I'd suffered tragedy and can't recall it.
Again I'm lost, though more than before
and the notes my fingers spew work me like claws.

And as quickly as my harmony began, it ends...
I listen closely to the silence; gentle beeps bend reality.
Is that a heart beat monitor?
Someone explores their mind whilst they remain unconscious in a coma. This poem is about being lost in ones mind and feeling isolated as a result. With no memory, and no understanding of what's going on, it seems like a rather interesting but distressing experience. I wanted to capture what it would be like in this poem. I don't think it's quite perfect though...
Feb 2016 · 1.2k
The Glint in Your Eyes
Peter Watkins Feb 2016
A spark in the chasm of my heart.
A flash in the cold and the dark.
The spark inspired when your eyes are upon me;
connecting with my own like flint, only more gently.
But the effect is the same...

I feel a burst of energy, a slight rush of inadequacy,
and it feels as though you're too precious to look upon me.
The glint in your eyes is now a fire in my heart;
filling me with passion, and tearing me apart.
But the feeling doesn't hurt...

Instead it warms me, reviving feelings once lost.
Bringing to life, the fire that turned to ash and dust.
I never thought I'd find another to love, or cherish,
in this world, which felt so small and restrictive.
But you're better than she ever was...

And now the darkness inside is shimmering,
as though a moon, reflecting the sun of your eye.
I feel warm and wholesome when I'm with you, like I'm blessed;
it's so very wonderful when excitement tightens my chest.
But the day must draw to another close...

It's Friday again, whenever I'm with you.
Talking about nothing much with little to do
and I don't think you understand what you mean to me;
each time you flutter your black lashes so gently.
But it never really seemed to matter....

For all I ever needed was those chocolate brown eyes,
melting under a gentle heat and glowing with light.
Their glint turned me into someone else, inspired me,
to love once more, like I did before, so tenderly.
But why shouldn't we be something more?

Your voice is gentle, expression effortless,
and the crisp Spring air is now Winterless.
Still the fire burns, in your eyes and in my heart,
and I tell you that I've been given a new start.
Your smile, the only reply, brightens my world...
A new beginning for love, fast approaching.
I felt like writing another love poem... I thought I'd go for something a little more interesting. The kind of love which never seems to surpass friends even if it really should and leads to a person's caring side being revived. When another person is almost an inspiration for another, simply because they're so wonderful.
Feb 2016 · 731
Temptation
Peter Watkins Feb 2016
And so it starts, all over again.
A matter of the heart and long term pain.
The downfall of man, root of evil.
The great drive which just rules.
Temptation never made anyone.
Temptation just made life fun.

This is the feeling, the desire,
which makes us start fires.
The things we will do, to take,
to wake our sensations...
These actions are endless, limits boundless,
and if desperation strikes they become shameless.

She's the sort that you like,
but not the kind that you love.
A little too young to strike,
any kind of attraction or desire to commit.
You want her, to know what it's like.
Not knowing better, she gives you a bite.

Delicious, marvellous, ***** filth...
The self-hatred compliments your guilt.
You're fat because you pick up the cake,
you're killing yourself because you love the taste.
You're covered in scars because you suffer the ache,
you're cutting yourself to lighten your weight.

Such a burden, the world crushing you.
Only alleviated through pleasure shallow.
It's tempting to take the short road
and achieve satisfaction, lightening your load.
But it's only temporary, eventually,
you'll be gagging for another fix.

And the next fix is killing you!
Unable to stop you know that it's true.
Every taste as fleeting as it is pleasing;
searing, into your future, pain and suffering.
But sometimes, it's worth every second of loathing...
Just for the sensations that come with your sinning.

Set the world on fire, just to lighten her eyes.
Destroy your body, just to feel the heat rise...
I've touched on the subject of addiction previously but this gives the subject a different angle. It's tempting to take the easy road or have short term fun without considering the consequences; in most circumstances it can end up ruining you. But I suppose that doesn't make it any less fun at the time.
Feb 2016 · 1.3k
España
Peter Watkins Feb 2016
Exotic warmth and beauty,
upon golden, shimmering shores.
The people of lingual majesty
and a buzzing atmosphere to adore.
Bright, beautiful, blistering Spain;
it's where all go but few remain.

