I wish you could see how beautiful You really are,
Just because nobody has picked you
Doesn't mean your not beautiful

As a matter of fact,
This means you are the most beautiful

When the other flowers get picked,
They get picked early,
This means that they have not
Completely bloomed

Because you are not picked
This means that you will bloom
Into the most gorgeous flower
Of them all

The years of being left out
And unpicked is only making
You better than all of them
Because you are riper and stronger

When those other flowers get picked
They go into a vase and
Die within a
Week

But not this flower,
This flower has developed
To be an honorary flower
In a bouquet for royalty

Im 17 and I still have my flower the
petals have yet to fall keep trying to  
       tell these boys you gotta have it all
I need someone who can keep up with my
         Pace or maybe a little  faster
Not someone who wants me to chase after
I just want a boy who wants to see me  
      Make it and not see my naked
                 Momma raised a queen
         These heels to tall to chase a boy
Im far too good to be played with do I look
                           Like a toy?

Diseased turnip
Rooting in the dirt
Rotting fodder
Unpicked
Untapped
Gnarled and bitter
Lying under your bridge
When you are gone
No-one will miss your rancid rag


© 2019 MJL

Hello, anguish.

Long time, no torture.

How have your travels been?

Tell me, did the fires burn
Too hot for you?
I thought, for once,
I had banished you
To whichever pit
Of Hell
You managed to arise from,
So that you may
Find me so easily,
As the goal of a hunt
Caught in your crosshairs.

I should have known better.

Well, while you're here,
Please have a seat.
Sit anywhere you like.

Anywhere but THERE!

You must be a well-seasoned guest
To know exactly which door to knock on,
And exactly where you want to rest.
So of course you pick my heart,
And lay your feet upon my soul.

I do so hope you're comfortable.

Insistent *******.

How have I been?

Why, how kind of you to ask.

What's your motive?

I've been fine, really.
A little sporadic uneasiness
Here and there,
But mostly on the fast track
To regaining my peace of mind.

Well, I was actually
In the middle of it
When you arrived.

I sound like I'm talking to a therapist.

Yes, I need 10 milligrams of Stop Talking To Inanimate Feelings.

Oh, don't be sorry.

As if you ever are.

I don't mind the company at all.
I do spend so much time
Alone these days.

I was well on my way
To finding my resting place,
My place of solitude
And productive thought,
A fragile teacup
Of a space
In the landfill
Of the world.

Some days are better
Than others.

What's that?

A gift, you say?

A souveneir, perhaps?

To hell if I'm keeping whatever it is.

What might you have for me this time.

Some sort of anxiety, I'm sure. But what about this time around?

My schooling? My finances? My family? My relationship, matters of the heart?


Oh.

Uncertainty.

Well... it wasn't
what I was expecting,
But still, it's nothing less
Than what I would expect from you.

Uncertainty about what,
Though?

There's no label this time.

.........

What do you mean,
It's a gift for identifying?

And WHERE are you going?

No.

NO.

You cannot simply leave this here,
Resting upon my weary shoulders,
Which bear so much already,
And leave me to figure it out.
You mustn't simply waltz off
Into the unknown blackness
Of the recesses of the human mind,
As if you haven't a care in the world.

You are a terrible guest,
Showing up uninvited,
At a most inconvenient time,
Bearing gifts of unneeded,
Unnamed weight,
Leaving me to figure it out.

Fine. Leave.

You wretched, vile creature.

See if I let you in again.
Begone, and let every door
Hit you on your way out.
May every jagged rock
In your path
Catch your foot in your
Sadistic, carefree walk
About the earth.
May every web
That spiders weave
Entangle you
Beyond rescue.

Yes, goodbye.

Now, what of this....
Thing?

It has no name,
Yet I am supposed
To know what it is.

Hmm.

Feels like...
Questioning.

Yes, there's questioning here.

Many questions.

But of what?

I have questions about
Many things,
As my curious nature
Must have it so.

Also feels like...
Emotion.

Unwanted emotion.

How that little beast
Does manage to bring
The worst gifts to me,
At the worst times,
Is beyond me.

