Elle va bien

They jostled onto the train that had arrived with a clankering commotion at the station. The vaulted tiled ceiling of the underground station swirled with the sound of metal, tannoy announcements and tourist hubbub. The train had emptied somewhat, spilling out its human cargo which shuffled towards the luminous sortie signs, the basic words even foreigners understood, ingrained from childhood French lessons and the trappings of travel. They were able to get seats as the train pulled away and snaked into the belly of the city, passing tunnels and bones of the long forgotten.

The seats were as hard as wood, worn down from millions of asses thankful of somewhere to rest for the short journeys between stations. They were heading down towards Saint-Marcel and thankful too to be getting away from the crush and pull of the touristy hot-spots. They watched the other passengers engrossed in smart phones, conversations and anxieties of potentially going the wrong direction. Passengers on life’s train of happenstance.

Opposite them sat a lady, listening to her headphones and glancing off into the train. Looking, but searching for nothing. Her brown hair fell around her face, framing her like a motionless portrait typical of those seen meters above in the many museums dotting the city. She sat motionless, listening to her music as the train swayed and hummed down the line. The only movement was a collection of tears that suddenly began to build and breach, trickling down her face. They watched as she tilted her head down, blinking away the collection of tears and emotions that had appeared. One of them jabbed the other in the side, bringing attention to the scene before them in case it was not being seen or felt for the degree that it was. He reached inside his pocket and took out a tissue, hoping it was clean. The crinkles indicated it had been with him all the day, but looked devoid of anything unpleasant.

He reached across and gently touched her arm. She looked up, surprised. “Are you okay?” he asked, hoping his eye’s spoke to a level beyond the language required. She nodded and mumbled words of appreciation, taking the tissue and dabbing her eyes. A small smile appearing at the corner of her mouth, her eyes shaking away an embarrassment that wasn’t necessary.

She looked above her finding the line map, a tiny yellow light indicated they were at Bastille. The train usually emptied a lot here, and she glanced around seeing those exiting and the people awaiting to board. Her hand found the phone in her pocket and she skipped the track on her music. The new song crashed in, her mind was suddenly taken elsewhere as her heart skipped and beat and the chaos around her ebbed away. It had never been ‘their song’, but it was always one that had reminded her of them. The lyrics so seemingly fitting for what they had, what had burrowed inside of her and warmed her soul. She did not notice the two guys sit down opposite her, the limited space between where their knees nearly met. She was off elsewhere, hearing laughter and smelling that someone on her bed-sheets.

The train jerked, and though she stayed in her memory, it shifted; along with the train. It had all crumbled, corroded only yesterday. Smashed liked a teetering tea cup on the edge of a kitchen counter. She could understand things not working right now, she could even acknowledge the arguing. But those had been usual relationship problems. To be told you were no longer needed, that you were no longer welcome in their life. That was what had hurt. She could deal with the packing up of possession and the moving on. Going into work the next day as routine propelled her forward. But she could not take the hurt that had ignited within, perhaps lying dormant for the inevitable. That she was never the one, she could no longer make them happy. All that she had to offer, came up short. All those reasons she had told herself why she was inadequate rang out to be real in a horrible realisation of truth. A view she had shielded her eyes from, like looking at the sun. It had swallowed her, submerged her in a grey that clung to her like oil.

Putting on her work clothes, combing her brown hair. Seeing the day instead of cowering in her bed like she wanted. The feeling of detachment and lack lay upon her, making her feel that no one really cared about her in this world. If she turned up to work, or not; nothing really mattered in a way. The tears welled and broke forth, streaming down her cheek in a warm river. She had forgotten she was on the metro. Her mother would have been ashamed to see her show such emotion in public, but she did not realise. Too consumed in grief and self-piety that she found herself deep beneath the streets of Paris on a Metro train that ran all day, every day. Until she felt something nudge her arm, softly yet foreign. She looked up surprised to see a small tissue and concerned smiles greet her. She nodded a thanks and was able to cough up “Merci, je vais bien.” She smiled slightly, knowing it was true.