The beauty attracts tourists,
like a siren tempts lonely sailors.
Nights are spent, filled with bliss,
until maturity is once again favoured.
The people go home, back to boredom;
contemplate their next escape to this kingdom.

There's no alternative, nothing better
than the rural regions of mountainous beauty.
There's nothing more attractive, or exciting
than the snaking city streets of bustling fantasy.
This place is like another world:
a little escape from the hell we call Earth...
Pretty short (like most of my material nowadays) but I'm happy with it. I hope you all enjoy the more relaxed theme for this one.
Feb 2016 · 898
Empathy
Peter Watkins Feb 2016
Chaos is close, within realities grasp.
There's a fine line, halting turmoil's pass.
Laws, governments, punishments and above all,
the feelings of man: they'll build him tall, or make him crawl.
If it weren't for empathy, we'd steal and cheat,
without worry for another's life, we'd **** to eat.
It's a shame the anger still persists,
because it makes me feel like this...

I want to hit something, without doing the harm.
I want to bust a building, without tearing it down.
I'd break your nose and watch you cry,
I'd snap your knees and gouge your eyes,
I'd smash you in two and let you die,
if only my conscious didn't rule my life.
I can't tell, if it makes me strong or weak...
Does my empathy move me, or match my mind's physique?

I'd like to **** you, without having you die.
I'd like to burn you alive, without watching you fry.
I'd take an axe to your clammy, quivering skin,
I'd get a dump truck and through you flailing in,
I'd do the greatest sin by you, I'd do everything.
If only it didn't ruin your life, and mine, and many others;
if only I didn't feel bad for the mess that would never blow over...

If I didn't care, I'd ****;
I'd be driven to the thrill.
If anyone wants to use what little is here for song lyrics then go ahead. I think they'd work well in a song. I hope you enjoyed.
Jan 2016 · 885
Iron
Peter Watkins Jan 2016
Heavy and metallic, so rough and harsh.
conductive, electric, dense not sparse.
Iron is an element which conveys so much,
making us think of empires turned to dust.
Reminding us of the callous, the strong, the dangerous
but also demonstrating how everything will cease existence.

So often confused with steel, a gun,
the engraved chambering cold on the thumb.
Iron is hot, used to cauterise and blot,
it's harsh surface suggests violence and evil's rot.
But it's real, it's tangible, it's hard
Iron is a reality which is neither close nor far.

Iron is here, iron is now, an age of violence;
a time where governments bomb to force silence.
Corruption is thick, times are tough,
people are callous and the clothes rough.
Everyone wants to **** everyone, aid through brutality
and no problems are solved as the world escapes normality.

I see harshness, I see pulsing energy, I see strength,
but I also see stupidity, arrogance, carelessness...
History will repeat itself, an age of fear and death,
and mark my words, when we turn the new leaf,
nothing will be learned, nothing will be gained
and reality will continue as it always has reigned.

Our reality will remain as hard as iron...
Violence, Impulse, Power; it may never change...
Just an interesting little raw poem about the world in general and how this is comparable to the element iron. I hope it was entertaining.
Jan 2016 · 1000
David Bowie
Peter Watkins Jan 2016
Man
Actor
Saint
Artist
Dreamer
Musician
Creator...

The man who sold his own world
to make the world around him a brighter place...
David Bowie is an ingenious man whom is more than deserving of respect and remembrance. His music provided the roots of a lot of music today, in rock and electronic genres (even some progressive genres) In addition to his music, which can also be appreciated artistically, he starred in multiple movies and was a major figure in pop culture. This is my tribute to him... David Bowie, may you rest in piece; you didn't deserve to be taken so suddenly.
Jan 2016 · 827
...And The World Burns
Peter Watkins Jan 2016
There's fire in your eyes, an edge in your lies,
and a twisted smile as the world writhes.
You watch everything burn and you yearn,
to have the hot ground smouldering in your palm.
You want to have everything, needing ultimate control
you destroy all to ensure you're the primary role...

