Many artists create for approval, to translate the beauty they find in the world so that others can feel what they feel (which is second hand at best), or to try to better understand the world that they are in and communicate their findings with the rest of the world. I would stand here today and say that is all meaningless to me. If one cannot find their own truths, then they do not deserve the truths that they find. Everyone can see 'the beauty of the world' that surrounds them, and far too many people try to turn their senses into tangible words on a page. What difference does it make, better yet, what difference should it make to a person if others view the world in the same light that they do? It is for this purpose that I do not view the world in any light. When I create I view the world without light. Feeling my way through the darkness trying to find something that I can hold on to. I am a horrible and pitiful creature when I search for ideas, but when I can wrap my hands around these ideas with no light shed from an outside source there is no greater sense of accomplishment. I write not about the beauty of the world, not about fantastic imageries that could be on an inspirational poster, nothing of the heavens and angels, because when I write my demons take over. Every doubt that sits in the back of my mind unanswered. Every amount of corruption that I have seen in the world. Every hope that has been shot down to crash as a fallen spaceship. Every desire that I will never see fulfilled. These are the things that give me the passion and inspiration to create. Perhaps it is for the balance of the world that I write with such things in mind. As I watch so many writers fail to create what it is that they pictured in their creative vision simply because their minds are cluttered with preconceived notions of love, of good, and of this great being that will provide them with their every desire (deliverable on death, as I have been told); I know that most will surely continue to fail. The world does not have a perfect clockwork structure that they would have everyone else see. I hope that in controlling my demons I will be able to create something that is more authentic. More pure.

Art is struggle.
Creations are covered with our sacrifices.
Without the grotesque, beauty cannot truly be seen.
Without darkness, we cannot understand light.
My cup runneth over.

Seven great inspirations
I remember being young and thinking that there was no greater goal to seek than the goal of love. I had told myself countless times that my greatest goal in life was to find someone and make them the happiest person in the world. I know now that the naivety of that statement is enough to make even the most romantic shake their heads. It was from this naivety and hope that a young man fell in love. As all things that are destined to horribly fail, it failed horribly. The joy in this young man's eyes dissipated and he was left horribly confused. How could my greatest inspiration and the goals that I had set for myself fall apart so swiftly? It was around this time that I slowly started seeing the world for what it truly was. There was great sorrow in this time, but it was a time of more beauty than I had ever known. Years that I thought were wasted were resurrected as emotions and perceptions that slowly found their way from my hand to paper. I learned from a very young age that it was proper to hide emotion, and so many of these creations were destroyed after I had pushed them from my mind. It was not until I let a few close friends read some of what I had written that I realized the value that words held. I used these words to bring happiness to others and evoke emotion where there was none before. All of the ideals and emotions that I held in high regard for so long slowly withered away. It was in this time that I slowly learned that because there was so much good that came from something so devastating, that those things I once thought were so evil may have something good to be found in them. There were great inspirations to be found in those things I had once discarded as sinful and without worth. I found beauty and inspiration in what most would call corruption and imperfect. These things, which were taught to me as sins, gave me more inspiration than any rules or restriction would ever be able to. For the first time in my life I actually felt free. It was with this newfound freedom that I was finally able to express what I truly felt without fear of guilt or punishment. My outward appearance stayed approximately the same (as I was taught that appearances were always important and some habits were hard to break), but I realized that I was a completely different person. It is these differentiations from what I considered to be the norm that allowed me to grow as a person instead of as a machine that was built by those around me. It is this facade of normality that I will forever wear as a defense mechanism to keep those as closed minded as I once was from prying. It is the sins that I once fought so hard against that would help me realize the person that I truly was. This is not merely a documentation of the things that inspire me, this is a tribute to the realizations that allowed me to grow as a person. A great deal of my writing tends to come out as metaphors, but in what will follow I will do my best to write clearly and without riddles. These are the thoughts that bring my creations to life. This is the fuel that drives a man down a road comfortably, no longer worried about speed limits or street signs. Now I will explain how these seven deadly sins breathed life into an otherwise lonely and discarded man.

