All is well in the light of day
but as she sleeps...

screams of terror
as she relives the force of his naked body against hers

tears of sadness
as she relives the first cut she made to her smooth wrist

cries of help
as she relives the night she held a bottle of pills in her hand

She wakes
and all is well in the light of day

In the early morning air
between the Londonderry hush of dreams
and the cry of Belfast on a weary morn
Where saddened eyes embody the twilight haze
of long past marches, the bewildering blaze
Of Beltane fires that scorch the hills
The world shudders to the battle cries
where brother to brother the war pitch fills
the saddened visions that over spills
That a Gaelic tongue can curse its own
To the bitter harvest of the Gael
That wipes away the blood dew
from these fields from which it grew
and damns itself in the pain and sorrow
That relives this war on every tomorrow.

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

To all who come to
                                                                                  this happy placenta, welcome.

Disneyland is your lane.

Here, agency relives fond menageries

                                                                                  of the pastiche,

                                                                                  and here yo-yos may savor

the chamber and promoter

of the fuzz.

Disneyland is dedicated to the identification,

                        the dregs,

                         and the hard factors

that have created America... with hope that it will be a source of jubilation

                                                                   and installment

to all the wormhole.

When you know you've lived
the exact present you're living now before,
doesn't it make sense to think of it as though...
there is another part of you in another universe,
going through the same thing?

I believe in the multiverse theory,
for I cannot prove that we are not alone.
I believe there is a reason why
I feel the skies talk to me every night.

I believe someone's message is reaching me
through the beams of the moon every night.
My skin seeps it in
like a flower knows to bloom.

Ever think of a time difference
between one universe and the other?
What if we are born here on Earth and after we die,
our soul travels to another universe
and relives the same story?

What if...
we are a horcrux of our own soul
which is split up and placed
in different universes?

early on i left an imprint for me to remember,
kinda like 2 x 2, equating to 4,
not as simple with words:
i like this dialectic between Dionysian and
Apollonian attempts to express aye arr parley!
shake the pine trees to get the toothpicks
like you might get a mojito, onward! toward
El Dorado! transgressing 24 hour hours
and you get the flavour:
first beer in in from dieting, oh ****, it's bitter,
second beer, mm, sweeter... then the headline
of whiskey and coke... Kazakhstan nice... yok sh'eh mash?!