So the world burns, crackling and snarling in your eyes,
spitting ash and ember from the hatred infused fires.
You knew you'd never have it, undamaged and clean
so you took it, without an inkling of mercy, fulfilling your dream.
By destroying it, you broke everybody else's grip; you took the step,
into territory no one dared tread, bombing until there was nothing left.

You're the monster amidst men
and I'm surprised I'm not dead.
For those that don't support you
find themselves to be condemned.
Do I scare you, do I threaten you?
I hope to God that I do...
Just a small poem on the powerful people in the world who have the ability to end the world with a single order. There are very few people, if any, that deserve that kind of power.
Jan 2016 · 1.0k
Stunned
Peter Watkins Jan 2016
I can write thousands of lines,
detailing why beauty is a lie...
How it has condemned thousands of lives
and why it matters little and often ends in vanity.
I can crush the idea, reject the sentiment,
and have already favoured imperfection.
But these lines, this vocabulary so vibrant,
shall finally relish in beauty's delectation.

Beauty is beauty, no matter how hollow
and passion is passion no matter how shallow.
To be stunned, unmoving in someone's presence,
is not a small, perverted thing; it's our very essence.
Our nature, our passion, the things that make us human
manifesting themselves in stupidity and emotion so tiresome.
But it never gets tiresome, it never gets old,
picking that person out of the crowd and losing hold...

The moment you blink, or pinch your skin,
just to make sure you're seeing something.
To ensure you're awake, with head light,
you think about how you got here tonight
and you stare and stare and stare...
Just enchanted, unsure if you can even talk to her.
That moment of grating apprehension,
is the beginning (and ending) of Cupid's invitation.

Because you can't move, you can't blink,
few syllables escape your lips as you can't think.
Those deep blue eyes have frozen you to a statue
and the whip-crack of her black hair has you shattered.
You feel like you're in pieces, you feel as though you're at her knees...
How is she so beautiful, how does she not see? Herself and me...
Then you realise, she can't see you, not ever
because then she'd speak to you and you'd die from fever.

Utterly destroyed, broken, stuck in a stalemate
and cowering, in fear of only drawing her hate.
You want her, you need her, she's at the worlds centre
and for a time, her love doesn't even matter.
You adore her features, her voice of angelic melody
and her voluptuous curves drawing your eyes to her body.
For a moment, you take pleasure in her beauty
and then you're wondering, could this ever be?

You're back to being stunned, will she notice you?
You blink and she's near, of course she will.
Then she's looking at you, extending a hand;
and taller than you, your hairs stand on end.
You smile weakly, say something stupid, kick yourself
and she smiles at you, she smiles and you worry for your health.
For her stare, her happiness, makes your heart pound harder;
fearing heart attack, you don't know if you can go any farther.

Her voice is like velvet to your ears, you swoon
and soon you're dancing to her effortless tune.
She is everything, after doing completely nothing
and you desire her happiness more than anything.
You'd die, just to preserve her effortless perfection
but you can't even word your boundless affection.
For this girl doesn't see what you see, she sees little beauty;
when her eyes meet the mirror, they feed frustration gently.

It's a pity, that she doesn't see what your eyes do
but who can say which perception is truth?
Both are true, in one way or another
as a Human's perception is a world builder.
So long as beauty inspires and stuns
another Human is flooded with emotions.
These emotions excite us, they make our world less mundane
and witnessing something beautiful is the highway to pleasure and pain.
This one is for the power of beauty in the physical form. I tend to neglect it as it very rarely matters in the grand scheme of things. But I can't deny it's power; as human beings we're always slaves to the beautiful and the charismatic.
Dec 2015 · 481
Hatred
Peter Watkins Dec 2015
Such a powerful emotion,
tall, strong, defying compassion.
With heat and toil it scorches the soul,
until blackened, burned and impure.
Inspired by betrayal and monstrous acts,
or the thwarting of devious plots;
hatred is what it is, in either circumstance,
always twisted and vicious in every instance...