He needs a hobby.

Let's see... emotions
Of the heartfelt kind.
Of the deep recesses
Of that bipolar *****
Which no ne trusts
And everyone breaks.

Emotions and questions.

Oh dear God.

No.

No, I must dispose of it
Right away.

This is the sort of thing
I fear most.
HOW did he manage,
Also,
To get fear in there,
As well?!

No, it must be thrown away.


"Do not yell your curses at me!"

"Who are you to say that I
Haven't an idea at all
What I want, and when,
And where, and why?!
What judge are you,
And with what authority
Do you claim I am divided,
My side unpicked,
And that a canyon
Lives within me?"

"Petty fool, you are not welcome here!"
I know what I am doing!
And I shall make the rules,
For it is I who must obey them!"


Alas,
There are no rules.
None to be made,
And none to be followed.

Even more tragic,
Is that I know not
What I am doing,
And I doubt I ever will.

For it is these,
Of all horrid gifts,
Delivered without
Notice,
At the precious price
Of losing sureness of mind
And peace of the soul,
That may not be returned.

The gift that keeps on giving,
Until I decide it shan't...

A decision I cannot bear to make,
While in company
Of battered spirit,
Fearful heart,
And overconfident,
Incessantly calculating mind. 

For now that he is gone,
I must entertain them, too.  

*How did I ever get so lucky?

I arrive in Lima
The sweat-sogged poverty
lumped onto concrete
pushes at my heels
The tight black air
swallows the nakedness
of prostitutes and thieves
Pockets empty like a traveler’s stomach
growling beneath the world of Los Incas

In Cusco
My head throbs in the thin air
with the sound of boys
trying to shine my boots, my sandals
my bare feet
no problemo
women sell fresh papaya and guava
sweaters and trinkets
Hawkers surround me
like a tightly stitched T-shirt

Cusco
The Navel of the Earth
A bulging belly
throbbing
digesting
living
 
Sunset
I spread my toes
over the evaporated flood waters
of the Rio Urubamba
where it once flowed
from the fingers of Manco Inca
over the fleeing conquistadors
at the top of Ollantaytambo
Momentary brilliance
before you retreated to the jungle
Spain, always gnawing at your heels

It’s a mouth-full-of-coca-leave’s journey
to Macchu Picchu
I enter the dream
spitting wet leaves
on the silence of a dead kingdom
Gasping for air that once filled lungs
of Inca messengers
carrying news of defeat and conquest
over the great Andes
Los Incas Caminos
The cloud-dripped mountains
spread green across my eyes
I see ghosts
a steady move of feet through the depleted air
Porter, takes my backpack
carries it against his brown crusty skin
ancient, sun-baked descendant
of the Earth’s naval
A toothless, painless smile
It must have been different
before we came
with money the color of unpicked rice
Now I hear your belly-groan
Between the perfectly fitted stones
of Sacsayhuaman
My voice bounces circular
off invisible walls
because your magic has survived you

Macchu Picchu
Unknown and majestic
Hidden from blood
from the stink of vultures
No more
Black raven feather
drops on my skull
floats on the shiny gray stone
under my feet
which are wrapped in dried, brown skin
naked, without a heartbeat

It’s past sunrise
the tourist bus has arrived
and the flat shadow of the crowd
blocks the light of the ascending sun
that tries to penetrate
the perfect holes
of a perfect wall
in an imperfect dream

A fjord of tears
waters land that now lies fallow
because of the land mines
beneath the soil and the waving flowers
that no-one dares to pick
beyond the wire
where a boot is slowly bleaching
that is the true meaning of a warcry!

Disheartened  
The Dutch tourists have left
and last year’s cherries
hang unpicked as do almond nuts
that are also full of worms,
and who says the grass isn’t sweet?
The sun is a yellow ring
on a blind sky,
disillusioned.
As a 30 watt bulb in a room
with faded wallpaper,
at a rundown hotel
which calls itself Bellevue;
last stop before sleeping rough.
Nothing is more abject
then an out of season tourist town,
worried shopkeepers and tarts
even the flowers are grey;
except for a couple of retired seagulls,
birds have flown to Africa
and will not return
before the rain stops falling.