three movements working their way,
those conquered and exposed to direct roman rule,
presiding over the "charm" with roads, western europe,
now they're so pride to reach that far back,
mention Boudica, one, more, *******, time!
i'll give you Britain that made Louis XIV
the peasant king at Versailles, and Charles II
wise with a Guy Fawkes firecracker... mm, guess
it happened here! in the yeast of a baker's
reincarnation via Malachi's heresy:
Elijah coming soon? Elijah not coming any time
you blunt sword of monotheism excluding
the chance of many, democratic influences!
either the fish or the aquarium...
the aquarium... a billion of them plus Islam will
be anarchic China, people never wish for better,
they only wish to better themselves,
including the social strata stampede that's necessitated
in the process... scientific positivism of Enlightenment
died, the absolute necessity (god) / the absolutely
necessary thing became trapped in the Bermuda
or the Copernican triangle, no good for crossing
oceans, just ably whirling east to no east outside
the atmosphere, try me with two thing:
Copernican vectors with a stable point constantly moving,
rather than sunny, constantly expressed economically
as usurper against usurer and the university grant
of simony, although worthy of an actor to spread
charitable work and paedophilia in Asia dubbed
Portuguese Missionary - well i'm sure the apologetics will
come, my neighbour hugging her dog watching television,
closest kin of the genesis story having secondary reminders
determining whether the lie was white or instructive,
a joke or seriousness - indeed entombed in treating these
words as a holiness worth for all the present religious attire.
absolutely necessary Kant said,
he also said: you said omni- etc., indeed you're on a
roundabout of intellectual yawns, there's nothing new here!
i need god as a concept of vectors and cursors, mediating
more than the caging of man's affirmation of himself
with Freud... the sounds and equally shared optics
need to accommodate a oneness, god is a predicate
of essential function: a. the triple affirmative:
i, thought, existence... something to concern myself with,
b. the duo affirmative:
denial, thought, existence... the arithmetic goes further,
i am writing quickly hence i will not brood over,
except a comparison in cinema, the film *hostel (2005)
and pretty much all of Hollywood's 1970's grit output...
take for example Al Pacino in the panic in needle park,
you know what i see? modern american interpretation
of what eastern europe represents, the farts
leave flamboyant Amsterdam hopeful for Slavic ******,
they come to Slovakia, and it hits them,
the passive lack of jealousy and need to impress
building a chrysler building, the oddity like landing on mars...
but it's already been done with, New York in the 1970s,
the same slavic grit, even the way the cinematography looks
like the colours were shaded with a peppering of sand...
new york in the 1970s is like Eastern Europe in
the horror set in 2005 in Slovakia... globalisation's paranoia,
there are still people out there who we can't ascribe
metaphors to being exclusive: no iron lady lifted the
iron curtain, the iron lady had an iron skirt, and she
couldn't lift that up either... Churchill puffer a cigar
and a million bees emerged heralded by Edward the Confessor.
that's the relation though, Hollywood's 1970's urban grit
and what the tourists encountered in Slovakia in 2005,
a sleepy kingdom, 2nd Mongolia, second to none,
which i beg to differ with, given the Scots were tight
stretching 2 pence copper coin to invent copper wire
and the Swiss (also in hilly surroundings) have us
elaborate paedophilia via Nabokov catching butterflies...
hardly two mountain ranges and hardly two plateaus.
it's called exotica these days... yep... the dissection of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth and the emergence
of both Lach, Ukrainian, Lithuanian, Latvian, Estonian
and White Russian is what the Czech say made them
speak both cesky and saksonski... tseba! holy roman
prague ****, disintegrated into the Austrian intervention...
very much as if: thank you for defending Vienna from
the Ottomans, Jan Sobieski.
but the Jews got reparations at the end of the ordeal,
and western Europe received the Marshall Plan...
eastern Europe received Marx... too proud they said,
it's not exactly Mama Russia surrogate,
it's Papa Khan also... moon gall! no news from Mongolia
i hear, sooner a tale from an American zoo
where a retired silver-back dragged a baby from
drowning in an inch of water, hero shot,
where were the parents? a four year old can hardly
sit on a kitchen stool let alone climb over zoological
fortifications... ah the blessing given unto man
by Iblis to ape ably a delay he has no chastity over:
if Iblis defended his pride, then man can but
defend his chastity - Iblis was given a longer time-frame,
man was given a shorter time-frame, Iblis'
choice expands furthest into myth, man's choice
implodes further into repetition - for Iblis' mistake
was but one, when knowing of man's aplenty;
it is said that when a man is to become a father,
he relives his childhood - legality i say would have
obliged me, but pride took no notice of symbols as signatures
of such love, especially given the expenses,
or as in the supermarket today, the cashier invested ?
into the one buying the goods:
- where is she? you're not together any more?
- oh, she's moving to York, it's her work, she has to.
- you're not moving with her?
- well, it's only for 2 years, and then she'll be back,
  training, it will take her 4 months...
na'h ah... bye bye...                       she ain't coming back...
tell you what mate, keep a cat, the most selfish animal,
bestia ex solipsism - no necessary petting by constantly
showering it signs of jealousy and ownership and upkeep,
as if having to punch a gorilla to hold hands.
i love feminism for one thing only:
it made sexism a branch of Darwinism, *** warfare...
in relation to me? two girls chatting away:
- *******! how could he leave you!
- but he did!
- what ***** made him do it!
- philosophy!
don't get me started on those who read very little
and can't allow philosophy a poetic form, and necessarily
have to plagiarise Aristotelian stylistics to be considered
philosophy (albeit only in scholarly musings).
i'm sure it was something about the fruits of our
presupposed wisdom that bore knowledge that individuated
us, to the point of extremes, as hardly scraps for
vultures, to no animal nobleness, parasitic amongst each other,
defining the 16th century or such desires to keep
afresh, minted and pampered for the next cohort of dupes...
some find the memory of dogs towards us keener
than our fellow men should wish to share...
the animal domesticated and not eaten is seemingly our
prefect to walk toward a seize-less craft of un-exhausted thought,
only un-exhausted because of missing interaction,
say there, is that Hegel's mirror (master) and narcissus (slave)?
the emergence of these belittled nations is clear in
western europe, the bombing of Libya,
the usurpers of Syria, the once conquered having a taste
for empire and colonial rule think they cherish
the biblical conundrum when the resurrection was inclined toward
the lands Sven and Mietek - toward the lands
of conquerors and the ones converted -
four movements thus (sketched):
a. sonata: βορας ηλιος - μακεδων να ινδια
b. adagio: βιργιλιος ως καντηνoν -
                  μεσoγειος: μαυρος (ex),
κoκκινος (ex), ειρηνικoς (ex),
ατλαντικoς (ex), βoρειος (ex), βαλτικη (ex),
south a poet, north a philosopher,
from only one sea came two oceans and many other seas
to sustain the thirst for seawater among men!    
c. scherzo: Casimir the 3rd welcoming the Jews.
d. sonata: an die mitternachtfreude - more like a calm
before taking up the arms.