No matter how black,
no matter how monstrously dark
it can have glimmering results
and bring the righteous to the pinnacle.
It is an emotion which can carry a nation
whilst bringing another to the gutter of deprivation.
It's also an emotion which blackens hearts,
darkens the mind and sprouts sharp spines within morality.

Under the influence of hatred,
a man may turn from loved to hated.
A hated man may become loved...
But, whatever the case,
hatred ultimately turns a pacifist to cold blood.
A poem which encapsulates the emotion of hatred and what it has the power to do.
Dec 2015 · 696
Many Deaths
Peter Watkins Dec 2015
I've been slashed to ribbons,
impaled, gutted, bludgeoned.
I've felt my head cave in under a mace
and even watched my limbs sliced clean away.
Again and again, I've witnessed this
but I just keep getting up, climbing out the mental mist.

I don't wish it, I want to die forever,
I desire eternal rest like sharp pain demands ether.
But, when mist descends over my mind,
at the point my heart stops and I've died
my body sparks in resilience, my wounds heal
and consciousness sparks sharp pains feel.

I get up choking, in some alley somewhere
numb with scars or broken bones and scared.
Afraid not of the pain, the disorientation
but the feeling that I can't find salvation...
I'm terrified, I'm screaming, I can't breathe
because I've lost my mortality and there's no way to leave!

I've lived many lives, had many deaths
and over thousands of years I've taken countless breaths.
I've fought for so long, used my gift in so many ways,
I've solved world problems only to see evil rise anyway.
Only now do I see the futility, the hypocrisy,
the monstrosity which sprouts inside our hearts of idiocy.

Only now, confound it, do I truly give in.
Even as my skin prickles, healing until pristine.
I've had many loves, even more companions
and I've watched them die whilst I carry on.
I've seen people age, I've seen them pass away, I've cried;
I've roared and screamed for death, in living agony I tried.

Immortality is torture if it's eternal,
since it's something the mind can't handle.
I've lost everything I ever cared about
and felt so final, only to rise through fitful shouts.
To me, death feels like the cure and life the virus,
simply because it's what I haven't seen through my tired iris.

The world seems so unreal, it's changed so much,
yet it's so much of the same, déjà vu turning my mind to mush.
Humanity makes the same mistakes over and over,
and I feel my frustration bubbling into fury and anger.
I want death because it's what I can't have, how Human of me...
I wouldn't desire it if I could get it so very easily.
I was thinking about the philosophical implications of immortality and came out with this poem. My thoughts were sparked by the masterful adventure game "Planescape Torment" by "Black Isle Studios" and I came out with this by the end of it. It's an interesting prospect, eternal immortality. I suppose that the overlying message of this poem is, careful what you wish for.
Dec 2015 · 768
Untitled
Peter Watkins Dec 2015
I see God every day.
The mirror gives way to my face.
I see him staring,
and I know he's me, still yawning,
bored of this life, these cleanly cut clothes
and all of this hatred and evil enthroned.

So I took a stand, I said my piece,
I took a stand and rose over the least.
Above and beyond what people expected
I pushed and pushed until I was accepted;
until people looked at me and understood
that I wouldn't settle for less than good.

I see your Gods, your fickle idles
and laugh cruelly at your prayers so trivial.
You are your own God, take control
and stop trusting books centuries old.
You can learn a great deal, lessons to be had
but they won't bring your mother back to your hand...

Die crying,
die praying,
die over papyrus with pages fraying,
it's all the same to me.
For whilst you pray and cry and *****,
I'll be trying my hardest to sew Earth's stitch.

Our world is wounded and all you can do
is ask for the protection of a thing you never knew.
What if Earth's all we've got,
what if that's it, the lot?
What if we die, forever...
What does your faith count for then?

A symbol for good, an example of righteousness?
Is it even that?
Just some thoughts to throw around, nothing special. I didn't even think of a title.
Dec 2015 · 817
In Shadow
Peter Watkins Dec 2015
My movement, slick and fast,
easily gliding through darkness
slipping between shadows, past guards
and around light pools so effortless.
No one can see me, no one can touch me
and if they tried, life would never again be easy.