Dearly departed,
Pray for me
In life I still need to excrete
Not only faeces but thoughts
Just like food in my mouth
I chew possible sounds
Until they are… reproduced
I think
What I thought was art
Is now a bit bitter on my tongue
The saliva must be tainted
With odours I’ve inhaled
Because this ******* I taste
Is too flavoursome
I know this isn’t appealing
But neither is the finished product
Unwrap what you can
Of what we toss down to you
And swallow what you think is sweetest
You know it will all be… sour
I think
What I thought was lasting flavour
Turned out to be flesh
And even as I write this
I feel the unpicked hair in my teeth
So that when I create
I am secretly painting in words
From the inside out
I am closer to you in this way
But in that way-
Not so much.

Dearly departed,
Pray for us
In life we must run to you
But in living we must wait
Amongst the rotting peels
We left in our backpacks
For too long
We’ve learned to speak
About the smell
But in doing so our breaths
Stink up the air
And our legs are getting stiff
Sitting cross legged and festering thoughts
Bubbling images we wanted
To forget
God, this is a witch’s ***
But she forgets to stir it on hot days
And we decay
Faster than you do, I swear
The curses don’t become me
I know, the curses
Must be me and them.

Dearly, Departed,
Pray, and still listening
I’m sorry about the foulness of everything.

Tiny little parcel
All wrapped up and waiting to be
Undone.
Sitting quietly
Under the shade of
Resentful
Ambiguity.
Cautious scarred and wry
(smiling)
insecurity
See me sitting calmly
assembled
All parceled up and wanting
Waiting
To be unpicked

Carefully
Hand stitched
Calling softly (upon deaf ears)
To be untied
To see what lies
Beneath each fettered
Layer.
Role player
This small and softly spoken
Box
Of being
Seeing nothing
Feeling everything
With wary
(doleful)
Soulful eyes.
(closed)
Dreaming of being
(open)
I am token
Bundle
(******)
a pile of sticks
untamed.
Paused upon the ground
unsound
Aspiring to to be burned
In order to
(feel)
spurned.
This collated stack
Of feelings lost to the numb of
Being wrapped up and tied to the self.

A book full of stories
Unnamed.
Pages upon pages
Loose words
Collected
Piled and falling
Upon a dusty
Neglected shelf
Too much of the self
Not enough of the other.

Resting.
Worn out
Dog eared
Belayed by fear.

Waiting
Wasting
Hasting
to be undone.
To be unknotted
Frayed
Displayed
Vast volume
Unspoken betray.

Hold fast
This minute
Package
Lying restless
At your feet.

Time has turned her back on me,
So I feel the rough shoulder blades of sin,
So I no longer conjugate with her reflective eyes,
But see the incommunicable universe, as cosmos
Of ribs and unshining lungs, wet and clay-like,
With fingerprints where I pressed in.

Time has a ravaged back and the organs drop
Like sodden fruit, gone unpicked.
Time is that woman looking back,
With her hair witchery of forever turning.
I see the future lovers on her crystal path,
Translucent workings of her single-sided glass.

The Cri de Coeur
screeches urgent emotion
but their Exclamations
are unpicked , back to determination
Did the Revellers needlessly pay for this their Summer ?
But for Capricious truths
they now run fickle and jarred
naked is the heart of the matter,
a hastened path runs counterintuitive
as empty silences often veers
ungrounded.

Who the **** was I?
And who the **** am I?
In a tree, on a limb, suspended
on the thin green twig
upended
from the hands of the old gods,
let fall to smack
every fat
branch on the way down.
Penniless and unpretty,
useless and sometimes silly,
sometimes a little bit clever,
sometimes a listener
sometimes performs well,
tricks, no old dog, new *****,
forgotten in the bottom drawer
every seam of that old life unpicked
everything we stitched
torn up, cut up, ripped.