The grey was still within her, but in that moment a tiny part had turned to white.

Run

These leaves, they cover and smother me as my mind claws and scrapes at the end.
Called down to the lake, past the rotting trees.
No one came looking for me.
Broken bones and a honeycomb heart that heaves to an old tune.
Tasting tears, and welcoming fears to consume and throttle me.
Adrift along that quiet sea of loneliness.
Watching the lighthouse of hope slip beneath the sky.

Still running away

The rain had come as soon as she left the main path. She heard it now pattering on the leaves in the canopy above her. The sheltering forest where all was unsure and forbidden. She never saw it this way, this was always how it was put to her, and this is always how it was made to be. She ran along further, carving her own way through existence. The sun had yet to set, but the rain clouds had smothered the earth in that part of her little kingdom, and the forest now gleamed with a wet twilight.

She had caught herself only a couple of times, hesitant to step deeper within and away from all of what she knew and all that she resisted. Her feet sloshed now in the puddles that had formed on the forest floor. Bits of moss and time made her slip and stumble, but on she flew. Running away, running beyond. Looking for herself again.

She had left the hills and the ruins behind her, blinked them away in a heartbeat as her skin touched the dense air of the woodland and the smell of freshness. A return, a renewal of sorts; though she knew it was not to begin anything again. The sanctuary lay beyond this world now for her. She had seen the darkness, and tasted the decay of life. She had thought about her death time and again. Stored it away in small pockets of her world, only to find it ever present on her horizon. Popping out of the days and the jars she kept in her kitchen cupboards. No one knew of course, she had shuttled from each thought to another in the dizzying malaise of the worn down and woe-begotten. Left to sit and turn in the sun like an unloved pot plant on a window ledge. Her death had come each time in many colours, brilliant reds and blues that would drip down from the sky and swallow her. There was never any pain; that was how it was supposed to be. The ashen taste in her mouth told her it was coming, and all would be done. Pushing through the thicket now, she came to where she was meant to be.

Making her way into the clearing she, the forest heaved and silenced itself, as if waiting for the show to begin. The leaves parting like the curtains of a stage. She stepped out, like tiptoeing onto a dream, making her way to the clump in the middle of the clearing. Her eyes were thick now with water, her eyelashes shaking off the dew of a realisation. Cracking and tearing her way from the chrysalis. Tiny eyes shone out from the trees, the beasts joining her in to taste the end.

The small knife gleamed in the grey light which danced around the clearing, little sparks and souls prancing lyrically on the blade. The ash had begun to fill he mouth as the black sky above had begun to open. Her world was beginning to drown as she felt the skin prickle and the cool metal throb to the vein.

And then she stopped.

At her feet she saw the body, the clumped skin that lay before her like a rug at the end of a bed. She stood frozen, the rain trickling down her face as the sky now heaved and lightened the vista. The dream was begin to rumble, the humming underneath building like a train rumbling underground. She knew what it was before she touched that place, that skin and hair before her which had to be known. She knew already, but she was scared to see. Scared to reach in and feel her way through a thousand lives and know the truth.

Bending down she rolled the body over, the eyes shining back like she knew they world. Reflecting mirrors that caught that dancing light and shone back to her like the waves of the ocean. Her time flowed through her in an instant, a tidal spray of understanding washing over her. She stared at her own body, laying on that cold forest floor. Discovered only by herself and the eyes of the animals now which fidgeted and rustled around her. The blood had dried over her throat, the deep slash made a lifetime ago, yet the crimson stained her skin like a smashed cherry, licking at her neck. Her death had come a gone, many times before.

This was a moment she was discovering now, but it happened all the same each day. Every time she took that knife from the drawer. Each time she turned off her phone and closed the world away. Those moments at work when she wished to be away from everyone. Feeling alone in a crowd while they burned holes into her. Those were the times she died, when she came here to that forest clearing where the sky above swallowed her. These were the moments when her soul cried, and dripped down into that forest on the edge of her life, taking her further and further from god. Further from the light. Blurring her memory into a stain on the window of time.