Torch lit hallways, so irritant;
snagging the dark, my cloak and armour.
It's so difficult, to stay silent
when I lose the power of my protector.
The dark my only friend, my only way
and the evil intent I require, to stay a thief each day.

As the rich sleep, the hypocrites in their cocoons,
I leap from roof to roof and across the cobbles.
Whilst they dream of gold and women, they swoon
and I pocket everything they own, leaving only rubble.
I need to stay alive somehow, and I hate them.
I have this talent, it hurts them; it's a good system.

I contemplate slitting their throats in the night,
but it's far better to give them this lesson.
Waking with their people, head hurting and chest tight,
only to find their life destroyed, their name forgotten.
With nothing of value but their estate, they realise,
that little was separating them from the people they despise.

It's funny, how vanity blinds people
and even more comical, when I outsmart them.
I leap, in silence, from steeple to steeple
as intoxicated guards stumble in delirium.
It's too easy to ruin the rich, to devastate them
because a thief isn't expected until then.
Just a short tale about a thief. I needed to write something, it's been too long.
Nov 2015 · 1.1k
Suffering
Peter Watkins Nov 2015
Hiding in deep, thick darkness
that resides in the minds of the tasteless
is a pain so great and terrible;
it spills from mouths like ink across a table.
It's thick and dark and has such potential
but is only wasted, leaving a stain, an ugly mark.

This pain is transferred so brutally, more often than not,
a beaten child only a seed, an egg, a vessel for pain, a blotter;
a human that may one day take everything from another
because their father has pushed an abyss into the place of a mother.
That place where her image should be, is simply a hole,
and it can't be filled, ever, by anything other, than a comforting role.

So the fist the child took is all the child knows
and it doesn't know how to show what this pain is like to bear.
Writing's too complicated, music too tedious, life's too hard
smash the guitar, smash everything, let nothing push you too far.
Push back, share the pain, the never ending suffering
transferred from the child to the world because it's soothing.

The child nothing more than a conduit for pure hatred and pain,
unaltered, by this point, by pity and love and counselling.
All of the energy building inside until everything blows out
and is wasted like spilled ink, message unclear and mess imminent...
Everyone can see his pain and now those that saw have it,
the epidemic of suffering conquering those that cared just a little bit.

How's it fair, that those that care,
are the most likely to accept the pain people share.
Why should the nicest of us be the ones to suffer?
Why must the world take advantage of kindness and honour?
If suffering is what the good and just deserve
then what can we say about ourselves, our world, our culture; the nerve!
The nerve to tell me this is God's plan, a God wouldn't do this,
the **** populating Earth are the ones that demolish bliss.

We're all animals, fighting for survival and trivial *******.
If we were civilised, we'd realise suffering doesn't need to exist.
Wake up, understand, this isn't anyone's fault but mine and yours.
Sheathe your sharp tongue and you'll be opening very bright doors.
There's a lot mixed in with this one. The domestic violence was only an example of the massive variation of suffering happening in the world today, when it's completely unnecessary. I find that most pain doesn't need to be felt in this age. There's enough wealth and resource to give EVERYBODY a good standard of living and if EVERYBODY acted well to each other then Earth would be paradise. But Governments are just as foul, corporations greedier and richer and slimier than ever and people only continue being sour with one and other. At this rate, everything will be dead and we'll only have ourselves to blame. What if there's no heaven or hell? What if Earth is all we have? Please don't **** over the only thing our primitive perceptions make us certain of. Earth and each other are the only things we truly have and need, so don't throw those away.
Nov 2015 · 496
Small From Here
Peter Watkins Nov 2015
You're so very beautiful...
Live with me, like you promised to.
Come away from that edge, like I told you
and quit telling me the world wants to **** you...

I can see, you're shivering in the night's air
and it's not the fear of the 20 storey stare...
All of that open space, below your dangling pale feet,
making you seem so much bigger than the dark streets.
None of it scares you, but you still shiver in your own arms,
because the cold still bites with vicious teeth and does you harm.

Can't you see, even this feeling carries meaning?
The numbing cold; doesn't it show you what you're losing.
In a world where there is feeling, as a Human being,
you're bound to feel pain because it tells you you're dying.
But it reminds you that you're alive, you're still alive,
so pick life, tell death a lie and choose to rise.