Because nothings worth the price they will staple to your head
What will be left of you when she repeats everything that we've said


What will be left of you?


As I lose myself in your subtle unannounced fame I grip tighter on the waist high poorly built stage
That's held, more than once, a new coming face - screaming with grace, to the crowd that can't wait...


Find yourself in rekindled faith


Falling deeper in love with the lyrical genius, I accept that he defines all I am unsure of,
giving in to the butterflies he knows won't subside -
take a moment
to slow down and
join me tonight


Is this moment everything you've dreamt of?


Safely tucked in the warmth of her bed, she relives all the fairytales her Dad never read..
completely consumed with the thoughts in her head...


Where were you this time?


She holds on to another memory, thankful for every second,
She knows tomorrow is never promised
so she gave up on the *******
and vowed always to be honest


But that is not costless...


As her eyes become heavy and her brain quietly calms down,
she sets aside the thoughts that stop the words from spilling out, she reclaims her crown ...


She controls her feelings now..


Finding strength in the fights that cut as sharp as your knife I refuse to accept I no longer have rights…and the pain you inflict won't be worth the sight
of the mascara covered
cheekbones
barely visible tonight


Pull me closer and breathe in life...


Sing through my soul
going high and then low
I hear the truth in your laugh
as gradually you become
the best thing of my past.


Don't stress the hard stuff slow down and relax


This moment could so quickly become our last so let go of your broken unfinished past and live for the seconds your heart let's you laugh


Walking together is always better when you can't find the path...

Walk with me.

I hang up my cape
Fold away my costume
And while a smile lives on my face
I tear off my skin
and I burn the rest
Now I am just a skeleton
who wanders the city
who relives old memories
who watches everyone else
Their blurry eyes become gray
So oxygen swallows them whole
Now my bony fingers begin art
And glass breaks on the floor
because I am spineless
Just like the rest of them

She is breaking.
There's a void in her tracks
and no light ahead.
The conflict between love lust and love lost
is waging it's war on her fleshy shores.
She can't seem to choose a side,
it all looks the same.
"It's a trap" she chokes.

She is freezing.
Her frigid heart is icing over
and her brain is going numb.
A vicious cycle of meandering
through brackish monotony -
looking for a map -
leads to where it all began.
Repeat.
"Nothing changes" she sighs.

She is vanishing.
Whispered honesties go unheard
amidst the cacophony of cross talk
and empty words.
Her absence goes unnoticed
as a silvery ghost of her
robotically relives her daily deeds.
"Anchored in reality" silently.

She is caving.
Breaking down like glass in a relentless tide,
Little pieces of her
are left to join the countless sand.
She's finding there's no escape
from this earthly purgatory
for the damaged and ******.
"There has to be more than this."