Pride
Are we all not more important than everyone else in our own universe? Is there some secret kept within the recesses of our mind that perverts this self preservation into something that is frowned upon? Are we not supposed to be proud of our accomplishments? Where are the lines between what is appropriate and a horrid vanity drawn? Would we not become Lucifer if the feeble minds trapped in these mortal shells were placed in a shell more beautiful and eternal than anything we have ever seen? Are we so quick to judge those guilty of our same crimes? Tell me that if you were given the chance you would not change places with a god, and I will never believe another word that pushes its way past your lips. We are wired to attempt to gain higher standing wherever we are. When I have created something that I believe holds truth I am proud, and I am proud that I am proud. If it were not for pride where would that sense of accomplishment come from? Should I allow my pride to turn to shame, and **** a driving force to create something even better next time? I think not. In the universe of our art, we are the gods. We manipulate every word, every pixel, every stroke of the brush. We have ultimate control of the characters, the situations, the emotions, the outcomes, and do not have to provide an explanation to anyone unless we decide to. When we are done with our creations we stand back and say that they are good. A faulty attempt to turn the artist into a god, but the intentions are thinly veiled. To create and to have others look upon your creation with wonder and awe, is that not the intentions of almost all artists? What purpose does this serve other than the creation of pride? I would say that there are none. My writing is the universe where I am god, and there are none other as powerful or that have as much say as I do.

Sloth
Call me cynical for not seeing the absolute beauty of the world around me. Sloth, the great sin of sadness and despair. I look at the world and am dissatisfied with what I see. I have always been fond of Poe, because he wrote about this more than anything else. Why should I be any different than this? The only love I have ever known was ripped from my hands, and I was left with nothing but a feeling of wanting. I watch people walk by with their masks of happiness and content, and when the day is done I see these same people left shaking and world weary. How much rain should fall from my eyes before they become as black as the clouds they do their best impressions of? With every attempt to better the world thwarted on each turn, it seems as if things are not going to change. The problem with writing on the subject of sorrow is that many view it as unhealthy or look down upon it. It is only after putting words to the things that bother me that I have control over them, and can manipulate them as I wish. Sorrow and pain are less of a threat when they can be controlled. Where is it that this sorrow and despair comes from? Perhaps I read too many fairy tales as a child. Perhaps I have yet to get to the end of the story of life where the moral will be revealed to me. Perhaps it is this surreal world that I could never persuade myself to live in. A world where I am to put on a mask of happiness and pretend that everything is going just the way that it should. A world full of everything that I could ever desire. It is because I cannot alter my senses that give my perception of the world that this demon resides within me. My writing is the realization that the world is not what I was led to believe it to be. My creations are the sorrow and despair of living in an imperfect world, and wishing that it was perfect.

Gluttony
Do not overindulge in anything, not even those things which bring pleasure and have no consequence. I think this is a flawed statement at best. In my writing I discuss extraordinary circumstances or situations that I have been involved in. Many of these situations happened only in my own mind, but a number of them occurred when I overindulged in certain things and saw the world in a completely different perspective. If we all lived in perfect moderation, would the world not be boring and uninspiring? I choose to do those things that bring pleasure, and if I do them too often then the result is simply more pleasure. Gluttony is the cause of many interesting nights that allowed me to step outside of my protective shell and experience things that I would have never experienced otherwise. How could I not pay homage to such a thing? How could I desire to cease doing something that only opened my eyes? Gluttons will be looked down upon and called drunkards and addicts, but I have never met a being that has not committed gluttony at one point or another. I was once told to overindulge in moderation. Where does the line between an altered state of mind that we can learn from and a sin stand? In my creations there is no line, because there is no sin. My writings are guilt-free and full of overindulgence of thought. My words are my minds altered vision grasping for truth.

Wrath
These **** words will not flow from my mind, through my hand, and onto this god forsaken medium. What is it that I need to do to express my emotions so that others can understand them? If my words are too abstract it is only because of the thoughts and emotions that they follow. If people cannot follow my metaphors and hidden meanings then it is of no concern to me. The fact that they will not try to stimulate their intellectual ***** in order to understand something more complex than they are used to drives me insane. My pulse quickens with each thought of the issue. It is impossible that I left my metaphors too veiled or did not give enough surrounding exposition. These creations make perfect sense. Then I step back and look at the gibberish that I have created and hurl it across the room as harshly as possible. The thoughts and ideas are all here, it all makes sense in my mind, so WHY WILL THE WORDS NOT COME OUT RIGHT? The inability to explain senses or perceptions in a concrete manner that the audience will understand creates more anger in me than I will ever understand. An anger that refuses to subside. With a clenched fist the pens and pencils are broken, the keyboard is shattered, and the words are broken down into the letters that sit in a pile on my floor. My creations inspire nothing more than they inspire my hatred for ignorance. My creations are an angry conglomeration of letters wishing that they could show the emotions that inspired them. My words are children beaten for insubordination.