The Day of goodbyes

Falling into a sleep that’s caught between the devil and the deep.
Blue, everything blue blue blue.
These hearts, caught on strings and spun around fingers.
Worn on the sleeves, cut into ribbons.
The world need not worry, the moon cares little.
Little spheres of sadness that fade into the space of time.
But there was that day, that long terrible day of goodbyes.
Cut deep into the soul of existence.
A meteor into the ice of now.
Tears stained, then dried as they are spirited off.
Into unknown lands and parts of their mind.
An aching blue, a neon pain remained.
In the absence of other, a divine emptiness.
Conspired by the fates to lick the face of loss.
Not knowing what they had, until it was gone.

Quit quiet qualm

You struggle to breathe now.
With guilt filling your lungs like water.
Careful not to break.
To run a ground on regret.
Problems that seemed better in the morning.
Bare on your skin like the sun of the rising zodiac.
Crawling with your Taurus tendencies.
Your face fails to fill my eyes, contorted and hidden.
Peeping in and out of truth and reality.
Slipping into the past like an exit manoeuvre.
Weightless, like your words.
Faithless and scared.
That toe dip into the world or the righteously misled.
As the dam breaks, and the clouds sigh in sadness.
Washing me in the rain of your ghostly tears.
A phantom I left two minutes before you even knew what you were doing.
Coincidence or grand design?

Her own universe

Tuesdays were always difficult. A problem day. A nothing day. All the things wrong in her life seemed to have occurred on that second day of the week. Second for her at least, some people she knew classed Sunday as the first day. What did they know she always thought? She could always gauge how one Tuesday was to unfold anyway, the motivation of Monday dripped away by the evening, making way for another mediocre book-end of days that collected on the shelf of her life. But this Tuesday was different. Different in a similar sort of way, like driving down a road that you’ve never been down before, yet knowing there will be a dead end.
The rain had done it’s best to encourage her to stay at home that day, the wind whipping up a sizeable storm outside her windowpane to keep her safely tucked inside watching the world come to a watery end. The promise of a good book by her small cosy fire was not enough of a lure it seemed, to keep her from going over to see her mother. She lived on the other side of town, which in itself was not a large body of houses, you could cross to the other side in about ten minutes by car. However, Jackie didn’t own a car and she didn’t drive. She was much too anxious to be let loose in a world where maniacs were given licenses to speed along invisible racetracks.

So that day, the Tuesday day; she braved the weather and made her way to her mother’s house. She was prepared for the storm, and had dispensed on the cumbersome umbrella that would no doubt pick her up and whisk her away to Oz. Instead, she was bundled up so tight and so well she looked like a yeti wading through the small streets, caring not to the cars that splashed by her on their own personal adventures.

She’d had the ominous feeling since breakfast, that something was out of sync that day. The weather was the first warning, the second being her hands which had been shaking since she had tried to spoon the cornflakes into her mouth for breakfast. The tiny pieces of cereal had fallen all around her bowl like tiny bits of cardboard on a craft mat. She’d taken a pill and all had seemed fine, though she couldn’t shake the feeling. It stuck to her like the film of milk left on an emptied glass.

She thought more of it now, watching a black cat dart out from under someone’s parked car on the side of the street. Unaccustomed to being out in the wet weather, it glared at her as it made its way to the safety of a porch of the house she passed. The feeling was itching away at her insides now, and she quickened the pace towards her mother’s house.

“Mum, it’s me” She called into the small little cottage. Her mother never locked her doors, refusing to believe she was living in the 21st century, still half expecting friendly neighbours to pop in to see how she was doing and borrow sugar. She closed the door and locked it firmly behind. “Mum?”. But there was no reply. The house wasn’t quiet though. It groaned and shunted in the storm, and in the rooms away some pipes gurgled into their own orchestral concert. She took off her jacket, hanging it up on the coat hook by the front door. She passed by the picture of her father, nestled into a neatly polished silver frame, greeting anyone who entered her mother’s kingdom with a smile and a look of knowing.