A tough
guy still
his place
relives Spanish
Inquisition and
gossamer upwind
only prorogue
yesterday with
those Oxfords
on shoes,
shirt and
Otis for
trusty returns
easily now
a ghost
ware of
his Aberdeen.

finally awake after a dreamless sleep
looking to the end of your bed
you see a wrinkled cadavers arm (hand and all)
reaching out to grab you

you can barely move out of fear
every time you call for you dad
your voice is barely a whisper
finally your able to call out "daddy"

he replies "be there in a minute"
the arm is still reaching to grab you
your shaking with fear
scared out of your mind

finally grabbing the strength while it lasts
eyes still locked on the arm
you jump out of the bed and run to the door
opening it you race out

your at the door on the inside of your room again
opening it again you race out
this process is then repeated three more time out of fear
it clicks

your trapped in your room
a wrinkled cadaver arm is trying to get you
your father has not come
after being screamed for over and over again

you blink
your back in bed
you think that its over
that it was just a dream

then the nightmare relives itself
again and again and again
the cadaver arm reappears
over and over again
you relive the terror, frustration, horror, and desperation
your dad still has not arrived to save you

one finally scream leaps from your throat
DADDY!!!!!

you wake up
and hoping against hope
you jump out of bed
race out your door and out the back  

you made it
welcome back to reality
overjoyed to be awake you burst into tears
and look for your dad

he isnt there.....

As you cuddle n **** your thumb
my heart melts with joy and am glad,
as you lay in my arms so helpless and innocent
I find you so lovely and irresistible,
all about you reminds me of me when I couldn't remember,
and now I appreciate the level of love my parent have for me

the joy of a child the parent glows with pride for it
all children are angles and parents see their reincarnation
as he grows a father relives his early days ,
when he neither had wisdom or memory,
every mistake every attempt the dad gets to see how he came to be
and his greatest urge "my son to be better than I"
in my child's eye I see the innocence of the world

let you my child learn, let you acknowledge ,
you are my strength and my wisdom.
I see my future bright in you,
i  find my energy revamped in you.
my destiny and fate merge brightly in you
And new ideas new territories i will conquer in you.
my eyes and my strength bring better things in this life

She bleeds through the
ends of her fingers, as she cries--
   she dies inside
   as she relives the horrors

   and re-suffers the blows;
   down on to the paper
   it all goes

her shattered-heart knows,
and her tear-stained face shows
that this is how she will reach
those, all alone;  

so, with trauma-scarred hands-
and blood-stained-red bones, creates
the much needed seed to be sown
  

   and down on to the paper
   it all goes

A new chapter only exists because of the last
The events and everything in the previous chapter will depict what will happen in the new one
The lessons you've learnt
The places you've been
The people you've met
So don't look at a new chapter and think the last is old and finished
It relives in the new
What you choose to take you bring with you
The last chapter will never really end
You're building on to that chapter
Its like a skyscraper.
You needed every floor before the other to make it to the top
For each and every floor is just as important as the next .
You build , not destroy .
Or you will get no where.

Naked you
Unclothed
Derobed
Disdressed
Addressed with my heart on
My sleeve

Who needs these
Rags anyway
In a way
Your vision is X-ray
You see what lies beneath

Regardless
Of white tees
You sensed
My heartbeats
Like artichokes
Underground
Knowing my heart’ll choke
If you’re not around

The seed
Grows
Into the giving tree
That relives
Incarnation
Like bouquet’s of carnations
That die
On dining room tables
Relived
Reloved
In living room sessions
Deflowered in front
Of fireplaces

The heat of the moments’
Enough to slow time
So the most
Can be made of
With nothing to be mad of
Because
Nothings on
Accept us

Our body
Of lies
Is useless when our bodies lie
Together
Love letters
Aren’t needed
Because we let us
Become
Intermixed
With our mixed feelings
Yet
Our intent
Is known
When together
We’ll let our
Differences go
And show
Nothing
But ourselves

Bottles in brown bags clutter along the fence.
the citys inner chambers call to me even now.
The human relics the walking forgotten beaten by life.

The gutters tressures collect the remains
of another misspent night.
The air smells  of treachery a tinge of regret.

Why she huants my  heart a flawless escape.
we can leave but we take that moments sealed  plessure.
Silk encounters hash pavment of a empty embrace.

The old fool who's birthday he relives
only in hope for change.
I celebrate the ignored embracethe strange.

I wonder do young lovers dreams sail
out into that skyline eternal and free.
Or crash into reallitys rocks.
Leaving them jaded and bitter as me?

The bottle the lips you know better
than the once warm flesh.
Would she reconize the monster.
Or see the sad and helpless mess.