Greed
Greed is the greatest inspiration that most will ever know. To bathe in golden bullion and never have another care in the world. Greed not for the sake of greed, but for the sake of freedom. I am inspired by greed of a different sort. The desire to gather every idea that I can find and horde it as my own. The greed of knowledge and experience. When I was younger it was interesting to be the most mature person my age, and now that I am older it is not knowledge that is sought, but wisdom. I horde this knowledge and wisdom in my own personal compressor and squeeze them until they are in the purest possible form. It is this ink that I dip my quill into hoping that my faulty hands can transfer such a perfect concoction onto the parchment without ruining it. Without poking a hole through the parchment. Without deciding after I am finished that the words do not hold the meaning that they carry, and having to destroy everything and start over. I would gladly give all the wealth that I have to be able to sate my greed for the expression of perceptions and knowledge. These are the pains that I have endured, and they are mine and mine alone to claim. There is no greater value on this Earth in my eyes. People can have their tubs of golden bullion, and I will help them with generous contributions when able, but if they ever decide they want my words there will be war. A war of greed. A war of necessity. My creations are my glorious mansion that holds the treasures of experience and knowledge. My words are the golden bullion that so many men have fought and died for, and I will horde them until some greater force can pry them from the hands that created them.

Lust
Love is an illusion that was created for your confusion. Those that speak of love are disillusioned into believing in some extrasensory emotion that they allow to consume them. Love is the most abstract emotion or idea that anyone could ever base a creation on. I tire of reading of love at first sight, love found upon a spring morning, or love that has been discarded. These things are boring, and as long as people persist in writing on these things I will always have kindling for my fires. Tell me about something that I know. Lust is the most pure form of the idea of love that is kept in circulation for no apparent purpose, besides creating sorrow for those that cannot find something so perfect as it has been described. Lust does not mislead and has no ulterior motives. The warmth of another being pressed tightly against you in a shared ecstasy. That is all. There are no complications, there is no confusion, there are no forced rituals that you have to fake your way through to get to another goal. Has the world become so confused that it forgets its instincts. They tell me that lust is a sin, but I know very well that it has created more pleasure than any restriction I will ever be given. I have heard many times to wait for love and it will come in time, but never have I heard anyone told to wait for lust. There is something unexplainable about finding oneself in a passionate situation that they had never even thought about before the moment that it happened. It is the same way with my writing. My writing is the beautiful girl whose name I do not know, as she is leading me across the house to a more secluded place.

Envy
I was taught never to keep up with the Joneses, and I will never attempt to. I had planned to accomplish such great deeds that the Joneses would be found as a wreck of green helplessness. In my great plan I had no intention of ever envying another person. It was not until I fell in love with words that my great plan fell apart. It was these words that would be my downfall. Writers, publishers, artists, and editors all held titles that I wanted for my own. Those that were far more lucky whose works were published. We use the same letters and words, but I could never convince people to see the appeal in truth. It was when I realized this fact that I became envious. I was not envious of the titles, or of the money

~~
                                        a young couple roams these woods
                                             wounded by Kama’s arrows
                                          in each other’s eyes they find solace
                                           the rest of the world does not exist


a heavenly lass Pramadwara is                                                              a­ handsome young sage is Ruru
beautiful eyes, luscious lips                                                            s­trong and virile, though not a prince
slender waist, wide hips                                                             ­                        face bathed in benign light
every inch an apsara’s offspring                                                        ­   the result of his spiritual penance
Ruru’s heart is in her possession                                                   Pramadwara, that divine beauty is his

                                                            ­        lost in each other
                                                          t­hey roam these woody lanes
                                                    unaware­, uncaring of anything else
                                                   of love’s sweet wine they drink deep
                                                the more they drink, the  more unsatiated


