Words are my breath and my blood.
I breathe complex emotions and hopes for humanity.
I haemorrhage out the pains and sadness of a world in torment.
I sigh a poem onto the page,
Bleed my story onto the paper.
To be without words is to be without life,
Starved of oxygen,
Suffocating on a void,
Drained of blood,
My ink would spill.
Photo Credit: Janina-Photography
The dust of the dead grimace beneath my weight
The natural and mostly unatural smells of the living infect my nasal cavity
Empty vessels riding in solitary unison
Individual lives conjoined yet remain unknown
O’er moors and beyond
The expense of movement
The extra unwanted costs of public transport
I was alone,
My mind could unfurl.
It’s vines and fronds unravelling, untangling, unwinding.
All the built up tensions and problems bled into the entirety of my room.
He could breath again.
They lay in wait, under the surface,
Brown, green, grey, black, beige
Occasionally blue, red and yellow
Some new event requiring a response
They bubble and swirl, rise and fall
Flow like a stream through a shaded glen, the sounds bringing calm to all who hear.
Surge like a storm ready to lay waste to it’s environment, destruction incarnate.
Gloss it over!
It’s starting to get out!
Apply on another coat!
Now grey, response subsided.
The layers are thick, they crack and peel, they won’t hold forever.
But for now they are back in their colourless prison
They lay in wait, under the surface.
Photo: Harold Hollingsworth Some rights reserved No changes were made.
A tortured soul
The crushing weight
Need to help
Need to improve
Lay in bed
An empathetic Atlas
The elusive truths of a questioned reality,
Real and unreal are now one.
Poisoned by two versions of the same story,
Blending perspectives, contradicting visions.
How long must this continue?
Consumed or apathetic, their is no antidote.
What is this feeling I can’t quite comprehend?
A melancholic sadness without a joyous end
Sorrowful acceptance of the way things were
Understanding that it’ll never quite be
A relief of future pains not dealt,
Yet mourning future pains not felt.
Must move on,
But I shall,
A mere partial farewell.
This is no end,
A simple hurdle.
Or the inevitable curdle.
Changing styles for changing times,
Proof that nothing stays the same.
Even though this is my current chosen medium,
Metre, rhyme and verse, are lame.