Well if you return to a tree that’s rotten inside and make a table.

It’s never going to hold up the fruits
of tomorrow.

Only spoil on the floor of tomorrow.

With regrets that will never bear the
Fruits of fruition. All will be seedless...

To those who’s voices enclose them in a tomb of closet silence.
Where we can look outward but breath
ever so deeply.

Yearning to clasp on to the words
of others but we sit static and hold our hands outward.

But realise that sometimes no matter
our yearning we grasp upon our own thoughts looking inward.

I’m me, I’m myself, I can look outward
but existentially I’ll delve inward
looking upon my own worth.

My realistic version of what
I’m to become.
My past may be scared,
deeply penetrated , never showing
the depth of my sorrow for I only smile.

Fragmented within my inner depths.
Waves may look placid.
But there are only fragmentation
symmetry of delusions.

We are all fractured, but never showing anything but perfection.
Even though we are just cracks
soothed out.

Decoded underneath softly cleaved decryptions of our showcase  of feelings.

Like a work horse,
My body feels worn.
I can’t turn the soil
Of life everyday..

I think I need to be euthanised..
Or at least hibernate
for the weekend.

Painkillers eaten like skittles..

Four varieties of woes..
My body the water,
The pills skimming
Across my Pain threshold..

Hidden disabilities,
a hide an seek of explanations.
You ill today.. sighs..
I’m Forever Sighing,
At the ignorance of others

The poor can bleed while the rich do feed, upon the wars and that they hang around there necks. skulks of the fallen collected never buried but trophy’s of the greed that fed the blood soaked bills that passed from hand to hand. Like bullets passing through flesh, only the poor die, while the rich say more to fed the machine of greed that is never fulfilled until the last drop is cleaved with a bomb or bullet. And the poor due alone and hungry not able to buy a bullet to end there suffering, but enough to end another in a war that all had forgotten.

I’m standing there..
for an external motion of static stillness, motionless like Greek statues.
Realistic but unmoving,
wait also clothed, just saying for clarity.

A motorway of vehicles passing.
Like clogged arteries  trying to
burst through.
But I step up on the linear lines
of slowed motion..

Many slumber upon my wayward steps,
like time flawless and still.
But there is always that one..
singular..  
**** nugget..  
that thinks that there time is vastly
superior to the motion of others.

And like boiling water I scowl upon
they’re collateral reflection.
Glaring upon there misguided vision
Of righteousness.

And know that we would have clasped
upon youth vacating them from the
torture of speeding  mistrust..

Then fate entered the moment,
Where realisations gave birth to
Momentary pauses.
But momemety
Glares given like medusas cleaved
Glaze, but the fraction of woes had past.

And like crossing a river of crocodiles,
We were neither dragged beneath the
Wheels of discontent or over the bonnet
Of teeth lacerating upon ourselves.

We walk another day wary of those
of ill patience. And lesser cognitive
Reliance of the surrounding river
Of tarmac and steel…

A man who has never fallen,
Has no lessons to teach.

For without bruises,
there are no memories
Of what could have been learnt.

Yet one who has fallen,
Will not teach you anything
But the dignity to rise again.

As lessons are only learnt from
The mistakes of past bruises.

They say I slept like  
I was in a shallow grave,
Still warm, but rigid.
eyes glazed over..

I tried to wake myself up,
But as I looked down,
Chills evaporated through me.

I slept like death, my pillow
A grave stone of dreams.
Tucked in beneath the
Shallow entombment
of slumber.

Yet, upon my resurrection,
I feel like I’d never even
Sewn my eyes shut.
As sunlight seers my retina.

I walk into the light, dead on my feet..