and then fate rolls its dice
tragedy strikes!
Pramadwara’s unseeing eyes
find a serpent underfoot-it bites!
throes of passion turn into throes of death
in her lover’s arms she slowly dies
                                                            ­                                                      broken-hear­ted, wounded of spirit
                                                          ­                                                     anger seething within, Ruru mourns
                                                          ­                                             “my love’s sweet journey is not finished
                                                        ­                                       too young, too beautiful, too full of life to die
                                                             ­                                                                 ­ my Pramadwara must live!
                                                           ­                                                       and if she can’t, then I shall follow
                                                          ­                                                          this world is nothing without her
                                                             ­                                                                it is uninspiring and bitter”
saying so he prepares to die
till a voice from heaven arrests him
“Ruru do not mourn your lover
her time had come, you are no mere mortal
a sage you are, with spiritual knowledge
you need not be taught, what is written is written
time cannot be turned back, so leave this foolish path
accept that she is gone, turn back!”
                                                         ­                                 “what do you celestials know of love and hurt
                                                            ­                                                  you who neither live, nor love or die
                                                             ­                                  you exist unaware of love’s magnificent spell
                                                           ­                                           its pleasant charms and beautiful bylanes
                                                         ­                                                 and certainly you knew not my darling
                                                         ­                                               or of our love, so pure, so full of longing
                                                         ­                 that now remains unfulfilled, like a cruel broken promise
                                                         ­                        without each other I cannot live, nor can she truly die
                                                             ­           her soul shall never find peace until I join her or otherwise
                                                       ­                                                                 ­                      she returns alive”
back and forth they argue
each one unyielding and stubborn
but in the war between love and logic
love is triumphant here
a deal is struck, destiny is forced to yield
under love’s incredible power
                                                           ­                        “Ruru you are adamant, you refuse to compromise
                                                      ­                                                              so you shall have your lover’s life
                                                            ­                                                                 ­    in exchange for a sacrifice
                                                       ­                                         half your destined lifetime you shall give her
                                                             ­                                                           so neither of you shall live long
                                                            ­                                             but while you live you shall be together
                                                        ­                                        if this is acceptable, use your spiritual power
                                                           ­                                                   to make the exchange, but remember
                                                        ­                                                      your life will be that much shorter”
but what is eternal life without love  
so in a trice the exchange is made
from her deathly slumber Pramadwara awakes
to Ruru’s eager, enthusiastic embrace
tears of reunion mingled with pleasure
eyes looking forward to
a life and a death-eternally together

                                                    ­a young couple roams these woods
                                                           ­ wounded by Kama’s arrows
                                                        in­ each other’s eyes they find solace
                                                        th­e rest of the world does not exist

-Vijayalakshmi Harish
  02.10.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

If shallow lakes hold your beauty in their waters,
I do not care to break their stilling surface,
Water lilies and reeds of wild grass do not tempt,
Because where do I find more, once the image falters
With little more than a gaze at the lilies? Their grace,
On the surface, is all they can give for an attempt.

In shallow lakes, I can see their bottom is nigh,
So to swim is not feasible, nor delightful;
To merely wade in a shallow pond — uninspiring!
Alas, to surface from deepest parts yields but a sigh,
And if waters here were to drink, it would not fill my soul,
Still beautiful to gaze upon, but after little time is tiring.

So I indulge myself in the vastness of the sea,
The depths are endless, and the storms are foul,
But in the ocean deep, when I start swimming far,
The waters are an infinite sea of fantasy,
To be swallowed whole within the temptest’s howl;
The deepest depths will heal the deepest scar.

If you do come to Australia
don't think just of the kangaroo--also the dugong
the koala, the platypus, the wombat and the Tasmanian Devil
and learn to sing Waltzing Matilda the nation's most-loved song

far superior to  Advance Australia Fair (believe me)
our uninspiring national anthem (most Aussies would agree)
and the lyrics were so badly
written-- no wonder Aussies could never sing the song properly

ultimate doorstep
you trod mine
delivering cold spaghetti

I was eleven, the first time I saw you.
I thought you were sweaty, and that your hair was too long.
I had just skipped two straight months of school,
they had told you about me and I hated that.

I was twelve, the first time I met you.
I remember my classmates were uninspired
and equally uninspiring.
I wrote things for you, I wanted you to know that
I wasn't like them.
I not only thought things through, I couldn't stop.
I wrote to keep from going crazy.

You showed me your plays,
your poetry,
your short stories.
You showed me college english textbooks
full of various prose,
each one flavored slightly differently.

You showed me The Giver,
and Dead Poet's Society.
I wondered if you really fancied yourself
the captain,
leading your charges into vast fields of knowledge,
and what's more,
appreciation for the knowledge.

You were the teacher that made kids
want to teach.
You looked after me.
Made sure I was fed.
Signed me up for extra credit,
even when I said no.
You showed me what it was like
to have someone's support.
You showed me love.