At her feet she felt Apollo brush past her, gliding through the hallway like a streak of fur. Her mother had had her since she was a kitten, given to her by one of the ladies she played bingo with down at the village hall. She’d always said she was more of dog person, but she secretly, Jackie suspected, adored that cat; who took great pride of place throughout her mother’s well organised life. Apollo meowed noisily and scuttled off towards the conservatory.

“Mum, you about?” she called out again. Holding back the alarm now that had convened on her feeling of ill and dreed since the morning. She followed the cat to the back of the house, the rain thundering hard down onto the conservatory roof, tining and thundering through the back room.

There she saw her mother, slumped on the side of her high backed chair. A stranger would have guessed she was sleeping, but Jackie knew her better than that, and though she couldn’t help it, she hung back for a moment, bracing her emotions for the tidal of grieve that was to come.

There was a slow rumble of thunder coming from outside, the ferociousness of the storm was waiting in the wings still, about to set forth it’s lasered dance of lightning and noise. She brushed the loose hair that had fallen over her mother’s face, the greying sight of age that hung loose and lifeless. Her eyes were closed she noticed, and a huge part of her was relieved to think that she had felt no pain.

She was sat in the centre of the conservatory just by her huge astromic telescope that she had bought herself a few years ago. Anyone who came to the house always thought it was decorative. The type of thing high end department stores sell for obscure aesthetics to those with more taste than knowledgeable inclination. One look around to spot the kitschy frog ornaments and dusty fake flowers would be enough to tell you it wasn’t one of those. This was an actual telescope, and her mother simply adored star gazing. She would sit out here, and sometimes in the garden on the warmer nights, and gaze up into the heavens. She knew all of the constellations of course, and would set Jackie’s niece Angela on her lap when she came over and try to find the planets for her, even in the day.

Her mother sat there now, an empty shell in that high back chair, her hand on her notepad with some scribblings of her night’s recent gazing. Apollo jumped up and sat on her lap, wafting the smell of her perfume up into Jackie’s nostrils, flaring up memories and loss. She cried there then, for about twenty minutes, her hand in her mother’s as she said her goodbyes. She wondered what to do after, going over to her mother’s phone in the kitchen to ring her brother to tell him what had happened. Seeing in her mind’s eye the next 24hrs unfolding in a terrible depressive snapshot of time.

She put the phone back in its cradle and instead went to the kettle and made herself a cup of tea. She sat with her mother for the rest of the day, until the sun slipped out of the sky and darkness descended. The storm had long ago blown itself into oblivion, making way for the tranquil stillness that comes after a hurricane. Jackie had done the same, allowing the moments and thoughts of despair to be swept away in the stormy waters.

She looked up through the telescope to see the stars dancing above in their diamond beauty, and then she got to work.

She reached up through the telescope and grabbed the black duvet of space. Some stardust sprinkled her hands like glitter off a birthday card. She heaved and pulled and dragged the galaxy down to earth where she and her mother sat in that conservatory on that infamous Tuesday. She tugged and dragged, scaring poor Apollo with her grunts and sighs, who dived behind her mother’s cardigan which she had wrapped around her body, stiffening slowly as she slipped into rigor mortis. When she had what she needed, she drew it around her mother, blanketing her in the sea of stars. The ones she had longed for all her life. Wrapping her tightly like a swaddled child, in a stars and space. Keeping her safe forever in the place she loved.

