There are people, whether you'd like to believe
With their heads in the clouds
There are people, with more than just tricks up their sleeves.

There are people
with minds that wander
There are people
who hide under
Tables, and ceilings, and shelves.
Or smiles.

When I was younger
I would squeeze myself into tightness
Some nights I still feel like that
When hell breaks loose
And my head reminds me
Of a boxing ring
Or a shooting range
Or a couple's therapy.

I aim my gun, and pull the trigger.
Maybe one day,
One day,
I'll stop pretending I don't hope for too much.

Passed  a  neglected  garden  of  late.
It  seemed  in  quite  a ­­ sorry  state.
Some  men  came  to  make  some  notes.
But  seem­ed  to  give  it  little  thought.
Up  on  high  the  grasses  gr­ow.
Beneath  the  windows  row  by  row.
The  other  plants  just­ ­ cry  with  pain.
I  guess  we'll  never  grow  again.
They  ha­ve­  taken  up  our  space  on  the  ground
Like  an  advancing  ­army  I'll  be  bound.
They  are  taking  our  water  Oh  my.
As ­ they  journey  to  the  sky.
Perhaps  it  soon will  be  resolved.­
And  peace  will  reign.
Once again

Keith  Wilson    Windermere.  UK.  2016­.

Today I had an emotional breakdown
In front of a thirteen year old
I told her that I just wanted to run away
That I experienced the feeling
Drapetomania
An overwhelming urge to run away
I declared that all I wanted to do with my life
Was to live in a cottage with the Love of my life
Read books and live serenely
I don't want stress
I don't want this terrible nonsense
Called 'matric'
And to beg for bursaries from the man with money
For a job I may not even enjoy
I just want to be happy
I want to be loved
I want to caress the world with my writing in books
And touch individuals with profound poetry
Why must I go on with stress
Why oh why
Must life for an eighteen year old be
Oh so difficult
I just want to be happy
I want to run away
To my cottage in the mountains
Where my quiet symphony reigns.

I'm sick to death of me
living vicariously
through meaning-
less words like
a mocking bird
mocking a gull
on a wave-less shore
or a man without oars
(f)or a life (raft) on a lost
ship adrift in an angry sea
and no anchor or eyes
on the horizon somewhere
west of anywhere but here.

1)  get a canvas

2)  get some unicorn paint

3)  paint a unicorn

4)  realize you can't paint a unicorn

5)  cry

6)  paint the moon

7)  put glitter and a horn on the moon

8)  pretend it's a fat unicorn

9)  be happy

10) show your dog

11) call the dog back into the room

12) show your dog again

13) get a new dog

14) show that dog

15) tell that dog it's being too critical

16) ask that dog to leave

17) put the picture in the bin

18) decide never to paint unicorns again

19) eat chocolate

20) decide to paint a dragon

The Pen
The pick up the pen;
The put it down again
(That sunken feeling, nemesis or friend?)
The pen. The Pen.
The pacing, the pressing up against
The period. Stop stopping
Again. Pick it up to put it down.
Pointless. Pshaw.
Please.
Please me simplicity. C’mon!
C’mon pen lemme pick it up
And put something down.

I’ll plagiarize the flow for a few words of my own.
I’m looking for inspiration from the great beyond.
My muse is missing.
I know the medium is a constraint.
I know inside
The set of symbols paints
Me into a corner.  The parameters
Of my pen’s head worn out. I’m ******. The metaphors
Pressed. The pen is second-guessed.

A literate piece of poetic license,

The defense mechanism
Against the prison I impose.
Me, myself, and I inside
The pen pining for a purpose.
The nexus of picking it up and putting it down
Is perplexing me, is vexing
Me like a sticky keyboard key.
So, I’m putting it all down
With the pen.

The pen.
The picking it up: who cares?
The putting it down: pensive prohibition.
The picking up; what I left out.
The putting it down: polygraph precision.
The picking up where I left off:
The putting it down: priority, what’s left of me.
The picking it up, when I don’t even know
Why I bother?
The putting it down: passion
The putting it down: plea of let me be.  
The putting it down periscope; I’m diving under  
The pressure’s mounting; I’m down for the counting on my muse
To bring me back
From that inky black abyss once again
My personal sonar is
Probing the depths, of what lies
hidden within
the pen.