People tell me that things will get better
to trust my gut and hum my songs.
But to waste goes all I've tried and done
left in deep dark drains and pitiful pits.
I envision my endeavours in magical colours
that seems so mundane, that haven't been
And writing my dreams on a bland blank sheet
it feels so incomplete.
I cross my heart and swear
that the pieces I create shall be priceless and
And that whatever lays in the far-fetched future
will only be sparkles and glitter-full glory.
With the rackety clack of a Newton's cradle
I live on in envy of what I have created.
My eyes are shut
so I can see
a myopic view of me.
Like Icarus who fell so far
my ambitions fly close to the sun.
The Phantom whose love was stolen
left trapped in a Box 5.
I drive myself to my greater potential
Like Jason and his Argonauts.
The insanity of such greatness is flattering
and absolutely morale flattening.
I keep my thoughts in stasis
apart and piecing them back
the creativity of lego pieces
Corralling my inspirations
like Noah on his Ark.
The warnings given days too early
and now I hold naught
but the night hallucinations that
keep me going
and the sun in the dusk sky
There's a fly that's buzzing in my ear
A constant, bugging irrational fear
Anxiety into overdrive
for a parcel that hasn't yet arrived
Insecurities that I try to hide
Awkwardness: a daily plight
I'm afraid they think of me uncool
I think they all call me a fool
My responsibilities rot on my desk
My social life: one ****** up mess
My teacher says that I behave
When actually I have no words to say
They slam their doors up in my face
They tell me I'm a long gone case
They smile at me and block my phone
I think I might just die alone
They laugh but they don't like my jokes
I think they're here cuz I'm not broke
Our bonds just a gummy strand
Who am I but one of their many friends?
So I think it's best I stay at home
With my wired telephone
I'll leave my pen and paper to rest
Besides, who wants to read this mess?
just because everything is
nothing is ever
written in ink and stamped on paper
because if whatever we do will be
why do we let the present be
dictated by the present
when nothing seems to be
while no one is
arguing about the fallacies
telling ourselves to evolve
sticking to the devolutions of the past
there simply is no way we can continue
lying to ourselves
we have to stop
we have to stop being backwards
I envision a scene of a-t and c-lture
splashed with colour and manic sculptors.
Not the thin bland printed paper
that represents the canvas of the city's a-tists.
Our vision so muddled with bl-ck white and red
the customs so riddled, so seemingly de-d.
Our bridges burnt, our pride deeply h-rt
the future of a country that stands al-ne.
The dis-greements that arrive en route
that need the peoples opinion: a r-gged vote.
A nation's patience wearing so thin
destination fa-lure, proof of what we can achieve.
As construction sites dig the city's gr-ve
and the drills echoing the d-af and depra-ed
The skyscrapers all built to cloud nine
the climb and the drop: the thrill of the ride
I would like to submit this: complete and unabridged
Yet the editors that scan this at the edge of a ridge
Their hand forced, their eyes glazed
pressing delete, made to erase
And the post that this poem's pasted on
which everyday commuters read with scorn
Their frowns curve up at the caption of the pic:
"These are the words of a lunatic".
Originally, the hyphens (-) were asterisks (*). However due to hellopoetry's text style formatting, it had to be changed.
I float under the rough currents
dazed and thoroughly beaten.
My body air-filled and rubber
Bashing into jagged blunders.
Within the tides that turn me round
I splash without a decibel of sound.
The oars that row me rotten dead
and my veins flowing with molten lead.
The syllables with which I speak
deafened by my groans of weak.
On deserted sand I stand alone
crumbling to a pile of bones.
The pressures of the heavy air
the stresses of which I bear
over me so they tower
as I wait for my final hour.
The sands of time flow with sombre
whilst I pray upon a broken altar
The soft bugle of a marching band
and I shall take a final stand.
Cowering under my own regrets
facing off against life's threats
I decidedly drop my weapon of nought
and turn my back without having fought.
The strings of distress of which I spool
may only be that of a fool
but the cups I use to rattle the grate
the number of times I see a head shake
Frenzied terror's what I call my friend.
The devil graces me a shake of his hand.
I climb the ladder of despair.
The final rung: I sit and stare
Christmas lights and deep winter snow.
Summer nights and cool wind blow.
Autumn with her orange trees.
Spring bringing back lush green.
All this I watch from there
I weep and I silently bear
the pain and joy it all has brought
upon me: an ungrateful rot.
of countless revolutions
supplying finite rations
killing future generations.
The stimulation of deep ire
by faux mutation of fire
burning rocks of ice
like useless sacrifice.
Yet the berserk scramble to the solution
of inevitable social dissolution
only sees to the ratification
of society’s julienned stratification
Scrabbling frantically in an upwards city
encompassing dictated veracity
within confines of a progressive nation
unaware of its gradual resignation.
Devoid of feeling.
Heart of rust
Alone within the pink walls
I hold my baby angel arrow.
Watching as it slowly falls
Disappearing without a shadow.
Sand courses through veins
Broken glass making headway.
Never holding the intimate reins
A fey world of soft shallow gray.
Striding into a (space for two) rendezvous.
Screaming out loud: I love me too.