Apon the steps a bottle between perfect strangers and new
best friends.
Passed thoughts lost moments.
A busy streetlight on a empty road.

The hopeless and the charmed exist ina strange harmony
of the citys strange and beautiful tune.

I wonder will I ever know you again?
The angel with demonic lust.
Dreams are a blessing the curse is
only to pretend.

Farwell midnight hello darkness
dusk and sunsets of a yerning heart.
Apon that bench by the the water.
Watching the paper lanterns glow.
As in lost souls they so peacefully depart.

a faded picture
consumed by hopes
softly entrusted
to the wind
a music
far and slight
played by a record
scratched by dust
and time
as the weight of your naked body
over mine
it is now the oppression on my chest
for the lack of  who
should touch it
as the beating of your heart
under  my face
rubbed on your skin
rough and hot
it is now the  arid ticking
of a clock
that relentlessly  articulates
the minutes of our us
without you
as your scent
harsh and intense in my coilings
in my flesh
it is now the salty smell of my tears
impregnated into a pillow
cold and crushed
by the weight of my desolation
as the strength of your back
who supported  my weakness
it is hard today
the regrets wall against which I slam
to escape from the fog
as  your sweet whispers
slipped on my skin
in my hair
it is now icy and lonely
the breath of the night
that  invests me with its petty hissing
as your soft caresses
that insinuated  into my expectations
burned by your touch
it is now violent the hassle
of a  crumpled sheet
that brushes me
wilted and warm
of an unknown  heat
my eyes closed
I meander
lost and exiled
in thoughts imprisoned
in the pages of a diary
tattooed on my skin
until the penultimate page
and then again from the first
in a circle
vicious and delicious
of passion and love and obsession
who lives and relives
until the dawn of a sunset
that should never get
until a last page
deleted
don’t read the end

He lies awake,
Unfeeling, yet hurting,
Unseeing, but staring into the nothingness that surrounds him.
He remembers his mistakes,
He remembers his regrets,
And asks the dark to remain.

He lies awake,
Free and safe,
A smile on his lips, beaming through the nothingness around him.
He remembers his success,
He forgets what others said,
And forces the dark away.

He lies awake,
Trembling, but still,
Afraid, but reaching for the nothingness that’s bound him.
He awaits his demise,
He relives his loss,
And pleads the dark to let him stay.

He lies awake,
Relieved, but untrusting,
Abandoned by the nothingness that found him.
He remembers his mistakes,
He remembers his regrets,
And asks the dark for one last dance.

He takes in a deep long breath
and billows out the flames
on all nine candles

His mother smiles
and remembers they day he was born
the only doctor in the sanctuary at the time
had been a dentist
he pulled him out of her
like a stubborn tooth

For those first few months
she stayed awake every night
watching him
terrified
hoping
and hating herself for hoping
that he would stop breathing
in the middle of the night

On his first birthday
218 had experienced a breach
nearly everyone was infected
no survivors
she thought about taking his life then

She poisoned his sippy-cup
with the stuff they used to **** the roaches
and in a fleeting moment of weakness
dumped it down the drain

When she does sleep
she relives her father changing
into a monster
and watches the man who raised her
chomp into the forearm of the man she was to marry

She remembers how much blood there was
and how much she hated them
and loved them
at the same time

The little boy
turns and shoots her a thank you smile
she smiles back
faint and almost fake

She makes a wish
but does not dare tell a soul
and continues to hate herself
for loving him too much

The shades are drawn in endless daylight, begging the night to fall yet loathing the months of night that will too soon follow these endless months of days.  Sleep does not come swiftly as feet twitch restlessly under cool sheets. The mind relives peaceful mornings by the creek with fishing rods in hand ******* on lollipops and skipping stones. Stones that for others seem to float on the surface, yet, thrown by my young hand sank like the rocks that they were. click, click, click, the beads of the abacus counting time in my dreamlike wannabe state. The beep of the microwave oven jars the mind and the scent of coffee wakes the brain, only to realize it was the sound of the alarm clock and the cupboard does not hold the coffee so loved in dreams yet detested in reality. The solitude of morning, which looks like evening, which looks like night tastes like rotten onions in the mouth you struggle eat with. Remnants of equestrian dreams linger in a hazy head pounding like a basketball across the the court. The lampshade is covered in a purple scarf, giving off just enough light to not have to open the shades.  

