Ormond 10h

.
Seashells and castles
Imagination, holy as the skies
Sea sprayed our faces

I used to bow my head
and fold my hands
and close my eyes
the rules were very important
                 the game was to play by the rules
to watch your mouth
                       wear shorts under your dress

never lie
                never yell
                        
        in dreams
                             that bearded menace
sat on the Golden skyline
                               and wrote down
what I had done wrong
                 the rules I had broken
and screamed my sinners song
into small ears
    that night, I climbed the staircase,
        I would fly,
                         I had planned to fly.
        every cell lifted me to the top of the
       staircase with the eagerness of the adventure
I got to the top
            stood on the rail
    balanced like a swan
                          and as my young knees bent
to leap to the sky
                             above the black lit dark,
  I heard that law mans
                                    booming dissent
Jillian, don't play God
                                         and I didn't.

The times we were small
we'd Flock to the swings,
when boxes weren't boxes
but other world things.

one day you'd be pilot
flying west of the star,
until you grew up
and settled for law.

cartoons and a bike seat,
jarred candy and trees;
the times we were small is
time we can't freeze.

'So here I am once more, in the playground of the broken hearts.
One more experience, one more entry in a diary self-penned.
Yet another emotional suicide,
overdosed on sentiment and pride.
To late to say I love you, to late to re-stage the play.
Abandoning the relics in my playground of yesterday'.*


The first words you killed me with.
The first Script to make me cry.
The opening song on a plate of sorrow.
The opening sight of my Poets eye.

Your words soaked my childlike mind
as I lost on the roundabouts and swings.
The Jester stands with violin and quill,
composing tears on his broken strings.

I sat and chewed those daffodils
and I still struggle to answer why.
I grew up and left that playground
but its the place where my heart died.

I never did write that love song either,
My words just never seemed to flow.
The martyrs twisted smile haunts me,
my Harlequins head dreams in sorrow.

The game is over.
The game is over.

© Pagan Paul (22/05/17)

.
*First verse from the title track of 'Script for a Jesters Tear' by Marillion.
First heard this song when I was 14, I always wondered why Fish's lyrics spoke so deep with me. I only understood when I started to write poetry.
The album is their first, and the first of a trilogy that also includes Fugazi and Misplaced Childhood.
I am the Harlequin. PPx
.

My best memories are not with her,
And I will forever remember them,
The reason I built my imagination,
Till my childhood was there to stay,
Enjoying the imaginary car crashes,
Less than an ambition it was never.

How clearly I remember myself,
Often playing with glistening toys,
They were mostly cars and tracks,
When my mind drove 'em like an elf,
Healing my loneliness with their jumps,
Eyes glittering with the picturization,
Ears hearing the imaginary blasts,
Love was simple & objective then,
Seemed the best life to a kid me.

My Mattel Hotwheels toy car collection used to be the biggest in the city.
I wonder if I still have it in the store room.

My HP Poem #1550
©Atul Kaushal
Star BG 6d

All my life I was breathing in the poison air of self-judgement.
The kind that sticks to heart and aura,
bringing heartache in my journey.

Within my intake breath,
judgment of being stupid lodged, causing others to agree.

Within my out take breath,
judgement of not being pretty lodged, as others agreed.

In childhood insecurities plagued, as many teased and touched.
In adolescence fears plagued, as others kept their distance.
In adulthood, I gave my power away, and others took it.

Until light came into self to awake inside heart.

Until heart showed  my true divine self.

Now I breathe in clean air celebrating
connected to source energy.

Now I love myself to feel free at last.

inspired by EM Mackenzie

I like my old house, with the big
backyard, on that lonely little
road: home, a touchstone.

Wrapped in my duvet of silence,
tracing the bumps of the popcorn
ceiling with glazed eyes while she
brushes hair behind my ear.

"You may be depressed, but you're
not crazy crazy."

Thanks Mama.

So I don't tell her about my road
trip with psychosis, or the pile of
suicide notes rotting in our county
landfill.

There are some things she doesn't
need to know.

Blue insides, I always thought I'd be
quick enough to catch the blood
before oxygen claimed it red.

Light bulbs flicker for days before
they go out, but knowing the warning
signs has never changed this relentless
ending.