The world is so small from up here,
so stay with me and keep it small my dear.
If you leapt and plunged towards the street,
you'd realise how small you are and die in fear.
You're better than that, stronger than this pain,
so come from the ledge and into my arms again.
And promise me, that next time you'll refrain
from this idea that you must die when you feel pain...
This one's similar to the other one I wrote about suicide, but instead it's from the perspective of the saviour. I thought it would be interesting to write about and put all of these feelings, emotions and ideas into a single poem.
Oct 2015 · 830
A Place in History
Peter Watkins Oct 2015
This place, these words, this space,
is not used to put ideas into paraphrase.
I don't dedicate this poem to philosophy,
nor to depth or message or harsh reality;
but to something which I value double as much:
your smile, your actions, your words, your touch...

And the thousand other things you do,
all of it so perfect I stick to you like glue.
Hanging off your every word, shaking at your every touch,
telling you I need you even if I've told you way too much.
My future felt like it was hiding from me,
but with you, it shows itself so clearly.

So these words exist here, dedicated to this love we share,
an eternal bastion for your precious life and loving stare.
A permanent reminder, a poignant demonstrator
which shows every reader how special you were to the writer.
You're my star, my guiding light, the only thing that feels right
and when I look at you, everything in my life just seems so bright.

You gave me this skip in my step,
this smile every time you move your lips.
You rewarded me with complete bliss,
just because I happened to exist.
Yet you tell me that you're not the best...
What more could I ask from a Goddess?

This love you gave me is special
and now it won't ever feel feeble.
It's forever here, documented for all to see
and it'll outlast us so very easily.
I suppose it's my way of making us surpass
the mere one hundred years our bodies last.
Another love poem which is dedicated to someone very special to me. I imagine you know who you are.
Oct 2015 · 872
Glimmer
Peter Watkins Oct 2015
From amidst sparkling rocks,
the water surges and froths,
over rocky peaks and deep into the floral lake;
creating a tall shimmering waterfall of splendour great.
I can see stone, grey with boredom, through the water's thin façade
and I swim out to the falling blue to see past the glimmering shards.

As a million shimmering geckos
sliver away from the water and disturbance,
I climb through the falling moisture, still warm after the swim
and see a shallow cave where I almost have to crouch to get in.
The sun refracts into the hidden chasm, projected onto tired old rock
and it turns the dark hidden space into a place of purple lilac.

I sigh and sit inside the hidden cave,
the rock sodden and smooth as marble but no builder's slave.
Never shaped to suit a purpose or built to stand the test of time;
formed naturally like you or I and still managing to be mundanely sublime.
I think and I think and I think in this place of beauty
about the crime I've committed and if they'll ever find me.
Even the foulest of criminals can see true beauty, it's simply that they choose not to talk about it or even value it. They know that we're all nothing but ****, destroying our planet to continue the growth of our race and they can't empathise with anyone because of that. This criminal sees beauty in the natural formation of the waterfall and hides himself within it; not only to remain safe but to consider what he's done.
Oct 2015 · 461
The Means to an End
Peter Watkins Oct 2015
My whole world, is encased,
in barriers and safety nets and soft padded walls.
You won't let me slip away, though my mind is laced,
with all the sour thoughts you continue to ignore.
I want to die, to cry, to at least go awry for a little while;
I don't want the security you give me with your smile.

I can't even look at a knife
without your hands over my eyes.
You might not want me to end my life
but your permanent protection makes me want to try.
You tell me, you want to help me, but what kind of friend
keeps me captive and won't give me the means to an end.

I must sound so sick and twisted,
so ungrateful and evil in the way I talk to you.
But that was always the way I acted
and still I couldn't make you ditch me for a life more useful.
I'm the garbage you stopped from being thrown in the trash,
you keep saying I'm a gem but that doesn't change any of the facts.