Young, slender, soft and small,
Twigs stretching from thy palm,
Rings of shining dew at morning’s call
Clashing beautifully against my arm.

An ode to the thin spindles of affection
Tightly tangling around my heart’s string,
Sharply strummed with sleepy, dainty precision
Playing a song that only dreams could once sing.

A medley of feelings: peaking elation
And troughs deep enough for hot brews,
Between branches and amidst conversation
It seems my mind and heart can find truce.

It is said flowers that bloom tears to eye
Should be left to grow as beauty unpicked,
I must agree to admire and assure I am nearby,
To offer my service to such that has me rooted, fixed.

Old acquaintances die on the vine , left at times
like unpicked apples in backyard groves
Their purpose completed
Their value long since depleted  
Their help painfully unneeded* ..

This crooked timber set deep in these bones
Oh, when the wind blows how they wail, they moan
“Such a fine day for this human design
to wither, to char”. Unpicked fruit on the vine
lingers in sight such a tempting insult
to all we once were, before this result
was tempered by the unyielding seasons
and bone branches creaking for numerous reasons
cling to hold fast, but cannot hold on;
they drop like the fruit, lost and forgotten.
The wind does not care for wind never stops
the branches still creak, still grow old, they still rot.
The winds it blows on, to be bent is to crack
The fruit doesn’t know this, never looks back
to where the wind came from, wind never creeps
but like deadened roots sunk deep in the creek
searches for stones that they mistook for seeds
not held in the murk, carried off on the breeze.
Forget seeds and fruit, leaves or trees under
which we now lie, feeding bones to the sky
The wind won’t uproot you, no earth can unshake
endless regret for on eggshells we quake
at the notion of another long day
trying to reach through the stars in our way
trying to feel for the warmth of the sun
for deep in these bones we know there is none
this crooked timber when set to the rack
will remind these bones there is no way back.

Sometimes I dream
of the foghorn near the docks
whistling like a forgotten friend
in your letterbox
walking home from work
after I had left for the last time,
  
Remember the ringing of the last tram
freezing  in the air
like a photograph
before breathing too quickly
ain’t you glad you walked away?
  
Sometimes I dream of
the chime of the clock
which freezes at mid-day someday
weeping under spires
and underneath dock boats,
  
Dreaming of my heart
******* in chains
instead of knots  
before I unpicked the lock
and walked away without regret
  
stealing inspiration from the sunset.  


(From the End of Summer - https://www.amazon.co.uk/End-Summer-N-Andy-ebook/dp/B01LY7YR9K/ref=sr12?s=books&ie;=UTF8&qid;=1475915722&sr;=1-2)

the color of blood is not scarlet
or crimson red. it is the rusting
of old metal and the frothing
tantrums of lava. it is an overripe
strawberry left unpicked on
the vine to rot. it is a rose with
thorns or a leaf in autumn,
blown awry by vengeful gusts of
wind. it is streaks of watercolor
against the canvas of the evening
sky. it is a grain of sand in the
harsh desert or a pebble in a small
stream. it is a pomegranate in
persephone's hands or a single
perfect red apple in the basket
of an elderly woman.

I wanted to place my heart on the hearth.
I wanted to show someone all that I can be.
Why was I so scared back then? I wanted to speak to you.
I dreamt of days when I walked up to you and saved you from a bully,
of days when I impressed you, and you let me hold you.
But for some reason I couldn’t talk around the dam in my throat.

So I started over. New places and new people.
I wanted to be a somebody to someone, to pull out
all the stops and make you feel like you’re worth it.
So I invested. God ******, I gave it my all.
But, like the tomatoes in a garden unpicked,
when the sun went away, I withered. And every year
I’d regrow my fruit and shine so someone new can pick me.
But every year, my tomatoes would wither.

I’m done with this garden and I’m done with this fruit.
I don’t want to be someone special to anyone nor you.
I want to be me, with no frills or flash.
I still want to have you,
but with no strings attached.
I want to disappoint you, **** you off, and make you laugh.

Why? Because I’m nothing special.
I don’t want to be special,
I just want to be me.
Some ordinary man, who’s extra ran out
on those who wasted it.