When I went to high school
we stopped talking,
except for the occasional email.
But I had a boyfriend
And I smoked ***
And I didn't want
to let you down.

When I graduated, I sent you an email.
Explained everything.
I begged to see you,
to talk about all that happened.
You never replied.

You died the week before I received my diploma.
Since then,
I've been going off of soundbite bits of advice
you once gave me,
trying always to remind myself that I can do this,
because
you showed me.

When my mind is at rest I think of peace and blissful things
I see the unfettered and innocent smile of a new babe in arms
Or the Omnipotence gilded arms outstretch showering blessings
The shores of a pristine beach with blue waves marking times
Silver sunset sprinkling magic across quiet waters with no stressing
Or me sat at my fathers feet as he reads engrossed in his charmes
My mind rests easy in places of warmth and enriching lovings


My mind has no space to linger in the murkiness of failings
I do not plunge dark dept to court the uninspiring s in terms
To share company with wretches with wasted mental ecthings
Eyes that see dew in darkness and acrimony in fruitless farms
Voices made for howling dirges and apostles of negative cravings
Demented downers who drink from the fountains of fallen vamps
Satiated miserably they seek to retch their stench on followings


My mind finds the luminous stars and praise their spark-lings
It atunes to the silent melodies of sages who now sleep uncramp
It relishes the delights of the million trillion wonders tinklings
Its marvels the joys of the thousand mothers holding new champs
Can share the lifting dreams of hopes for happy new beginnings
Living is never about waste for the Creator avails no dumps
For a mind that lives and grows in the Light is forever inspired and inspiring



Copyright LaurencA.1stAugust2018.All rights reserved

THE FEAR OF NORMALITY
THE FEAR OF APATHY
THE FEAR OF ORDINARY
THE FEAR OF BORING
THE FEAR OF REPLACEABLE
THE FEAR OF SAMENESS
THE FEAR OF CLICHE
THE FEAR OF BANALITY
THE FEAR OF COMMON
THE FEAR OF DULL
THE FEAR OF SHALLOWNESS
THE FEAR OF TRITENESS
THE FEAR OF VAPID
THE FEAR OF UNORIGINAL
THE FEAR OF INSIPID
THE FEAR OF PRETENTIOUS
THE FEAR IN UNINSPIRING
THE FEAR OF TRIVIAL
THE FEAR OF AVERAGE

In the D.A.R.E. carnival ride s.u.v....

Passing out bubble gum and baseball cards
helping the children in need.

There is a treat coming to your school:

Story time statistics of the (dead) letter of the law.

Uninspiring the children to a life of drug abuse.

Since they know not the (living) spirit of the law.

Drugged for childhood,
the self-abandoned --
immature in their nihilist chemistry.

In the D.A.R.E. carnival ride s.u.v.,
passing out bubble gum and
baseball cards; helping the children in need.

© S. Wesley Mcgranor

I imagine Darcy on the cliffs, beyond which the sea,
his blonde hair, so now so very, in his eyes so that he has to tip
to see
everyone and everything more than two feet tall
which is a lot.


Mostly I imagine my joy at seeing my son
older.  i don't know why that is thrilling.  
to think of the man in him emerging more and more
until it reaches a tipping point

but now that makes me sad
and I am thinking i will long for these days when he bites
and smacks Kayleigh in the face with trucks and is unreasonable in his greed
to burn so bright

When we get future sad, we are imagining
that the object inspiring wonder
and our own type of greedy enjoying,
will leave a gaping hole

and there will be nothing to love so
un-holding-backingly
which is why it might be nice to
practice a little
now
to lean out the bus window a tad more
and love the stupid frog
on the woman's umbrella
or the rain that refuses to fall
on the stupid frog
or the cloud that refuses to move until the rain
stops being so uninspiring and vague

or the roses, oblivious and sunshivering together, in the garden
that was once a great secret from me
and is no more.

i smoke cigarettes out
of sheer boredom,
not the kind that makes you
want to **** yourself, no
a different kind of
boredom
probably the one that
makes you want to do nothing
but sit and enjoy
how pathetic you are.

the streets are dark and
uninspiring
a bit like my past
where everything that happened
happened without a sound

my birth, how much i hated
company as a young girl,
my sister's birth, my brother's time
in jail, the pathetic love of
my pathetic life.

but it's not pathetic  when
it's unnoticed and this
sad excuse of a poem isn't
the last i write, nor is this
cigarette the last
i smoke.


