Whenever I feel like
Hanging-



lolling my head, I turn to this book.
Words appear how they are- no more, no less.
The doors of perception are infinite, no boundaries.

I may have stayed up, late, just to write here. Or drop tears on paper like rain drops on lakes.
Smudging the lines, words...

into vast grey nothingness.

To enjoy the world in a room
Full of boring analogies and empathic wallpaper.

Artistic excellence thus dies
And with it my youthful, passionate side
When you're strange no one cares:
Like a customer in a pawn shop has only come to look at wares.

Superficial, empty.

And that ghost of my former self
Comes alive when I no longer care-
If I'm strange, sadistic, wicked.
I die a little inside seeing her joy.

Like the gypsy who comes to worship Mammon; she seeks wealth, fame prosperity;
Because she has no one she can value
She can only put a price on her folly.

Bought and sold, tossed around.
Moving from group, to group:
A nomad, a merchant, a nobody.

Like the Moor who threw away a pearl richer than all his tribe-

I throw away my artistic side.

Freedom is out of reach
And once again I have been swept up on the shore of an abandoned beach.

Indifferent. Garbage. Waste.

In the gallery of a town, art was duly contained
and cared for carefully without contamination.
There was a painting there, painted with oil
paints that rained and formed a picture of a bird
on a canvas of vivid blues, browns, and greens
that fixed eyes on it like webs to hair.
The artist spoke:

“We are all swallows: proud, free, agile.
We are all oceans: formidable, hostile.
We are all stormy weather: thunderous.
We are all columns: supportive, calloused.

Entwined we will walk,
down to and up to the sands,
into elixirs made with salt;
swelling our joyous hands.”

Men, women and children all strolled by,
and let not one of them see the lows and highs
of the artist's soul. A boy stood there with
no-one: his uncorrupted eyes walking up and
down the mined canvas. He felt no sand
under his feet; he felt no wooden skin and
complexion in his hands.
He spoke:

“We are not swallows: ashamed, caged, stiff.
We are not oceans: defenceless, mild.
We are not stormy weather: soundless
We are not columns: defective, defiled.

Like slaves, we sing
on top of the wings
of new-born Spring.

The ground we sowed and toiled,
reaped dangers of fantasy untold.
Soul-reaping bird-singers
singing the siren song to us.
But we must not fuss.

I bleed the colours
of a deadly rose garden.
Red, yellow, blue, green:
colourless eyes remain unseen.”

my skin is paper thin

he smiled and said,
"well i would love to set it alight, watch you burn, watch you fight"

"you know we (your friends) would never leave you right?"

"i mean, that's what they all SAY until poof."

"well, i won't leave"

"promise?"

"promise."

I wonder if I can write a poem with two voices?
Don’t know mate, maybe you can.
Who the hell are you?
I’m your second voice, you muppet.
Ah. But will they be able to tell?
Well, skim readers might miss it.
Oh.
But if they read “vocally” like you do,
It should be okay.
What, even when I go
Onto a new line?
Reckon so, just about. In any case,
Some websites will format it differently,
But we’ll get away with it.

Is it still poetry though?
Could be, mate.
Really?
Well, it depends on the wording I guess.
So we need some flowery language?
Yes, like the dogs of war are gathering,
As two adversaries square up,
For gladiatorial combat.

MMM. Well, I’d prefer to write things like:
The sun is streaming over snow-capped mountains,
To greet the summer
As we awaken from our wintry slumbers.
That’s okay too mate: it’s all poetry.

But should I really be seen,
Talking to myself?
They know you’re mad already, friend,
No worries there.
That’s okay then:
Let’s get this thing posted.
Yes, go ahead.

Paul Butters

"Sweetie, what happened here?
Did you break your doll?"

"Mommy, don't blame me-
this is not my fault!"

"Well who did it then?
You're the only one there!"

"Sure, I broke her-
but don't blame me for her tears."

"Listen, mommy-
this doll deserves the blame.
She knew that life was dangerous
and she decided to play the game."

Never being afraid to tell it how it is..

I said America is by no means perfect
You told me I was un American, then preceeded to shout Make American Great Again.

You said flag burners disrespect the soldiers
I said that they fight in vein, preceeding to tell you that that Flag doesnt represent us all the same

I said Black Lives Matter
You told me All Lives Matters, then preceeded to be silent when black lives lost were lost

You said get over slavery
I said it still effects today, preceeding to explain that it reinforced a system of inequality

I said that you have privilege
You screamed that you struggle, proceeding to ignore that it isn't a factor of race

I told you all the ways I've lived
You told me all the ways it isn't true
That the life I live cannot be
Because it hasn't happened to you.

Are you?
yes, I always have.
How did you know?
I just did
So is it like this?
I don't know.
Ok...I understand.
Do you really?
Ye, it's just the opposite. It's the same really.
Just stop pretending you know everything.
I was just trying... to understand how.
I don't care that you don't.
I don't get it.
Exactly, you never will.