Turquoise veiled ghosts

Twilight’s child so faithful to the few.
Caught between the space between us.
The strong who stand and the eternal lie.
A joker’s poem of loss.
Drawn to the white winged dove and Moses smile.
A sister to the dying cancer, locked in turquoise eyes of loss.
Starting up conversation with ghosts.
She picked her way through the bones of youth.
Making it out through the death with dignity.
Into willow licked streams of sulphur.
Glowing blue in the night’s sad demise.
Where will she watch the universe now?
Which end will she choose to believe in?
Picking her skin away, waiting for her day in the sun.
Discovering more cancer on the bone.
Finding her mother crying in bed.
Rotting away the light and smiles from her memories.
Illuminated black beauty and rest. Frightened by more feelings.
Captain to a sinking ship.

26

Twenty five of them, she’d counted as they’d sung Happy Birthday in the small restaurant that they insisted was her favourite. The other candle must have dropped off somewhere, or the staff at establishment had been given false information. Exasperated by their inclination to not really care. But there they were now, twenty five of them standing up in the frosty platform as her friends and family chorused in with the jubilation. She smiled patiently, looking at the other couples in the place staring at her in quiet satisfaction that it were she that were the spectacle.

The song ended, and they all applauded as she blew out the misleading twenty five burning flames that represented her life on the planet. She hadn’t done it for years, but this time she made a wish while she blew, closing her eyes to make them all disappear for her small moment of intimacy with the universe. The applause died down and she blinked back into reality, reaching for her glass to silently toast her desire. The cake was whisked away from her by the staff, to be dissected for all in attendance, and listened to the others at the table talking about their own progressive years and the fear of reaching thirty, or forty; or whichever milestone society had pegged out for them all to have achieved a certain thing by.

Her mother asked if she’d had a nice time so far. She sat there next to her in her one good dress, or so it seemed, the one she saved for extra special occasions. She had spilt a little something on it up by her neckline, a drip from the red wine she had eagerly been enjoying that evening. She wondered if it would come out, or if this were its swan song evening. She nodded in reply, saying something about having a lovely time and how nice it was everyone could make it.

It was a half-truth really. Though she appreciated the effort all had made, she would have been happy spending the evening at home. She drew a circle of eight on the tablecloth as her mother returned to her friend whom she’d brought with her that evening. Circling around the small stain of her own that had bled into the white landscape that stretched out before her. Her boyfriend squeezed her knee, chatting animatedly with her friend Paul next to him who had turned up late, pushing himself into a space at the head of the tiny table.

She sighed, and took another sip from her glass. It was already 10pm, and she could hear people talking about ordering another round and some coffees to go with her cake. She picked up the small travel journal that lay on the table behind her, a gift she’d opened earlier from her sister who couldn’t be there that evening since she was on the other side of the world. She’d sent her a small, yet expensive looking journal, tied up with old flight tickets from her own exhaustive travels around the planet. She opened it up, noticing a small message at the front:

“Time waits for no (wo)man”

Typical of her, she’d thought, and reached behind to put the book back onto the pile of gifts and treats everyone had nicely brought with them. She sat there again, quietly watching the others. For her own celebration, no one had really spoken to her much that night. She seemed liked a stranger at her own party, lost in crowd of noise, feeling like a spectator to someone else’s play.

She had work in the morning, and she was getting tired. She spotted Katy; her friend from the office who had come with her girlfriend and sat the other side of the table. Laughing and drinking with such ease. Unlike Katy, she hated her job, which she’d started about six months ago and had been miss-sold from the start at what it would entail. The office was grey and dull, and their building was tucked away on the side of town that bled into the industrial estate. She had promised everyone she would look for something else, but hadn’t done so yet; owing herself the biggest apology for being so lazy. Her boyfriend squeezed her knee again, his constant sign of being both there and absent as he drank his beer and chatted with her friend whom, she could tell already, had hastily becoming intoxicated.

The cakes arrived back at the table, the waiting staff smiling as they placed the tiny plates in front of the guests and took orders for more drinks. She pushed her chair back, about to excuse herself, when she realised either side of her were both consumed in their own conversations, so she said nothing. She apologised to a waiter as she accidently bumped into her, nearly sending the birthday slice high up into the air; and made her way towards the bathroom. She stopped, only for a second, and then walked straight passed it.