I do nothing for you, for the world,
I'm as disposable as a ****.
I don't care if you care for me, I want to be free,
so just let me walk carelessly
and do what I feel needs to be done.
I've flirted with the theme of Euthanasia before but this is a poem written from the perspective of a suicidal individual. It details their relationship with their only saviour and their rejection of this persons help.
Sep 2015 · 1.6k
The Solution
Peter Watkins Sep 2015
I'm the sin, the very thing
that you refuse to believe in.
The solution to your problem,
the final step to cold, red redemption.

My hands act under your command,
my mind yours to dictate and bend.
All I ask, is you pay well, and I'll act
as is required to finalise our pact.

If you require death directed upon someone,
I can supply death, to whomever: the old and young.
I will leave no trace whilst efficiently killing them
however difficult it might be, I can solve your problem.

You might not like me, you may hate the act,
all I ask, is that you pay me for my tact.
If you summon me, need me, you're as bad as me,
but you can blame me; I only want the money.

I am both a solution and a murderer,
the dark part of man's mind that most fear.
I do that which other's can't handle, I am the weapon,
the people whom pay me, are the users of my lethal orientation.

Who's the most evil, I or my users,
I care little as long as I have pounds, euros, dollars...
A poem about a cold hard assassin whom cares for nothing more than money.
Sep 2015 · 1.0k
Pale
Peter Watkins Sep 2015
The moon hung high, casting shade
and causing shadow to spring from graves.
The yard, littered with headstones, was soaked
in the grey, pale light the sick moon puked.
But between them, on the narrow path,
walks a wondrous sight from ages passed.

She's hardly discernible, in the blanketed gloom.
Of pale skin, she appears thin, whilst her figure looms.
The shadows seem to reach for her, as though in prayer;
from the grave stones they cling to nothing but her figure.
She wears the night like a cloak, so boundlessly thick
that her pale skin glows in the pitch black thickets like a star.

All becomes clear, in but a moment,
as the darkness bears skin, peeling by the instant.
Exposed bone, juts from rotten flesh
and disjointed, chewed fingers reach for the entrance.
Her pale dead stare, looks to the village
and she knows that one day she will be beautiful again...
A compact, gothic tale which is sure to rustle your jimmies.
Sep 2015 · 498
Sole Survivor
Peter Watkins Sep 2015
I'm the only one left moving,
the only person left feeling.
But I can't help hoping, for a sudden end.
I keep finding myself defying,
fates both brutal and jarring.
Only to find myself justifying, my own death.

I'm clutching a dagger, steel cold against my palm,
back pressed against a wall with fever like ******.
I can barely breathe as they scour the rooms,
the epiphany reaching me, as I realise all but me are doomed.
I stumble as I hear the shots, despite the fact, they're not for me.
The screams scrutinise, and though I'm intact, the sound is almost deadly.

One of them rounds the corner, he sees me...
I don't give him a moment, I don't make it easy.
Like I trained, between the eyes, **** or be killed.
I catch his gun mid-fall and turn it on the rest;
The room is alight before his corpse hits the floor.
Muzzle flare and murals of gore explode in a great roar.

Hunted and wanted, all I know is pain and hatred,
as I stumble through lightly illuminated streets, of cobbles faded.
The sole survivor, the one to make it out the other end,
through seas of armoured men and metal jacket deployed to "mend".
If I'm evil, then why do I fight for survival
and not for fame and fortune...?
An interesting action oriented poem for your delectation.
Sep 2015 · 1.7k
Desert Temptress
Peter Watkins Sep 2015
Feet bare and warm,
throwing sand as though a storm;
they delicately spiral
like the bangles and silks that adorn her.
A pounding beat, resounds long into the night;
the bronze sunset darkening with exotic complexion.
A simple whip, of jet black hair, quenches her face of light
and hides her happiness, in swathes of fluid, joyous movement.

Emotion stolen, envy given,
as I watch the darting ribbon;
snaking through the black and drooping to the sands,
leading my darting eyes into exotic lands, ideas formed from splayed hands.
I marvel at her freedom, eyes which hold a thousand dunes
and earrings which glitter like just as many jewels upon a blue moonlit pool.
Her movement is like liquid, clear as water but kicking like *****
and I know that she's a warrior for, I'll never be able to match her.