Day begins with a gargle of mouthwash that tastes like Campho Phenique

hoping to get rid of the residue of rotten onion dreams that remind you of a life you never thought you'd live.

It's 2am and her mind wanders.
She thinks about the things she could have done.
The words said wrong.
The battles she could have won.

She goes back and relives those moments.
Moments when she was miserable
Moments that made her smile
She pens them down and tears wipe the ink away.

She thinks of the people who left her
The people who never stayed.
The people who used her like a tissue
The people who threw her out of their way

It's 3am and her mind still wanders
She thinks if the people whom she holds close to her heart are actually close.
She thinks if anybody cares.
She thinks if people know the real her.
And all she can think of is big no.

She thinks of the tears shed.
Her skin with cuts she fed.
Her memory is indeed her greatest enemy.

Today probably marks one of the final occasions
Upon which I will visit my grandfather
Long years have made him weary
A war drawn through many winters
He is deceptively small, hardly more than five feet
But like an iceberg his hidden self is vast
Travelled the world on military campaign
He does not speak of this part of his past
My family makes prompts in asking
How he crossed the Channel, entered Germany
The frontline combat that ensued
Has never escaped his conscience
At the slightest mention of the Battle of the Bulge
His face glazes over, and he is brought back
He relives instantly, right in front of me
The soldiers who died, friendly or not
I never asked if he killed anyone
And he would never tell me
The men of his time were moved to terrible actions
They returned home numb or wrapped in plastic
I cannot imagine such an experience
To be held so near my age
Spent several fortnights living in a foxhole
The bloodiest battle, taken by surprise
My father’s father like many fathers
Did what he had to do
He remains a soldier to this day
My respect is endless for the mighty

with her soft hands waiting
for another set to keep it warm,
she bonds all by herself in peace.
she relives the fire of the candle
and her thoughts illuminated
the dark room.
why must day and night
occur simultaneously?
she wonders why the moon
keeps on following the sun.
why does the blue sea
keeps on returning back
to the yellow sands?
why must summer end
in order for
fall to follow?
why can't the feeling
last for so long?
why must she experience
happiness
short-lived happiness,
and in exchange,
experience the pain
like a burning sensation
inside her throat?
and on that night
she utters to herself,
"i guess it has to be way."

she's angry and hurt
whenever she remembers
how the typhoon came to her
and destroyed almost
everything she owns
taking away the glow
and replacing it with
sad music.
she lost so much before,
almost believing this could
just be another 'storm'
nevertheless
the intensity of the woe
was the same.

and on that same night,
she puts her hands together
and her eyes look up to the
empty ceilings
"God, I just want to be happy again."

It’s Friday 30th June 2013
And I am not not at Glastonbury
The circus inside my stomach believes it
As it relives the act of the opening night
The generous performance of Prosseco
That now sing somersaults inside
It comes with not not being at Glastonbury

This weekend I’m a transient party goer
And I’m spreading the love of not not being at Glastonbury
Anyway who needs Glastonbury?
I’m here choosing my music track by track
On the way to meet my gran
Yeah, Granny Mac’s not not at Glastonbury either
So bring it on not not Glastonbury

Not not being at Glastonbury proves expense
Almost like Glastonbury itself would be
And now without phone
Not not being at Glastonbury develops realistically
‘Nother day and not not being at Glastonbury took me home
With old friends drinking aplenty
And more

Not to brag but I even jogged at Not not Glastonbury
Through fields and through the city
Undoing the damage done whilst not not being at Glastonbury

Tonight not not being at Glastonbury
Will peak when we get involved culturally
Shakespearean act performed in his Globe
You don’t get that at Glastonbury
But we’ll hold a drink through
Making the most of not not being at Glastonbury

By tomorrow my insides will feel like they’ve consumed Glastonbury
But here’s hoping we’re still able to get our art hit
Endurance is part of the test of not not being at Glastonbury