She left the restaurant, and out into the cold night air where she exhaled deeply, standing on the street. A few other diners stood by the door, sending their smoke swirling around the door like a revolving dragon. She stood there herself now, still in the night with her arms down by her side. Her fingertips moving to a secret rhythm only she could hear. She turned to glance into the restaurant, its glass steamed up slightly due to the dropping temperature outside. She watched as all at her table continued on their merry gathering, laughing and enjoying themselves.

“Avant que ça ne se produise.” She muttered under her breath, and started up the street, in the wrong direction to home.

Abstruse mirth

Beware the day I find you, covered in flowers.
Smiling at nothing at all.
Hiding moments in your magpie mind.
Within those heartbeats, that will strike you down;
will be a sense of the other.
Tangible, but only ether.
There would be a missing part, something I misplaced.
A part of your heart that you had reserved.
Not for anyone else.
But for the empty ghosts in your mind.
Carving their own space and reality.
And that I will have no part of.
Beware that time.

Beautifully damaged

Don’t look back, breathe.
Keep your head above the water.
Isolate these moments of joy.
Encase them in glass forever and hang them for the world to see.
You and me.
Beautifully damage.
Teetering on the inevitable as we dance around the possible.
Your hand in mine, your bones locked into a heartbeat.
The tick, after tock of this borrowed time.
If the world ached and sighed, changing in a blink of an eye.
If a plane were to fall on us, from that jet black sky.
Would we exhale into regrets, or smile at all that had been?
Take this hand again, and follow me into the unknown.
Head held high like your mother taught you.
Eyes as beautiful as the day you were born.
Damaged and delighted at
being
here
now.

Recapturing

The silent soul who wades this world.
With brittle bones and sad inclinations.
Arrives at a place in memory, strung up with words that bind.
Does he fall deeper into the despair of an age?
Of that turning sun that snatches all that lay in his hands?
Or does shift, and arches his back to the march of time.
A solider in war of change.
Corrupting from within.

(s)wallow

Dirty soul licker.
Causing us to stutter.
I know you want to stop.
Been smoking that thing too long. Been praying to the wrong God.
That One you trust in.
Confiscate such liberties and inconsequential humanity.
Swallow it down.
Feel it shudder.
Suck on the bruise until the nation rolls over.
Those bears in your head, scratching the cave wall.
Their arms a tangle of fur and blood.
Does it make you perspire?
You are the one. You oxygen thief.
Back firing and closing up these holes in our veins.
Choke this Trojan horse. Slipped in when no-one was looking.
That fascination in the situation.
Ready to cum.
A Climatic cabaret of guns and hate.
Mop it all up with that spangled banner.
Did it do it for you?

Too cold for snow

Caught in the teardrop, that’s trapped in time.
Shivering into something unfamiliar.
These bite marks plague me still.
Itching my skin like memories.
If you just let me go.
Watch me walk into that dying star.
Into the fire.
So encased in fear. This icy realm of apathy.
Too hurt to start again.
Too tired of being tired.
Looking at the grey sky in your eyes as you whisper.
It’s too cold for snow.

Beneath

To live alive, and breathe and sigh.
Is folly to an untrained eye.
But to harken devils down in the depths;
of that blackest sorts. Whose intent unknown.
Leaves me shaking to the bone.
But in that sea where monsters dwell.
There lies a ruin, an unknown hell.
Yet I cannot bask in that sunlit waste.
It leaves me breathless, returning home post haste.
Into myself where I shine and glow.
A truthfully tale.
We all swim below

Down within

Down to the water’s edge.
Beneath the willow and the sadness.
He stopped his world for a while.
No hand to pull him back.
Only invisible fingers pushing him forward.
Reeling in his mind like spinning wheels.
He lay on the cold bank.
Shedding his tears into deeper pools.
Pouring out his misery and loneliness.
Until he drowned the flying fish.
An ice crept across the water.
Licking his bones and sealing his eyes tight.
His heart caught between a beat and a break.
Hurrying this ice-age that would sweep the world away.
Yet he does not dwell unobtainably with the gods.
Or at the end of a book to placed on the shelf.
His small pool of sorrow lies within.
Every time the change of seasons ring.
Each day your body sways and splits..
He aches once more for the shore.

