I doubt,
Therefore, I think
Therefore, I am.

I see.
I take in the colours around me.
The patterns, the lights, the rainbow.
I see the night, and the stars that glow.
I dream.
Therefore, I think.
Therefore, I am.

I smell.
The perfumes, the roses.
The stench, the rotten, the putrid.
The aromas, cooking.
The green, the forest, the trees.
I inhale,
Therefore, I think.
Therefore, I am.

I hear.
The noises. The people, the cheer.
The wails, the screams, the tears.
The rejoicing and happiness.
I hear.
Therefore, I think.
Therefore, I am.

I taste.
The sweetness, the fire.
The treats and savoury delights.
The sourness, the bitterness.
I eat,
Therefore, I think.
Therefore, I am.

I speak.
Short messages. Long speeches.
Quiet whispers. Bellowing noises.
I scream,
Therefore, I think,
Therefore, I am.

I feel.
The despair, the fear, the anguish.
The joy. The pride. The seething.
The envy, greed, and jealousy.
The cold, the heat, the shivering.
The pain, the sickness, the ageing.

I die.
Therefore, I lived.
Therefore, I was.

If life
is a collection
of chain reactions
I wonder
who started
the chaos
and
who are at
the bottom of
the receiving end
because if it
falls short at
being fair
then nothing here
is valid.

To whats poetry is left unwritten,
though no-one can never detached
from their personal history, regret &
shame seem to always take home
in our private souls. Eyes open agained,
do I dare accept it’s beauty I see in you,
it’s void in the inbetween, I took the
price tag off from it & made love
priceless in your entire essence of
existence. Biting our tongues,
sleeping underneath the covers,
distant in the absence, in ease
in gradual acceptance, to what is
poetry lays in experience. Just spent
my entire energy, getting your attention,
breathing for the
first time, when I rest into a personalized
paradise safety of your arms, it’s
like reality colliding with mythological
Holiness. And I feel love for the very
first time. To what is poetry unwritten
is immortalized in our memories.  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GEadD3s-5go

What is left to say
About our humdrum daily lives?
Monday to Sunday all year round
In time manufactured by mankind.
Monotonous mazes of standardised building blocks.
Daytime TV all timetabled and scheduled
The Interweb
Media meditation
For brainwashed, mindless zombies:
Heads immersed in mobile phones
Or faces bathed in television light.

Crime ridden streets await us
When we venture forth
To pre-appointed places
In a world we call “Routine”.

Little wonder then
That Imagination soon takes over
At least for me.
Heading off to Planet Paul
For flights of fancy
Fuelled by Star Trek
And Battlestar Gallactica to name but two
Of my favourite shows.
For I love Space
And anything else that lies beyond
The dreariness
Of the Here and Now.

Why do you write?
They ask as if Confession is required.
I stumble on my words
Trying to explain
How I simply have to write.
For I never can stop dreaming
And once I dream
Then I simply have to share
Whatever I’ve dreamt
With all of you.

Paul Butters

© PB 18\12\2018.

Oh, for I shall die and be at peace with peace and darkness.
Darkened roads so black as night is where I'll rest.
Covered with air that chokes the frequent springs of my chest.
Your setting sun is a concept of nonsense,
But then am I not just a traveling man with no license?

Erase my existence as those of previous time lines.
Foolish man uttering words of unknown language kinds.
The scarecrow scares those that come close,
And I was so close to wearing those dull clothes.
Your promises are not even yours now, are they?
A father sending his children to paint.

Rain, rain, rain!
Bringing growth and shape.
Well, my land it has no rain,
Should I die and decay?
But the Penguins said you're great.

Master has a new slave.
For years I've went from one diamond to another with no penny for my services.
Dug holes and buried daffodils,
Dug holes and buried daffodils.
Carried by the spirit that shall give life to my children,
Children to children's children.
I've worked the way of a slave and never let my master carry a *****.
'though time told too many stories of the previous slaves,
I hoped mine was that of the history pages.
The blood drips on my cold knees as I crawl the dark for a meal,
She usually brings me something nice,
Oh master what are we having tonight?

The master's table should be kept clean at all times,
We don't want master eating dirt, alright?
Master is late for her food tonight,
It must be a busy night.
She usually utters of her unwell businesses, I believe she is tired.
I feel the chains on my feet being loose,
Master won't like this one bit.
The trees tell tales of the old berries,
And those that bury often get buried by no one.
Master smiles and tells me to run as she holds a gun counting to ten.
I'd run a bit more faster but my feet are swollen and needs healing.
As the trees come closer, darkness comes to sight and master smiles as she sends the new slave to bury my corpse.

Uneven breathing rhythm
Serene becomes luxurious
One's mind now went unconscious
Fallen into a mayhem

Poetry is stupid.
And literature *****.
Nothing I write ever feels as though I tell you
Anything true,
Fraudulent living.

My pen spills its ink
But never empties me.
Head still pounding, swirling
Swimming in black waters.

You all tell me words will set me free,
Yet I know now you were mocking me,
To read my agony
In my own blood must be a pleasure to you.
Do you see yourself in me?
I can’t connect
You’re out of reach to me, reader-
Hands grasping at air.

Writers are perverse.
Big sepulchres by the zealots cathedral;
Scribed all over, the living kneel outside in praise,
But the writer sees itself for what it is;
A tomb filled with nothing but death and decay.

Poetry is dumb.
The burden of feelings
Circle around the sink
But never drain.
So I will have to write again,
Hostage to language.

Stressing up the nerves
Where they have some levels
Where pride will fall off
And the righteous always lose

There were many wrongs
To be corrected, to be proven
Neither they will nor us will learn
From the deeds we have entertained.