Hypocrite,
*******,
*******,
Poor Christian,
***,
Insincere,
Liar,
Narcissist,
Immature,
Weak,
Toxi­c,
These are just a few of the things
You call me when it suits,
From your precious
You-centredness superiority,
And you fail to see that
Self-centredness IS narcissism,
Leave aside that narcissism,
Even if I was,
(SERIOUSLY?! With my degree of empathy?)
Is not a problem,
Toxic narcissism is!
And I am not that either,
But I interrupt my own flow,
These things these words
That you hurl with wild abandon
Do indeed matter,
And they hurt,
They cut deeper than you know,
Have consequences,
And deep inside I am bleeding out,
So soon and very soon
The tense will change,
Words will have mattered,
Because I wont be about
Any more to be harmed,
And you will still blame me,
Because it is never ever your fault,
Not the words you choose,
Not the things you do,
Is it?

I keep saying I carried
Us alone for a year,
In the face of
Abhorrence - derision and rage,
In truth some of each with
Much good reason,

I keep saying,
As you did,
That my love is not enough,
Keep saying that now
It's your time to shine and that Indeed now you must,

And yet even as you
Reach out in a way
I am supposed to honour,
Your tone is dipped
In censure and rebuke,
Accusation and deep ire,

What you seem not
To understand is you
Are in fact,
For all your vaunted effort,
Merely nailing our coffin lid,
Firmly,

Shut.

I am the giver of hugs,
The dispenser of caressing comfort,
The holder of those in need,
The squeezer out of pain and sorrow,
The shutter out of this world and its woe,
If only for a moment a head Upon my shoulder
Is free of sadness and sorrow,
Free of fear and frustration,
Safety resides within my embrace,
Sanctuary whence nowt can reach thee,

But right now it's the hugger
In hugging need,
That tap gushing
From a bottomless jug has
Just a hint of falter,
A tiniest reduction of pressure,
Insufficient for regard by others
But keenly felt by me,
Hints at limits being reached,
And I rail against that potential
Failure to project and protect,

So here I am,
Pouring out hugs,
While inside every sinew
Screams for someone,
Anyone in fact, to see ME,
See the pain and need,
See my faltering heart
And hope,
And step up,
Wrap me in THEIR arms,
Hold me and heal MY broken
Worn out heart a bit,

So I can hold and heal
Those many more
Still in need.

In many poems,
Indeed mine own,
Relationships are defined
As two vessels sailing
In close company,
Plotting the same course
By choice and happiness
Choosing to stay close by,

But in truth a relationship
IS a ship,
A single hull with
Two crew to sail it,
Working together
To maintain the five essentials,
A level hull, with sails and foils well set,
And direction agreed,

Who holds the helm,
The tiller and extension,
That person controls
The direction of travel,
And that has been you,
When you sailed us into danger
My hand was there to guide
Us back from hazard,

Now I am steering
And the course is arrow straight
In lieu of help
Or kind suggestion,
A crew entirely focussed not
Upon the vessel but themself,
And no gentle hand to
Re direct our boat

Nor kind word
Or still small voice of calm
To calm the storm for more
Than a minute,
And that is a shame,
It takes two to tango
Only one to sail a boat,
But it is better by far

With another

I teach others to sail,
Quite literally,
And I am good at that,
Many many people will attest
To my passion and effectiveness,
But sailing is way more
Than just a glorious physicality,
Its a perfect analogy
Of life and love and death,
I also coach and mentor
The lives and loves
The living and doing
Of others,
Also in truth their endings too,
And I offered that best
Of me to you,


But something you seem
To fail to grasp is that whilst
Tacking can be wide,
Deliberate and slow,
Sedate even,
A gybe is the opposite,
Stern to wind,
A boom crashing across
And the cause of many a capsize,
You cannot be gentle gybing
In any kind of proper wind,
Its either one way,
Or it is the other,
It is sudden and immediate and NOW,
So no,
I have not been tacking,
Although at one point maybe
I was going that way,


With an icky feeling
In my heart like
The warning trembling
In a sail's leach,
I am about to gybe,
And it will be sudden,
There will be
A rapid change of direction,
I am a good sailor,
A great seafarer and handler
Of boats
Both real and metaphorical,
So my gybe will be anticlimactic,
Calm even,
But I will be accelerating
Away from you,
Your self centredness,
Your precious secrets,
Your rage,
Months of scorn and derision and accusation,
And while I do not know
My destination,
Indeed in truth I have none,
I do know the seas will quickly
Be much calmer,
The spray far less and that
Without the ice of attitude
And pain,
And at a parting rate of five knots each
In just twenty four hours we will be
Over two hundred miles apart,
I wonder then,
Will you OR I
Find peace?