Wash over me

The thread from my bones was caught and tugged.
Stuck on that rootless tree.
That dying ember.
Give me a place where it’s quiet in my head.
To rest and melt away.
This lake-shore I wander upon, littered with Prozac pebbles.
Stubs my heart and calls me to the water’s edge.
Reflected in the glassy eye of tomorrow.
Is nothing of what I cherish today.
As birds fly above, they swoop in and steal my thoughts.
There is no protector of my mind.
Leaving me numb and silent.
Dancing once more in the darkness.
To a rhythm only I can hear.

Holding back the waves

Heat rivals such memories.
Burning a hole through my soul.
Desert licking as my heart contorts.
Coughing up a dry dusty apology.
Limp in the midday sun.
Yet still I stand, awash with remorse and resolve.
Unable to drown in your sorrow.
Afraid to swim in your sadness.
Washed up, I watch as your gather all your hope.
Bottling shooting stars and dreams.
Plucking shadows from me, stuck on this ship.
As it rains on us.
I once tried to drain your oceanic heart.
My eyes dissolved from all the tears.
Washed away in the monsoon rains.
So you sit and wait.
Waiting for someone else to care.
At your water’s edge.
Where you still find me, threatening to jump.
Threatening to retreat.
Still hoping to save you.
Trying to hold back the waves.

Let the misery in with the rain

Unpacking the rain. Unboxing winter.
Wringing out the sweat of summer and the misery of me.
Dog eared and delicate.
Gnawed on by ghosts.
So sing me to sleep, with the lullaby of love.
Hold me in honeycomb.
Preserve me forever in your arms like ambers touch.
These simple things make me stumble.
Blind in the room of the forgetful.
Reaching for walls that are never there.
Only see through ceilings.
Promising such sweet delicious skies above.
Sat waiting for the clouds to roll in.
A result of crushed dreams and broken down frowns.
A product of such misery.

Breathe & beat

In a day I walk around the sun.
I trip over you, sleeping on the stars.
Waking you from such magical dreams.
The rays of light burn away my sadness.
The glue of imperfection that held me together.
You smile and promise such freedom.
All I need do, is take your hand and step into now.
But I hesitate.
I quiver.
Grown accustom to these prison walls.
So you pull me through space, gripped like a talon.
Pulling me tight, telling me to hold on.
As your pour gold into my skull.
Lifting me to the surface.
To breathe again, and be.

Sinking ship

Do you ever feel like a sinking ship?
Lost in the fog. Alone in the sea.
I’m never going to quench your fire, so set me alight in my drowning.
Our signal is getting weaker. Crushed by ice and the ice age of uncertainty.
To live each day as it came, to swim to shore and roll with you in the sand of life.
Yet now the lifeboats are a hazy blur. I know you’ve set your heart aboard them.
My creaking and cracking splinters the marrow.
I crash into the asphyxiation of doubt.
Immersed in nothing now and the everything of you.
Watching my rope slither into water.
I am a sinking ship, with nothing left but a white flag.
Fluttering above my submerging heart.

Polishing elbow grease

Resilient and totalled. The more tragic the better.
Slipping into the fog of the everyday.
Scratching out words on my chest that read ‘subservient’.
Feeling the need to speak a little less often?
Scrolling and sighing, the faceless ghosts who rush through me.
Unsure of which direction.
My own uncertainty.
Yet asking assistance means I’m incapable?
You expect me to get up like them, sit down and in line colour.
To work for money I do not need. What types of people would I be dealing with anyway?
Like me? My tribe? I wonder and I think not.
If I were less filled with fire. Dripping in normalcy.
Cut off from my soul and dead from the waist down.
Then I would be joining them.