This wallet is special, I remind myself.
It has my brother's preschool graduation
picture tucked inside,

his smile, all teeth, with gaps he pokes his
tongue through, and bright, clear blue eyes.
He has never seen a scar in his life.

When I start to wonder why I bother,
I make myself look at the photo.

there is a world out there,
       beyond these walls of my childhood.
restricted by the boundaries,
       of discovery and youth.
once i am gone, once i am free,
       i can live the unknown
       i can live the unthinkable
       i can live in someone else's walls.
all new to me.

short version of a poem written in paper journal on the 31st of January, 2017, before moving to a foreign country
Paul Butters May 16

I was brought up in Western Leeds,
Almost two miles from the nearest cow or sheep.
In sprawling suburbs:
Row after row of smoke stained redbrick slums.
We had our fields:
Jungles of Rose Bay Willow Herb
(Fireweed to the Americans)
On former demolition sites.
Our childhood spears were honed
From fireweed spears.

Our house was in a terrace
On “School Street”,
Where we took baths in the sink
And crept to outside toilets
In the dark of the “back yard”.

Those days were punctuated
By the “Yie Yie” blare
From the local factory siren.
A deafening sound.
And by endless hammering
From the scrapyard nearby.

But we loved our dripping and bread,
And our walks to the sweet shop.
Playing hopscotch on those stone “flags”
Along the sides of the cobbled street
Under old Victorian gas lamps
Straight from Narnia.

I recall crying on our return from the coast
At a dismal scene
Of soot shrouded trains
On tortured railway lines.

But I also feel nostalgia
For those heady days
Of childhood innocence.
Wearing a cardboard box as a space suit,
And running around
During a “New Year’s Revolution”.
Happy Days.

Paul Butters

This maybe explains a lot.
Adrian Avery May 14

A true mother is always there for me
A true mother loves me unconditionally
A true mother holds my hand in the rain
A true mother can soothe my pain.

But I grew up bent and crooked
I knew from a young age
That my dad and I were different
Our family's not the same.

So where were you when I needed
A hug, a smile, a cake?
You let me go as a toddler
But what a difference did it make!

You can't trick me into forgetting you
I recognised you again
When I saw you nine years later
It's like you stepped out of my head.

Your face was still the same
Sure, your hair was different.
And I know I'm not to blame
For you deciding to be distant.

But if you'd been here earlier
When I needed your reassurance
Maybe I wouldn't be surlier
Towards those with mother's affections.

I grew up bent and crooked
I knew from a young age
That my dad and I were different
Our family's not the same.

So where were you when I needed
A hug, a smile, a cake?
You let me go as a toddler
But what a difference did it make!

What else can I do on Mother's Day
Except cry or remember you?
Do other parents split for comfort?
Do they really think things through?

I don't know what to think
When others say I'm fortunate.
I grew up with poor self-esteem
And no one to correct it.

One parent may understand something
Much better, or more accurately.
My mum can understand my body
My dad understands my personality.

I grew up bent and crooked
I knew from a young age
That my dad and I were different
Our family's not the same.

So where were you when I needed
A hug, a smile, a cake?
You let me go as a toddler
But what a difference did it make!

So my true mother is my dad
He tried to be like a mother.
And I realise because he cared for me
His gender doesn't matter.

A true mother is always there for me
A true mother loves me unconditionally
A true mother holds my hand in the rain
A true mother can soothe my pain.

Today I'll give dad a hug
And say 'thanks for caring what I think.'
I won't bullshit a 'happy Mother's Day'
Or give him anything pink.

I won't pretend he's someone he isn't
He's fairly respectful of me.
I'm not a perfect daughter
And never was a girl, you see.

And before you blame who I am
On the lack of a mother
Did you choose to be one child
Or have a sister, or a brother?

I don't know what to think
When others say I'm fortunate.
I grew up with poor self-esteem
And no one to correct it.

At least I learned for other parents
Don't leave kids when they're young.
They'll learn before 5, that when someone's gone
There's nothing that can be done.

This poem is very self explanatory and personal. I realised it's Mother's Day today and decided I needed to vent on why Mother's Day isn't easy for me and others who grew up without a mother. There's pros and cons to every family but I sure as hell didn't choose the cons!
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