-- Eleanor

Love,
There is no other name
Some know it and some don't.

2.

The world is
On my plate, with forks.
But I need a good sleep first.

3.

Chocolate melts in my mouth
Slowly, or I can hasten.
So is ***.

4.

The yellow powdery sand
Covers the earth.
A live chicken in oven, with spices.

5.

Old Time, like fireflies
Flickers hope once and stops
So is our uninspiring life.

6.

My son's eyes
Are the new stars.
You say we spin in space.

7.

Night is like a pitcher
Of black thick energy drinks.
Day's catastrophe is right at the corner.

8.

Facebooking, tweeting
Downloading and tid-bits.
Nothing like sunny walks in the open field.

It is not always easy to express one's self
When his artistic creations are never placed in galleries
They are often forgotten of
Sitting there gathering dust on a storage shelf.
It seems as if ten more people are at the same task
As which you create with
Comparing their outcomes to your own
Your light of hope fails to light
Due to many missing you that must express
such visions
A dog starved to the bone.
Eyes meet the other exhibits
As your kiosk is primarily never sought for business
The confidence of challenge is there, however, it soon melts away
When all of the hard work which you have placed
in expressions for the world to see
Fade to darkness like the "dark side of the moon"
As night simply ends the days.
Questions remain about what you are truly "gifted"
at or "ahead" of other game pieces on the board game of life.
When so many are inventive such as you
One too many is a crowd.
You pull down a fake smile. A fake shrowd.
Now the net is neutral
Damaging my once vibrant flow
As my hands are now tied to how I can grow
The rules of the game are now many and harder to get around
Like a roadblock in your sight of your future
The air begins to become too thin and your mind weighs heavy
As the cut in your creative inventiveness
Bleeds too heavy and needs a "miraculous" suture.
Needing others on my team
Every time  I seek out such
I'm the "driver x" at the "speed races"
and the "forced gun" to bear uninspiring
and lonely expressive paces.
Is their justice to the laws limiting one's freedom of expression
just to protect those in the "top few?"
When the own half of the platform on which you try and "compete"
However, you are too small to be seen as "you."

Forty minutes at a station
Lasting an eternity
As I waited in anticipation
You a beautiful vision
Fulfilling our dreams of passion

Forty minutes at a station
Lasting an eternity
You arrived walking casually
Breezy and in a hurry
You stopped for me indifferently

Forty minutes at a station
Felt like an eternity
You told me the time of your departure
And an e mail to your employer
And  we had limited time together

Forty minutes at a station
Felt like an eternity
I wondered why you loved me
My mind's eye was forcing me to see
My love had been blind to your falsity

Forty minutes at a station
Was never an eternity
It was short and uninspiring
You were detached and unengaging
My love for you was withering

Forty minutes at a station
A lifetime of an education

I am what no one writes about-
I am pink lipstick and elbows
I am neither delicate nor passionate
I am clean socks and the lack of smell that television has, when compared to books

I am what no one writes about-
I am shirts which hang rather than draping over supple skin
I am walks on the beach cut short abruptly
I am the itch at the back of your neck
I am what no one writes about.

I am what no one writes about-
I am unrebellious but unsuccessful daughters
I am unpeculiar unspectacular and uninspiring
I am underappreciated when underdressed
I am unthought of and unspoken.
I am who no one writes about.

Everything I say is uninspiring and redundant;
I used to be able to string words together
until they interlaced into something beautiful
but now the words can't seem to reach my mouth.

I'm paralyzed.
That's the only word to describe it;
paralyzed.

When you try to inhale but you can't.
When you try to move on but you can't.
When you give it your everything,
but you simply, *******, can't.

So life now consists of the little things,
negative thoughts and self-medication,
bad habits and self-mutilation;
sometimes bloodied,
sometimes bruised,
sometimes both.

And I won't pretend to know anything because
ignorance is kinder on damaged hearts.

But I called to God and he didn't answer.

