Glossed over

They lay in wait, under the surface,
Glossed over.
Brown, green, grey, black, beige
Occasionally blue, red and yellow
Something’s happened!
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
Glossed over,
They lay in wait, under the surface.


Photo: Harold Hollingsworth  Some rights reserved No changes were made.



Are these imagined futures real? Are they possible outcomes of possible futures? Is the grief I feel at the loss of another, the grief of another me from a reality where this has happened? Is that joy I feel when I see a future I want, the joy of a happening reality, happening to me in another time? Or are all these worries and visions of the future nothing more than the product of my overactive imagination?

Creative Suffocation

Coerced into a life of domestic and public servitude. Our unrealised dreams crushed by the unnatural pressures of a mundane existence. Trapped between a post-war generation and a generation that can pursue their dreams. “You can be whatever you want. You must get a job!” Innocence, naivety and ignorance of youth abused by a heartless society driven by greed and status. People ask “If you could go back…?” You know, I actually might. Writing comes as easy to me as breathing, which it did when I was younger just as it does now; for a long time the unnatural pressures of a mundane existence and decent into escapist oblivion put a pillow over my face and smothered it out of me. I wonder, unhelpfully, where would I be if those words weren’t trapped inside for so long? Would it be better or worse? Has my suffering made me a better writer? Have my experiences given me a better understanding of the world of which inspires me to write? Impossible to know, yet here I am, wondering.

Balanced turmoil

Rainbows and shadow, butterflies and bats,
Snips and snails and all things nice,
A refreshing breeze and destructive fire,
Blood in the snow, petals in the ash,
Everything at once and nothing at all,
Save the world and let it burn!
Joyful sadness and a blissful cry.
The eternal conflict that is my mind.
Hopeless idealism and hopeful nihilism,
Balanced turmoil.