It took a year
For real life to strike

For angst and pain
And loss and blame
To seep into my being

For life to change
Beyond repair
To mock my naïve hopes
That one day not too long from now
We’d all be tossed a rope
an aid for getting back the life
I thought it was a given
Offered, earned or taken
No doubt this should be written

I have been mocked and laughed at
Humiliated fully
Who said the silver lining
Would ever be rewarded?

Who said that thinking bright and light
Would lead to us to be Kings?
Who said that keeping open arms
Would fill them with good things ?

The neighsayers, the doomsdayers
Now they reacted first
“Our lives will never be the same”
“Ridiculous “I cursed
if I can power through this thing
if I can hold my stead
then surely I’ll deserve it
no doubt I’ll be rewarded

But one year on and I’m still here
With nothing but one thought
They won, those ******* called it
life will never be retold

I’ll never see my favourite band
while squashed amongst my peers
I’ll never hold my child’s hand
and lead her in a cheer

I’ll never feel the pulse of crowds
that carry and transport me
to realms beyond myself
of ecstasy and joy

I’ll never share the joys of life
with the village I belong to

I’ll never give away my child
Surrounded by my friends

I’ve lost my veiled city walks
the company of strangers
those vagabonds, those chatterbombs
those rambling raging tourists

I’ve lost the freedom of a roam
in endless ***** markets
Of touching things and smelling them
And shaking hands with sellers

I want to squeeze into the tube
on an August summer’s day
and smell the sweat and body odours
by which I onced dismayed

I want to push across a bar
And plead to get my drink
and tut and huff towards the guy
who pushed to get ahead

I want to curse and shout and stomp
for my favourite football team
and fight with the opposing side
and trample on their dream.

I want my smile to be seen
by the burly shopping clerk
to roll my window down at lights
To greet an immigrant
I want to hand him my donation
to place it in his palm
and not be scared or worried
that I’ll end up coughing phlegm.

I want my children to live free
Of masks and antiseptic
and live a life that’s full and rich
with all relationships

A life complete with crowds and queues
and large scale celebrations
Of smelly loos, of flowing *****
And stinky sweaty ballrooms

The life that I once doubted
Despite my best intentions
And now its gone and I don’t know
if I will get it back.

A wasted year of optimism
Thinking all would be ok
A year of denial and
dare I say
a year of baseless consolation.

We all carry Guilt.
Things we did
Or should have done.
Actions taken when red mist descended,
Hot blackness deep inside,
Or when we ran scared
Like a startled rabbit.

Sometimes we were just plain mean:
Doing things
Too bad to confess.
At times we “did our job”,
Knowing full well
That it was wrong.

We hate ourselves for what we did:
Adrenaline taking over
As we exploded and lashed out.
Cruel acts and gutting dumpings:
Things best unsaid.

But no good beating ourselves up.
No point blaming ourselves
For things we did as callow youths.
We cannot always help
What we do.
To err is human,
As they say.

We all have our flaws and demons:
Personality defects and fears.
Some have  anger issues
And autistic traits.
Fear of commitment,
Emotional dimness
And many other such things.
Stuff of heartbreak
And sorrow.

I, for one, never did relationships –
Just didn’t understand
What they were about.
So I was bound to do wrong
Sometime.

All stuff for lyrics of songs:
Songs of drifting apart
And breaking up.
Material mounting into Everests
Of angst.

But worry not.
We are not alone.
For evil acts,
Trouble and strife,
Division and violent clashes:
They all seem to be the general way
In these trying
Modern times.

Plenty to work on
In our collective quest
For Peace,
Including peace of mind.

Paul Butters

© PB 17\1\2021.

The smell of burnt hair.
Pyre, made of autumn leaves.

A sound beyond hearing.
Metal, bending and twisting.

One eye, but not the other.
One ear and two more.

Lines, straight lines.
No curves, no wrinkles.

Do you hear it?
Can you see it?

A fire you can't put out.
Burning ice like a thunderous cloud.

The ashen mirror that reflects our world,

The support, the barrier, and the gateway,

A resting mosaic of serenity,

A whirling portrait of distraught,

And the connection of two contrasting worlds.

A slice in the silence, pain shoots from the wound,

No shatter, nor collapse, only scars of a memory,

Accompanying signs of an unknown future.

But as the clock ticks, the mirror warps, and age begins to wear,

A hail rains down, beautiful cries and solemn weeps bleed from a frigid shield,

Miniscule waves and movements rock the support as scars and sounds are birthed,

Then, the pillars fall, and the mirror bends.

But even if all were to crumble, the only feeling would be sweet relief,

A cathartic collapse, the wound releases,

The noise is cut, serenity and silence return, beheld in new forms,

For the only woe an eradication feels is held within itself.

I was scared at first.
The voice started
drifting in slowly.
It crept in and dimmed
the shining lights that
kept me bright and shiny.
Such as the morning fog
consumes the mountains
was the voice in my mind.
I was scared at first,
but no longer.
The dark thoughts
are constant and persistent
but no longer worry me.
It is hard to find a light
when I am trapped by
all these shadows.
What scares me now
is not the voice itself
but is the fact that
I have fallen in love with it.

I am a therapist

But

I wanted to be an artist


Clay under my fingernails, in my curls, drying on my skin.
Filling up my moleskine
Occupying my thoughts, my dreams,
each moment of every day




Now.....

Now, I listen to people's pain, their sorrow, their hurt.

5 years of grad school, fancy acronyms at the end of my name, they can call me doctor...some do. some insist. perhaps it makes them feel like I am more than just an imperfect human like they are.

My clients come to me with their pain, I see them, I hear them, I try, I try so hard to soothe them, make them feel worthy, make them feel good enough. make them feel loved. deserving of love.

Some days, being a psychologist provides so much meaning to my life, other days...other days I cry and punish myself for not pursuing art.

Why didn't I do it?
Why was I so scared?
Why did I let the **** talking from my parents and the judgements of my family keep me from doing what I loved?

WHY.



Hey, you want to know how to make me cry instantaneously?
               Ask me about what I gave up to be where I am today.


        what I lost for the acronyms,
        what I lost for the title,
        what I lost for the salary,
        what I lost so my mom could tell people her daughter was a
                            "doctor" (not a real one even still)

Ask me what I lost.

Ask me how I lay awake at night, stare off into space, doing math in my mind, thinking, wondering, planning out how to grow my practice to make enough to rent a studio space, buy a kiln, and make art once again.

Ask me why I got a doctorate in psychology so all I could think about was how to make art again.


Ask me.
I dare you.


My own therapist just did and my make up smeared.
I think sobbed is the technical term.

Or perhaps, I just let all the feelings and sadness bleed out of me. every now and again they do

every now and again I let down my defenses, remove the distractions, and find the time to really think and reflect on what I lost.
what I gave up to allow myself to make money off of listening to people.
I allow myself to be used and profit from it.


JUST like my family uses me and takes up far too much space.

I provide care to others because it's my job, but it's also what I've always known how to do, what I was taught to do.

Taking care of others is ******* exhausting.
I love my job.
I hate my job.


Ya know what?

I never hated art.
I never did.
Art never took from me.
Clay never used me and spit me out or told me things like "I'm not getting anything from you" like my clients have told me.

clay Doesn't take.
clay only gave.
ceramics only ever gave.

WHY the **** did I not allow myself to take?
WHY did I create a life for myself where I am continuously giving and people are continuously taking?

I am so ******* empty and so ******* tired.

I just want to make art.

all i ever wanted was to make art.