Thieving and burglary - deliberate
indulgent, ignorance, waste of opportunities - deliberate
drinking, loose morals, bad company, drugging - deliberate
lazy, stupidity, state dependency in viable health - deliberate
babies for welfare payments, employment avoiding - deliberate
hate, envy, jealousy, lies, slander, crimes, drunkenness - inadequacies
Racism, ignorance, small mindedness, pettiness, belligerence - Low scale inherent characteristics

Betrayal - engineered
Loss of employment and brilliant career ruination - engineered
alone and social isolation - engineered
lack of intimate relationship - engineered
Rudeness, screams, fractured relationship - engineered
economic stagnation - engineered
Physical limitations - engineered

In the woke civilisation of the great Island
Psychopaths Social and structural Engineers march in Red
In raving anodyne tones the entitled ivories do the twist
Please ignore all the listed deliberate glaring omissions above
No! you see in deluded grandeur
Its time for the blame game, its time for the blame game
Its all the fault of the immigrant
who studied and worked to make a better life
especially that black successful one
with everything just going well for him
we didn't boat him on on the Windrush
He's not cleaning our roads or in the factory
He's not fetching and wiping **** in the Hospital
He's not even into crime and supplying our drugs
No! No! No!
He is a leech and  a parasite
He is responsible for our miserable uninspiring life
Comrades, join us, the Revolution is now

They say I suffer, I have pain
How can I, I wonder
when its  all your engineered and dramatized work
of which I am not in the least responsible!
And you know it!
Narcissists, Psychopaths, Depressives, Mentally challenged loonies
We give you your Revolution, please enjoy the spoils!!!

Ordinary is so uninspiring
Does anyone strive to be ordinary
setting sights on the status quo?

Extra-ordinary seems better
More exciting and interesting
More the stuff of success

But the ancients prayed with zeal
and sacrifice every evening
that the sun would rise again the next day.

They strove to appease and please their gods
So that the rains would fall in times of drought
So that babies would be born
and seeds would sprout.

And on death’s threshold
we bargain for one more day
to spend among the Living
Laughing and Loving
savoring the ordinary things
previously overlooked.

Lord
Let me see the sunrise one last time
Or hear  a gentle rain
Or hold a newborn baby in my arms
before these ordinary, everyday things
Vanish with my last sunset.

Lost today between what I want to achieve and how I want to be perceived and work is a never-ending pattern of habits and shortcuts. No more a liar than a way towards success. Swimming in a school of fish in a constant workflow towards uninspiring goals and dreams outside of missed opportunities and hopes. Dashed away with the barely visible snowflakes unable to stick to the ground beneath my boots. Boots that track a familiar path down too long a commute in a city I only meant to pass through. In my bed, I keep thoughts that never make it out of the room on loop, constantly playing it like a well-worn cassette tape.
Before drifting off, I think one day, maybe one day.

Didn't you know I couldn't find you?
All over this almost empty room, I've searched.
You come with no warning or sound and it makes it harder to recognize that you're here

But then, you saved us and brought us home
Did you know the world stopped when you gave your arms at last?
I  should've never stopped believing, never stopped contemplating

So I did forget that for once we were one.

My spectacles differed than yours
I really thought we were separated
Those moments, too uninspiring,
I had no one to turn to anymore
I never have recognized that you've always been here

But then there you stood stronger than the earth,
Your feet planted deep
And the soil went outrageous

I should've never stopped asking, never stopped believing, never lost my trust in you.

I guess it would be kind of nice to learn
that spitting sweetness never gets you far
in early morning daylight. There's no charm
in forceful flames, when we will always burn
with uninspiring silence in return.
When finding fears that rise with the alarm;
dark, tempted lips insist on causing harm
then choke on rotten candies of concern.

I guess it would be nice to be taught how
to keep my bitten tongue secure and still;
to sleep through early mornings and allow
incessant pleading rest from overkill.
If you, my sweet, once chose to be around,
I understand why you’d have lost the thrill.

the repetitive days grow tiring
so extremely uninspiring
as i remember the times when things were so simple
where we had smiles so big you saw dimples
the dusty chalk left on the porch stairs
the house's unfinished repairs
the creak of the wooden doors
the kitchen's tiled floors
the chipped paint on the walls
and none of it bothered me at all
my mind held no worries
my heart was never in a hurry
oh, to go back to the days
my teary eyes look back in a gaze,
looking back on the shadow that it once was
i want my adrenaline rushing from running too fast
i want the green stained knees from sliding on the grass
i want to taste the salty tears on my cheeks from scraping my knees
i want the calluses from climbing sticky trees
i want the brush burn from going down the static-feeling slide
even if the bruises and scratches make me cry
i would go back in a heartbeat
because those days were oh so sweet
being a kid on Grape Street

©L.F.