It’s imposable to comprehend,

The Gamut of anything,

But I believe, with art,

We can at least begin.



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I hum dark poetry,
As I walk down the street,
My soul boiling up in my throat,
As it rattles around,
Stretching to escape.

Keep coughing,

Full of snot,

When the ****,

Is this going to stop?

The rolling waves of the motorway,
Stretching on to the horizon,
Yet still clawing at my mind.

You perpetuate my insanity,
Fueling the destruction of my flesh.

Yet when you are absent,
Rest will not come with silence.

I’m on the edge,

I’m looking over,

And the whole world is pushing,

On my shoulders.


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The ones who trip,

On the path they choose,

Are the ones who are blind,

To those walking beside them.


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Was I on the edge?

Did I push back?

Should I have jumped?

I feel like I should write a drunken poem,

I think it would be great,

But it’s probably ******* awfull,

It’s also way too late,

To be doing anythig creative,

Especially when I’m this ******,

And I can’t be bothered with rhyming,

Goodnight everyone

An amber landscape expends across the rambling hills,
The Barren trees stretch desperately towards the sky,
As if the higher they climb,
The more they are engulfed by the overwhelming beauty.

The dying embers of the sun race to cover the land in honeyed hues,
Extending across the landscape in rays,
Slowly melting toward the horizon.

All colours become the spectrum of the sun.

Snatched back

From the icy talons,

Of deathless sleep,

Or sleepless death.





Heartbeat pulsing in my ears,

Rattling in my chest.





Leaving me helpless,

Heatless,

Struggling to catch up,

Unawares.





And now I lay awake,

Trapped in fear,

Knowing I am unable take,

My final breath.





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His voice,
Staring at me,
With awful,
Questioning eyes,
I dared not turn,
I dared not answer.

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As my brain attempts to function,
Instead it starts to melt.
A thousand little concepts,
Singeing neurons as they fly.

I strive to be beatific,
Honestly I do,
But things always seem,
To intervene,
And get in the way of my ****** happiness.

****’s sake!

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I often feel a pariah,

Not quite like all the rest,

But I’ve come to the conclusion,

I might just be over stressed.


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Can’t write,

Don’t know why,

Often scary,

When I try.

Education is a system,

Designed to inculcate,

But really it enforced,

My desire to create.





http://tansyroake.weebly.com/

Is self loathing natural?
If it is then it shouldn’t be,
If it’s not self loathing keeping me in bed,
Then it’s social anxiety.

Now that we’re listing issues,
(and incase you couldn’t tell)
I’m a raging hypochondriac,
And that worries me as well,

While were on the subject,
There’s some things I’d like to address,
I think I might have depression,
Although im not always that depressed.

I lie in bed most mornings,
Trying to greet the day,
But end up rolling over,
And sleeping the morning away.

I’m hardly ever productive,
But on the occasions that I am,
I do feel proud of myself,
And believe that I can,

I can get out of bed,
I can make some food,
I can do some work,
I can go to the shop,
I can clean the house,

If only I could get out of bed.


And if I ever actually make something,
Because sometimes I do,
I’m instantly plagued with self-doubt,
And crawl back in my cocoon.

The other day,
To my dismay,
I came across a newt.

In my attempts,
To explicate,
Off that newt did shoot.

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I am stretched out,
Afloat,
Atop a vast ocean,
Of inputs and emotions.

I know,
When the surface tension breaks,
I will surely drown.

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And here am I,

So terrified by the scale of it all,

That I must escape into banality.

I lie,
Languid,
Festering fresh,
Sticky and sodden,
My chosen entrapment,
My shrouds,
Alive,
With me,
As I swell and shrivel,
As I leak and absorb,
I become more of it,
It becomes more of me.
As I expire,
It gains life.

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If ever I’m punctilious,

Please bring me up to task,

People are annoying,

When they’re talking out their ****.



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I see in varied clarity,
As fog evades reality,
I dot my Is,
and cross my Ts

Yet still this world alluding me,
Is not the same one that you see.

Transfixed,
But no desire to flee,
I’m dancing with insanity.

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According to the dictionary,

Excrescences are superfluous.

In my opinion that’s rude,
​
And frankly quite cantankerous.


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I am burdened with,
And consumed by,
Visual poetry.
When the surface is scratched,
Or even just lightly bruised,
My eyelids are stretched,
Far beyond their natural capacity,
In wonderment,
At the terrifying beauty,
That exists,
In the minutia,
Of the achingly ordinary.

Language is luscious,
Lascivious and lustful.
My infantile attempts,
To adorn it with adoration,
Can only fall a thousand times short.
Wistfully I can wish,
That my words,
I will be able to harvest Its’ honey.
I have no other need,
Than to know that which has,
infinitely intrigued me,
And yet still alludes me.

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The impending sense of dread,
Scurries back into my mind,
​
Whilst I attempt to distract myself,
Pretending to unwind.

When all I’m doing really,
Is finding ways to procrastinate.

To distract oneself from oneself,
It’s fantastically obstinate.

Occasionally I’m asinine,

To gain a few good laughs,

But I promise there is more to me,

Than lewd and crude remarks.


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It’ vitally important,

That you remember all this stuff,

I hate to be importunate,

But I just can’t stress it enough.

I don’t really like horses,

Tough I’ve ridden them once or twice,

Felt like I was on a destrier,

Which wasn’t very nice.


http://tansyroake.weebly.com/new-word-poems

My mood is often changeable,

And frequently it troughs,

I worry that I’m capricious,

And that it ****** people off.


http://tansyroake.weebly.com/new-word-poems

I’m enjoying being twenty,

And don’t want to wish away my youth,

But I look Forward to being wizened,
​
And no longer so uncouth.


http://tansyroake.weebly.com/new-word-poems

I’ve never been a toady,

Nor I hope have you.

But the problem with toadying,

Is sometimes you just have to.


http://tansyroake.weebly.com/new-word-poems

I like to practice impertinence,

At least three times a day.

I’ve no regard for authority,

Well, that’s what my ‘superiors’ say.


http://tansyroake.weebly.com/new-word-poems

My love of being self employed,

Is easily explained:

A lack of genuflecting,

And a sunny outdoor trade.

I’ve felt like I was in a bubble,

For the last coupple of days,

My mind has turned to flinders,

Starting to show its age.


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When I was in Australia,

I saw a Mulga tree,

It was very unassuming,
​
and failed to impress me.


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I’d like to learn piano,

Or something more obscure.

Maybe the concertina,

But I am not yet quite sure.


http://tansyroake.weebly.com/new-word-poems