He sat there, always looking out of a small round window
That could easily be a reflection of his tragic mind
Since the day he knew he’d been left on his own
It seemed like there was nothing in there left to find.

Every day from half-past eight and all day till five-past five
He sat immobile staring out, a sad look on his face
He’d never notice anyone, nor speak a single word
He’d sit there never stirring from his lonely lonely place.

He may have wondered where they’d gone, for they looked after him
But his parents, both of them now dead, had done their very best
Now here he was at fifty-three, an only child yet still
Just left to stare through windows, in old pyjama bottoms and vest.

He’ll be swallowed up by the system, and churned back out to the street
He’ll wander about in his own little world, and we won’t understand
He’ll be doing his best with what he knows and what he tries to follow
But our complex welfare system just won’t deal with his demands.



©Joe Wilson – An Inadequate System 2014

I am a tree
Sprouting leaves
But my leaves too will leave

I am a tree
My thick bark protects me
But contains deep scars

Beneath my bark are layers of life
The history of my surroundings
But my heartwood is dead

My heartwood still supports me
It won't decay or lose strength
But it's only because of my thick bark

My outer bark- gained over decades;
Protects me from the destruction of my
Heartwood
For being
Vulnerable

I am the sun
I might burn you
But only with puns

I am the sun
I'll enlighten you
Yet I won't be done

I am the sun
I will brighten your path
Just for fun

I am the sun
I will keep the moon bright
Because you are the one

I am the sun
If you come too close to me
I will burn you, loved one

Wearing your heart on your sleeve, but under a jacket
Forgetting it’s there when you get too warm
Feeling thawed, you let down your guard and shed layers
No on mentions it, if they see it at all
Too afraid of bringing attention to their own
Exposure
So you mingle and rub elbows
Unaware of the damage being done
Until
The night ends
It gets cold
You reach for your jacket
But
What you can’t see, that I can
From across
The room
Is that your bumps and bruises
Scrapes and scars
Aren’t wounds
They are marks of distinction, testaments of strength
Reminders of love
Hope, for the future

The vulnerability of baring myself fully
clenches the belly
panics the heart
stands my hairs on end.

It is truly the most terrifying thing
to stand in ones authenticity.

And yet. And yet.

The courage it takes.
The great tender strength.
The spine tingling elation.
The heart swells, and magic.
The naked beauty borne, in feeling you have nothing to hide.
The spirit touched ardor of a bare approach to life.
The openings and the mystery.
The expressions: tripping, falling, incomplete, misguided.
The wonderful mistakes, elucidating lessons.
The perfect imperfections.
The easing of honesty.
The engendered humility.
The profundity.
The sense of being touched, touching, and in touch with life.
The unmasked revelations, of full spectral undulation.
The this. The that. The I can accept it all.
The dropping of shame.
The incredible liberation, in shedding that shame.
The finding forgiveness for self, for other.
The quiver of unknowing.
The sweet caress of potential.
The dread. The sorrows. The uncertainties.
All making room for, in their acknowledgement:
Room for what else is there.
Room for laughter, and joy, and luminescence.
Room for flirtation, dancing, spontaneity.
Breaking open.
Melting into Love.
Soaring on the wings of Truth.
The hush, of anxious worry.
The Goodness bestowed.
The empathy.
The compassion.
The connection.
The holy restoration of creative flow.
The fires of real passion.

And everything.
And everything.
And Beauty.