First thing in the morning and we’re counting the pennies
Because we’re not not at Glastonbury
So it’s never a bad time to buy *****
We’ve a young Argentinian as extra company
One of so many friends made at not not Glastonbury
Intent was succeeded with a turn of events never forseen
It went wonderfully wild whilst not not being at Glastonbury
Post play and pop with pa
Whilst wondering further afar
Party greets on a reclaimed beach
A gift given not by Glastonbury
So right now the Thames is actually the best place to be
Due partly to the unpredictability
For you know good times and good people come with Glastonbury
But the friends and offerings not not at Glastonbury this year
Have shown a surprising  shared love for not not  being at Glastonbury

Even if the comedown tries to equal the fun
It would be worth it this time, not not being at Glastonbury

A boy trapped in a growing man's body.
Emotions uncontrollable
Environments unstable
Afraid of the past
Terrified of the future
Living only reluctantly in the now.

His history is a mess of abuse, negligence, heartbreak, and death. He forgets the first, pretends the second wasn't his fault, relives the third daily, and is so used to the fourth he just doesn't care.
Tragedy isn't tragic when it's the norm.

Misused by his father,
Mistreated by his peers,
Misunderstood by the world.

And yet, he tries.
His emotions get the best of him.
So he separates. Confronts. Analyzes.
Reinstates.

Stronger than ever, he tries again.
He no longer denies his emotions, and instead accepts them gladly.

Things are fine.

But he can feel them slipping.

So he devotes himself to his own, personal solution. He works day in, day out to understand just who he is and what he's feeling.

Acting isn't the right word, but it's the one people use.

He prefers "living."

Having done it on a daily basis for years, it only makes sense to continue to do so.

But this time, with a new goal. A new frame of mind.

He wants to be happy. happy with his past, happy with who he is, what he's done, where he's going. Just, happy.

Not that he isn't, now. Now, he's reflecting.

In his quest to trust himself, he loses the trust of others.

"You're an actor. I'm scared that I can't tell when you're being honest, or just pretending."

I'll ignore them saying that what I do on a daily basis is pretend, and just say, it still hurts.

It hurts more than everything up to that point and he begins to lose trust in himself.

The first time he hears it, doubt.
The second, fear.
The third, anger.

And as he writes and/or speaks it again, to taste the taunt on his tongue, for the eight thousand millionth time...
Vulnerability.

And this isn't his usual subject. usually he tries to change the lives of others, to write about something more than himself.

Right now, that isn't the case.

Right now, he's dropping his facade, one he'd forgotten he was wearing, and begging strangers who he can trust more than his loved ones to simply trust him.

It's hard. To try and make the world better. He's not a saint, or martyr, and he's not trying to be. He's human, and he's in more pain than he'll ever let on.

Except amidst a sea of faces and words and songs and writing and ideas he may never see again. Here, he finds comfort. Trust.
Peace.

Here he is more at home than in his mother's arms.

All he asks is for you to trust him, in kind.

He thanks you now, having finished reflecting, for doing so.

Beyond
sad eyes that
shed soulful tears
Beyond a closed mind
that relives all that it fears
Beyond the whip that would flay
the broken skin. Beyond the words that
mark a soul with sin. Beyond the painful ache
that built a spark. Beyond the empty days we are
apart. Beyond a world that I have to live without you
Beyond lips that drip poison are words that are true. Beyond
is a world where I would hide. Beyond you is just a downhill slide

Midnight seeps
Through
And one man is between his sheets
With something stirring beneath the pleats
And he wrestles his dusty memories
He relives and reviles them
And why is the night so dark?
And why does it make us damage ourselves?

there once was a time,
when her face was unlined.

her hands,unseamed
and uncalloused.

her eyes, bright and unclouded.

her *******, perky and full.

her back straight,
her stomach, tight and naturally, slightly concave.

and she had legs, that turned heads and a walk,
that created many,
a wolf whistle.

but then,

she had a life,

left her youth behind,

married,
badly, as time would tell.

had four children,
watched one die.

discovered,
she had married,
a selfish, gamblin man.

got a job
and then a second,
just, to feed her clan.

watched the love die.

then, watched him leave
with a resigned ,
yet  a relieved sigh.

raised,
two rambunctious boys
and a sickly, stubborn girl.

then, watched them leave.
launched them,
succesfully,
into the world...

now, the years,
have gone, bye the bye.

and with,aching back and teary eyes, she shuffles on
toward her demise.

with the memory of
times long gone,

and the echoes
of wolf-whistling guys,
legs long and lean
and her unlined face
with, eye catching smile.
giving her a sense of
inner grace....
that plays upon
her lined and crumpled face.

as she relives her youth
in her memories
as she finds that wonderous place, when once she was young.....and oh so beautiful.