A guide, a star, a symbol;
of a world both complex and beautiful.
A poem which I felt like writing after listening to Queenryche's "Desert Dance". I wanted to capture the beat, rhythm, beauty and spice associated with a desert dance. I quite like it.
Sep 2015 · 732
Ashen Birth
Peter Watkins Sep 2015
Everyone screams, I scream,
unable to keep ourselves calm
as fire envelopes all,
like sentient, malicious ******.
You stand beside me and do the same
as we come to terms with the pain.

Conscious of holding your hand,
I focus only on that grip,
as the pain's so strong I can barely stand.
You're beginning to slip away.
Of course you're having the same thoughts,
I'm dying with you as our hands melt together.

Out of everything, I can't help hoping that somehow,
I'll be able to see you again.
Because only now do I understand how you looked at me
and how beautiful you were under that skin; I was so greedy.
And I regret it all, needlessly tossing my life to the wind,
only to have the same thing happen to my body and mind.

I don't think I ever deserved you,
yet there's nothing to say now.
As a dying star envelopes astral bodies,
all that exists is destruction and creation.
All that was, obliterated in moments,
so the future may unfold in silence.

All statements profound, erased
like rubber to paper, simple and brutal.
Erased to make room for further futility:
a clear slate to start from scratch,
a new foundation to build upon,
new concepts to obliterate.

Yet, it's not all in vain,
now that I come to think of this pain.
Our ideas, our very existences leave scars,
of which are so strong, they carry over, unlike the dying stars.
The scars will still remain, upon me, upon you, upon this universe
even when we all rise from the cosmic ashes again filled with mortal thirst.

One way or another, I'll be back,
in another form or plane, I will rise.
And I swear that I will find you,
when the destruction ends
and the creation begins from rekindled ashes.
Not even mortality shall stop my word.

Within our last moments, those final charred breaths,
I can sense your inner peace and sorrow, escaping your chest.
I haven't the strength to pull you closer,
haven't the power to repel nature.
But as I feel greatness overcome me, I leave my body
and it feels like a million volts of electricity flowing through me.

I've nothing to fear, everything to love,
nothing to fight, everything to say.
I was inspired to write this poem by the band In This Moment. A lot of their "end of the world songs" as I like to call them, are really powerful.
Sep 2015 · 1.1k
Don't Worry
Peter Watkins Sep 2015
"Go back to sleep,
close your eyes,
be a sheep, witness the lies
and please don't cry.
All will be well,
when the sun rises again.
Meanwhile, you have to
live the pain right through.
Drink the poison, like you were taught too
because better times are on the horizon..."

You tell everyone this, like they're children.
Even when there are people bleeding, over the horizon.
You fear the enquiry, your own people's word,
like a child expresses opinion: loud but afraid to be heard.
You scream and shout and do what you like,
trying to subvert the blame and failing to explain why.
All we ever get, all you ever say when cornered,
is that it's not our concern and you're looking after the world.
Better in the long run, victory on the horizon,
stalling so much I've noticed very little change in this tedium.

Generations have waited and waited
but a perfect world never surfaced.
Again you tell us not to worry, it's in our heads,
you're all trying your hardest whilst we lay in our beds.
We give you our wages, we consider you our leaders,
but you all feed us your lies and hypocrisy like corrupt dealers,
promoting your peace while endorsing war for prosperity.
It seems like when I open my eyes, I see you're the real enemy.
Why must we fight for you, to get to heaven, why must we be tested?
Why not have heaven here on Earth and stop the actions so primitive?

You say don't worry to hide the secrets from us and profit in the process.
A world where classified means secret and your word can only ever be *******.
Meanwhile you interpret your people's as exactly that, with dismissal.
Only realising when the sky comes crashing down and that nightmare is real.
Well I know we don't need you and I worry for our world...
As for you, you certainly should worry about the hate you build.
With you at the helm, leading us blindfold,
how do I know we're going to paradise like you told us?
It feels like we're going the wrong way,
my government, religion, ideology is leading me astray...
Speaks for itself I suppose, haha.
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