E L 1d

You're the kind of boy my mother warned me about.
She told me to look after the boy with the nice smile.
He will want to be all around you, but that kind of commitment will only last a while.
The one with the kindest eyes,
You would never think he would be good at telling lies.
You will want to change him, and  my god you will try
But that boy finds satisfaction in seeing you cry.
So I'm sorry I lashed out when you told me I was wrong,
I just thought that together we made the loveliest love song.

At the age of 17 I thought I had it all planned out..
Seema 1d

My eyes are brown
On my head sits a crown
I love jester, the clown
But I hate the gate keepers frown
I may look small but I'm quite grown
What I know, you will be blown
My pets, I have two, which I own
One has given me a bone as a loan
So I can give to the other who moans
You have guessed, I am talking about my dogs
Who always play hide'n' seek near the piled logs
I hate when I accidentally kick a frog
Near the logs where we play
Resting on the green grass, together we lay
At the days end, when mother sees my muddy face
The lecture starts from this case to nutcase
Nonetheless, my mother loves me dearly
Afterall I am her little princess, Ely...


Fictional write.

I cannot look into her eyes
the soul of a mother long gone

I hate my face in the mirror
I dread the stranger within

My sunken brown eyes are faded
Like the falling sand,
the statue of my self is erased

Life is a joke,
and I'm the clown
I perform to an empty theater,
and laugh at my own shadow

The voices are in my head,
the puppets and the songs
the whisperers and the screams

When I lay in the dark,

I close my eyes,
to the howls of the demons inside

I'm married to the night

Someday I had hoped,
that when I'm done with my acts,

In the heavens,
where you live
We would laugh forever,
Like we always did

Sometimes I look into the mirror and i am not proud of what I have done, what I am , knowing deep within, that I have not made my mother proud. Maybe I never will...

Every home has a Mother
Waiting with open arms at the door.
And a Dad in his armchair,
As the tradition goes.

Welcome to the lounge
Where we can huddle by the fire.
TV in the corner
And - if you have them –
Dogs and cats to stroke.

Then there’s Sunday Lunch
And those daily aromas of baking.
Memories of scooping out the bowl
And eating most of the peas you shelled.

Home – a place of refuge
Where you can bring all your troubles
And have them resolved.

Our Mum kept a beautiful garden,
Resplendent with colourful flowers.
An oasis on a council estate.

As Dorothy Gale of Oz fame said before me:
There’s no place like Home.

Paul Butters

© PB 20\11\2017.

Looks like I've started an "Every" series.
Samreen 4d

Under the blue sky, sunshine bright
On the carpet of green grass rolled out,
Running around was the little girl in white
In her tiny pink shoes, humming about.

Her big, round eyes filled with innocence
And those soft pink lips spread in a smile.
Her sparkly laughter depicts divine presence
Dancing on her tip-toes gracefully agile.

Those soft brown curls around her round face
A few strands reach down that sweet dimple
Her little white gown frilled with lace
In this huge world, her life so simple.

Bent over a lovely flower, she sighed
Admiring the nature's beauty around her,
'Mama, oh! Mama...', excitedly she cried..
Jumping, as the evening doves surround her.

I stood at a distance, taken by her charms,
'Mama..', she said again and ran into my arms.

Oculi 5d

What a wonderful world, where people can come to life
A place, where ones like me lead like a butter through a knife
A land, where people like us, they're lead by the meek
A land, where all I can call myself is just weak
I have so many memories of this place that I'll never share
Seeing things, learning things, but to talk of them I'd never dare
All my memories will be lost in time, just like yours or theirs
That's just how the average tiny man in this world fares
A land, where all of us live only to learn and then die
Where that knowledge isn't shared, it's just yours or mine
Where we raise our sons and daughters not knowing our fate
After this, living in a fair, equal world is something I'd hate

Mother... father... you've raised someone such as yourselves
Someone who's ripe for this world's picking, someone well
I must thank all ancestors for making us so wretched
It's easier for us and the world to bury the hatchet
I don't hate you anymore, mom and dad.
You made me willing to die right.

nd 5d

"maybe i’m stupid.”

oh child, you are!

when you were small all you knew was screaming and so you did it constantly, and you kept me up all night when in the morning i had work and eventually i screamed back from my room, but you didn’t care and that was stupid. i had to hold your hand as you walked because you couldn’t do it by yourself, you tripped over your own tiny feet and shat in your pants and that was stupid. you told your uncle he looked black after he’d gotten a spray tan and child that was stupid, but what does stupid got to do with anything now? stupid is an excuse, and when you left him he used it too, holding back stupid tears saying it was so stupid of him but he’ll never do it again, just like your father did before the little rat was ever a thought in his own father’s head. forget him, because he’s stupid too, and focus on yourself, you who clawed your way out of my womb, lit me on fire and burnt me up till i was the sun. scream some bloody murder again if you need to, it's been years since i've heard your voice caught in hysterics. let it crack in anger, dummy, come on, didn't i raise you to be mad?

"of course you aren't stupid," just like i'm not a liar.

I have very sad eyes and white hands.
My child will be born happy.

Over the earthen bread the napkin of the sky will fall,
the baptism of my son among the men who, just like me, love
their land and their work, the joy of giving, the beauty of being human,
the tall firs’ grace, the murmuring waters, the living seed within the ground.
Upon the teardrops of bodily pain a song will fall,
that unseen song that was written on a starlit staff.

For us it’s raining too much, too often,
someone gathers all cornflowers and scatters them on our bed.
When I look into my child’s eyes I am smaller and smaller,
I am warmer and warmer and I have a house of my own
with fireplace and toys,
with simple windows that let the clear sky come in entirely
after my child wipes off the steam of his breath.

All those flowers between us and we stay together.
My child plays with my fingers without counting them.
For him they are more and more as he touches them.
Just like me, he was born happy.

my child does not exist, here I see his birth as a symbol

What have we evolved to be?
Genes and phenes are all I see.
I see traits where genetic flood gates make one look like another,
Where mothers have their mother's eyes
And smiles alike their brothers.

double helix - Ive always been fascinated by genetic inheritance and what makes us who we are
grace 7d

Is it too late to remember you?
I recognise you in these walls, the mirror.
Longing marks the death of reality.
You’ve left me a second time.
I can’t recall; I want them back:
remnants of dances and car rides and
echoes of your voice and embrace and
memories of home.

I hate you for letting them slip from your grasp.
Both fumbling idly amidst our passing desires,
Incapacitated by our tempers.
You’ll regret this someday.

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