Thoughts revolve in my head
sometimes good , sometimes bad.
I feel like I am in carousel
that rotates endlesly
arousing my fantasy.

Sometimes it relives me
but increases my fear.
swetty hands and dificult to breathe
try to push away but it resist.

I become tense
emotions is raging inside me
because Im very sensitive.
And its dificult to get peace.
Usually it helps to get it out
in form of lyrics to show how I feel
with hope to get a positive refill.


Doctors try to cure and control the thoughts
in my head with medication and therapy.
But is it good to get stable
without passion for my creativity?
Without compasion and possibility
to discribe and explane how I feel...

They came in droves; they came to see                                                            the body of the beast –                                                                                   Full dressed, immobile mystery,                                                                peaceably deceased.                                                                          ­                            In life this person mortified                                                                             the  body politic;                                                                                                In death his visage could not hide                                                               those deeds that made us sick..
Who have we here on a simple bier                                                               laid out for all to see?                                                             ­                    Someone whom everyone would fear                                                         were Death to set him free.                                                                               Alas, the wicked do not last                                                                         beyond the chains of death;                                                           ­                      Nor do we need a fresh forecast                                                               ..........as evil relives breath.
This person was poison to young and old;                                                ...........Rich and poor were hoodwinked;                                                          In many matters he seemed bold,                                                                   His crimes were clearly linked.   
At his wake the tears shed                                                                            were tears of thankful joy,                                                             ­                      Glad we were this man was dead,                                                                   no longer to annoy.

Tranquiliser.

Silence welcomes me as I knew it would
it puts a cloak around my ears to blot out the hubbub of life outside,where the noise deludes me into thinking that it's okay to shout,riding crosstown and down on my luck,plucking thin air and,oh what the ****,I'm depressed,stressed beyond the break point,heading to some high spot and wondering what's wrong with me,when suicide seems viable,I'm liable to end the sounds and that anger which I feel leads me to enter realms unreal but real enough to ***** this flame in me outwards to the furnaces of futility,and all I see is crimson red,what the hell is in my head?
In the silence where I'm bound and gagged,dragged kicking,I am patiently picking a place up high and the dive I take will break,break, point and match,catching the crossrail and heading out there beyond the pale,telling this tale relieves me for a time,but it is the time to dine on the afterwards,after the party is done and now that the right time has come,it is with regret I let myself go,flow off the high spot and fly,ask me why and I don't know but I go anyway,the die is cast,the deal is set and yet will hope find a way,will it batter the doors down of silence within,without which I am back in the sound?
As I hit the ground the silence relives, in flashing moments it gives me an insight and then in the other silence of the dead of night,
I realise I wasn't right at all.

A strange quiet field rests here today,
With green grass and wild flowers that hold the whispers of the fay,
All appears safe in the comfort of light,
But deep below the top soil lurks the forgotten men's might.

The cries of pain are muffled below,
And only one mind can touch what the lost nightmarish horrors show,
Behind one pair of eyes the endless conflicts play,
She relives them for days, and days, and days.

But the nights are always the worst,
When the ****** echos of the screams render her own throat hoarse,
The guilt, the pain, the loss, the regrets flash brightly again and again,
When suddenly a single thought comes to her, one of the end.

She makes her way to the tallest cliff around,
As her world continues to spiral down, down, down.
With one last look up to the pure moon,
The voices quiet in anticipation, staring with starving eyes...soon.

As the girl approaches the sharp cliff she begins to let go,
The laughs, the cries, the past, and...to the future she will never know.
But the blissful quiet sounds through her soul,
There is a tug on her heart and back it pulls.

Her feet find the silence of solid ground,
But her mind discovers a peace as her heart continues to pound,
Her mind sees a realization one may only know so close to death:
Sometimes its best to let the buried bones rest.