Yes you had the best of me,
You also had the worst
Sadly all you see
Or acknowledge
Is that you had the worst,
Complain ad infinitum
About the bad,
Never once admitted
The good

We have spoken of tacking
Our ships away,
Changing our divergence
From one mile
For every sixty sailed,
To one mile every mile
As we part at ninety degrees,

Having sailed close aboard
A few years with
Turbulent waters between
Our hulls
Offset by occassional beautiful
Moments of sunrise
And reddened dusk,

The sun is now more often
Obscured by storm clouds,
Black and angry,
Unfeeling and irrational,
Lightning-full and dangerous,
With fewer sunny moments
Or even any forecast

The wind is picking up,
And the waves have
White caps on their heads,
Spray bursts more often
Over my bow and the rain
Is freezing now
Time not to tack so much

As wear ship,
Turn away from the wind,
Give up the beat to windward,
Accept the futility
Of a fools errand,
Slamming into a sea that
Does not forgive nor want me,

Turn instead south,
Away from the teeth of
A gale driven by spite and ADHD,
Sail south and hope to find
A sunnier clime
Before my ship

Finally

Sinks

And many people,
Or maybe some,
A few perhaps,
Profess to like my work,
Riven as it is with broken hearts
And torn souls,
Oceans of tears and
Viscera damp upon the floor
Ripped from bodies wracked in pain,
But here's the thing,
I do not write for others,
Each word that bursts from my fingers,
My pen or often times
My keyboard,
With its burden of blood and pain,
Is writ for just one person,
Sometimes two,
Always me,
Always the author,
And sometimes the person whose
Hand was on the knife!

I keep telling you
Our courses are diverging,
And they are,
By another degree with
Every ****** row,
Every irrational rant,
I'm not sure quite
How many degrees apart
We are now because we
Sometimes correct a bit,
But more than one I think,
It doesnt matter though,
Because with each degree
And 60 miles travelled
I'll be a mile away,
We travelled four years
Thus far and even from a mile away
I won't hear you any more,
That is a mathematical certainty,
But your hand is on the wheel,
Of your ship
And so is mine on mine,
And soon it'll be time to tack.

From the perspective
Of improvement I can see
That there was a lot of
Darkness in me,
Or mayhap more an absence
Of light,

I am not,
Nor ever have been
A bad man,
But I have done many bad things
And things of which
I am ashamed,

I have lived in fear
And under the accrued
Accretion of a life lived
Thoroughly most surely,
If not always really
All that well,

Like a boat left too long afloat,
With a hull encrusted
With barnacles
And **** such
That good sailing is but
An impractical dream,

But now I have careened my life,
Hauled myself over on a beach
At low tide and scraped
My bottom clean,
Painted with the antifoul of faith
And returned myself to the builders spec,

You may not notice
The lack of ****,
The absence of barnacles or
My changed behaviour,
And thats okay,

You will however,
Even through your judgement,
Lack of forgiveness
And self important rage,
Notice most particularly

That I am gone

I worked it out - ADHD that is,
Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder?
My ****!
For those of us caught in the maelstrom
Of irrationality, rage, accusation and self centredness,
Those of us doomed
To love these creatures,
ADHD is just
A Depressing Horrible Death,
When it could, and should,
Be A Delightful Heavenly Destiny,
Oh well,

Laid to the tree,
Which shivers with every blow,
A few leaves shimmying down
Before their time,
Their green already starting brown,

Another slash of a knife
Across the cords of the hawser
That binds us in life and love,
An ominous cracking creak
As our hulls inch further apart,

Every forgotten little thing
That means nothing to you
Is a wedge, and even those
That do matter? the forgetting
Doesn't matter to you,

And this is why we are
Diverging and inexorably parting,
Because all you see is you,
Your sole perspective is viewed from you,
No empathy or care,

And when the tree falls,
The moorings part,
And you find yourself alone
On a lonely sea,
I  doubt you will understand

But sure as eggs is eggs,
I know you'll say
It's my fault.