This is all I got now, but I’m
happy with it.

Humans die, is that really fine
All we can do is be withered
As we grow old and lose our shine
I can feel the warmth of your body
And the vibrancy radiated,
But with each moment you’re always a breath short
Reminding me of an inevitable outcome

You can’t unpick a flower
But not picking it does not ensure it lives forever.
I thought I would, when I fell for you
Let you clip me by them stem
Lived and laughed while love played us fools
Still my heart flutters when I see you
Breaks into a million little pieces
When I think of you now and tomorrow

I wonder how the unpicked flower feels
To be admired by all and shunned by none
In the summer bliss of a trillion gazes
To belong to all and not just one
Yet one day before your time is come
To find yourself, conveniently replaced
With one who’s young like you once were.

In the garden
before it was lost,
(come back soon
lost garden),
pepper vines grew around
the sweet fruit trees.

durian fell
sarongs rose,

all was fecund in the globe
of sour tamarind
and bitter herb;
a balance, a unity
of love given and
lust taken.

chilli red yellow green
shone in morning mist,
evening gloam among
myriad leaves clogging the undug pool,
hurting the fish breath
in the old frog pond.

unpicked, the fruit.
unclipped, the hedge.

all my life
too lazy to get ahead,
leaving all my fruit to seed.
let it rot and feed the sand
soil, grow turf beneath the trees.
in this moment only hell and heaven.

your hands pulled me apart at the seams  
unpicked each stitch with a touch so soft
until I shook and my breath came out in ice
then you ripped what was left to ****** shreds,  

your eyes undressed each disguise of mine  
replaced my duplicity with biblical truths
I have one apology sent weeks (years) ago
and an inability to feel at peace or to sew

she sprints through the grass,
where the blades won't harass,

the gentle wheat crops against her skin
running fast, they tickle her shin.

galloping, chasing, like a gazelle,
rays of sun caress, enchanting dark skin with spell.

curvaceous body with no care,
lovely lady, as free as her hair.

she grabs at the violets, press to her face,
indestructible woman, found her place.

jiggling, wobbling, dancing with joy,
this here woman, life is her toy.

she moulds it and holds it as she changes to sprint,
the sadness in here bares no hint.

curly hair, heritage rich,
this bird here, unpicked every stitch.

she stops, she stops, at the edge,
scrambles scrambles stopping before ledge.

jiggling juggling, in the ****,
she dances around, no want to intrude.

escapee, escapee, that's what she's become,
and oh now, she feels like the only one.

boundless beauty, encased with dark lattice scars,
her body contains a bounty of stars.

no shape can hold her,
no one can tame, encase,
no hands can hold her,
more valuable than lace.

We tread in silence, wreaths upon
Gravestones, where you lie amongst
Flowers unpicked, at rest.

Some live to live and some just to die and some walk blindfolded but I want to know why,the river flows to the sea and doesn't stop at the shore,before the vastness of space was there vastness before or was it more of the same and are fairy tales true to the pixies who **** them,or are they just unpicked seams in the dreaming of children?

Who raises the corn,who decides when were born,are we torn from a notebook,just pages to look at?

Who decided to call time before time ever was,was it because they were bored,when you hit the floor running does it matter how fast and do we last longer if we exercise and get stronger or is that just half right with the other half wrong(er).

Some people die without ever wondering why, and I wonder why,
that is.

Just a day
The day is partly overcast, shadows and light
chase each other up and down a hillside,
where I came from nature is hardening
and there is already snow in the air.

Tiny lilac flowers grow under- don't know their names
( do I look like a botanist)
Only the almond tree is bare of leaves, unpicked leaves
Hang like baubles that have lost their shine.

I take a walk on the road it is cartwheel wide and has fallen
into disuse, but for generations to come it will be a healed wound
across the landscape.

In front of me, a bird blue and white has fallen
out of the sky; I pick it up- its beak is grey
It blinks and dies gracefully.
I place it on a stone its soul is still in my palm
and gently blow to set it free.
A breeze makes the leaves tremble.