Locked inside a box
that encases my heart. The
light metal shines as
she rotates to the

manner at which my
behaviour tries to dispel
reality. I need

to break free, be
loose of this jewel-
ery box prison. No precious
thoughts as I face the

responsibilities of my fu-
ture to come. What I see before
me when I imagine other

families and how they
came to be. How the world was
built in one day and how
it came to stay that way.

How continuing struggles and
offerings made it possible for me to
thrive on the backs of

those most diligent, doing what
they don’t know how not to. And here
I sit complaining about myself and
writing useless poetry.

© 2004

I know there is a sense of
freedom waiting for me, in the rooms
of a house yet to be mine. Striding

through this spaciousness. Even if
I am a captive in my own home I will
still know to be alive only on

the inside.

Even if there was no light, it would
be part of my being, a very essence pervaded
in truth but this, not really a knowing.

I am my heart, and in it, my soul
knows its freedom. God, how I would love to
die for what I believe in but dead is

not how they want to have me.
Left in chains and broken spirited, I was
already tried through a society in a

world seeking to weigh me down by
taking away what ties me. To my family, my
friends, my fellow human beings, and what

keeps my feet on solid grounds. What I
know transcends down into humanity, even
if actions of violent men are

void of sanity.


© October 9, 2012

What I left behind was my hope
of a dying, a blindness that caused the untimely
decay and fraying of time
and the spaces which are surrounding.

Sometimes was this little smile
on lips undeserving of the words that
were never to be spoken. I have climbed onto
this hill, embracing the sun and moon, they are

part of my heart, and ever leaving me in circular
motions. I gave up my longing but all that was left,
all that lied in the well of my soul was still
rippled and mirrored.

Crystalline laughter and shared sighs, he
was gone so spritely. And there was silence in these walls.
Black on the white so lovely dark, negative sepia
ground down to skewed visions.

He had his voice and he met me over, in the
pitch blackness this release ought to have been
a make of delighted freedom. It is not my
prison now, maybe just a form of grief. Never more

would I be as lonely.


© July 24 2012

I am the madness I could handle, for love
is one, of which, all passions cease to dawn.
And I was more, I used to feel and know.

Laying down darkness, layers of layer upon my
left lives. Wishes outgrow this space and I was none
to be it in belting down lost cries into

the ravines of the unknown.
I held your hand but it was air, sulphur glass
breaking into shattering bits of the fine dusty

air.

There is not even a you I can talk to, all that is
remaining are my useless soundless pictures of “once you”, all
I am pleading to now. I am pleading to my empty self

if there was only a “you” once.

The gathering storm crashes on me without potency,
rushing its thick waves thundering through unhindered heavens.
My taste is that of the skeleton drinking a void carafe

of the most wondrous of wines. If all that I am
is my imagining, let my name fall mirrored into that place where
I can chase my reflection away. Let my pretty bows hang

in my hair, I will ask anyone if they look nice.


© December 3, 2012

I cannot stop you from loving me but I can start hating you. That would be my last act between us, with all your voice can do to me. When mine grows hard and nothing remains other than kind cruel empty. Then I would fling myself off the edge.
I wonder sometimes what it is like to start all over again, there is little to burn before I could do it. Take that risk. Go somewhere else with no one for a family or close in heart. How quickly I would find that prolific beauty that is stranger than its own kind. - There is this obsession with kindness and the word kind, I see. - But what of that place if it were not there, nothing inside tying its meaning to material existence? Even to all the people I know my kindness grows small and I snap off anything that could take any of me with them. Steal my heart, take my love, in kind, for granted. To use it for selfish grand or minor schemes. I cannot allow. I cannot let it. I will not.

Sometimes I smile and there is laughter, I soften to a response. All that was made before is still there, before anyone knew me, and stole those bits I could have kept. I shield myself, protection in hindsight. Is it still necessary?
There are those whom I love and they are far away. Where, when they are close by or shadows across misty seas of distance. This might eventually give me shelter. Possibly.

So now I make myself to hate you. Out of protection for my soul. But I feel cold. The flame is all I have to keep me warm. So I ignite inside with fierceness. I cannot be held in, this need for freedom is stronger than anything. If to feel this faith of an illusion is to be caged within myself again.
How would it feel to know it the right way? There is still the empty, the vast and vacuumed void to deal with. I ask God if I should dive into her and discover my true core. Acid stripped, bare and bleeding out. All that is left is what existed outside of my idea of you and all those whom I liked to be like you. Objects of some kind of figmented affection: clinging on and sticky with the tears for replacement of what I once had called love. Then I would walk the long road to healing again.

So, now I hate your voice and the memory of your broken English accent. All the ones who had come before and after you. They get not the reverence I give to you. Those clear brown eyes that turned out to not care enough, to save us. Or was it me that made it so, after our forced end? Only once, you showed the daring to break from my spell. Through redacted words though, not the voice that had given a haunted home to my thoughts. But they held no defence to my pleas of anguished honesty.

Once, I will be through with you. I will have learned not to hate despite your love. That one thing which makes me feel still so course. Your silence will have sanctioned my forgiveness and argued the release of my heart. Perhaps, I could cry with someone again.

© December 31st 2012

Maybe only slowly, can someone
come nearer, and closer, in thought,
where he might be a sliver

of painted visions on a glass
ceiling. Somehow, as thinking fades
and the colours take precedence. Blue

purple hues, taking place on the
pink of a lovely sight or thought. He felt he
needed to trample what I have come

to, shatter this illusion of a
benevolence. He cracked my gauges,
took the defenses right away. As my

last stroke failed, a broken lance of the
first. Silently he cuffed away his iciness, pursuing me
with a granite effortlessness. Then the impermeable

onyx kissed my mouth and went away.


© 2006