Horse shoes and hand grenades

One spicy pepper and a glass of lemonade

Duct tape for the words I shouldn't say

Free hands to rip it off and say it anyway

Three notebooks, maybe four

A few pens to help spill out my core

Some caution tape for the ones who don't know me

Last but not least a heart full of hollow so the pretenders can let me be

sink into the night sky

and exist within the touch

this crystallized soul

smells of

things once felt

blood that hides within a hush

floating under the rivers of thin matter

skin flushed with a fiver

I am your river

I am your tide

the rising and falling of your heart

a rhythmic expansion to those pulsating stars

each of your thoughts are mine to swallow

a light sip of chilled liquid

on a summer’s day

sink into my river

embrace the tide

breathe

**

The tension inside me is crushing. My own blood boiling so hot that it fills me up and drowns me. Heated copper brimming over, bursting my veins, enveloping my lungs. And it rises from the pit of me. Spews out my mouth, geyser-like. Flowing faster than I can release it. Until all I see is red. Until all I breathe is scarlet. Until all I feel is crimson. Until I’m so full that my own hungry shadows consume me.

I write because my demons are illiterate. My grief can be poured out onto the screen and my inner tormentors are denied the bitter intoxication of my tears. I can proclaim joy on the page without the darkness dimming its light with regrets of the past. I put words to paper because it allows me to express anger without the demons twisting it into a mechanism of self-destruction.

When you have time

you want me

you want it

I just

don’t want

you

I love the way it was

so I gotta

I wanna think

you like us too, baby

you are the one that you love

Cold slips

into the space between

my skin and shirt

and i let it

because i am sinking

and i need something

to fill the void.

#poetry#pain#cold#sinking

Don't know when it started/or how I'd gotten so lethargic/being easily distracted and overly outsmarted/making myself too often an easy target/certainly wasn't at my sharpest/broken down discarded/back burner placed on felt long ago forgotten/dismissed and disregarded/but as i continued an artist starvin'/my work only grew more cathartic/the pain which in my heart lived/i was able to find the beauty and art within/found the strength to start again/enough gumption to know the status quo i want no part in it/rather the numbed out and dumbed down try to put a charge in/haven't the time nor desire to conspire or plot against/tell me what's the logic in/trying to argue with/you til my face turns blue and eventually lost all sense/not again will i allow myself to be disheartened/don't forget there'll be nothing left to harvest, if we don't tend to our weed infested gardens, too long neglected for what in actual value is far, far, far less...

And beneath her skin, she holds a whole world. Despite of the cruelties and betrayals of the outside world, a world of her own. A world where there's no concern with the way she sits or talks or walks or thinks! A world where she can dream her dreams, listen to her thoughts, conceive herself invisibly, hear herself in the silence, realize her light in the dark. "She is strong," that's what they say. Not knowing about the broken pieces of her soul that she gathers everyday, to be broken again. "She can't do it," they tell her, but she does new things everyday to be told that again. "She is not our type," they challenge her, she changes her nature every time, to be challenged again.

Among all these, there are still people who know about the hidden realities behind her eyes. People who can be chosen to be with. People who enlighten her soul and heart hidden in the dark. People who know all about her. All this Beneath Her Skin!

We work;

To spend 5% of our time on holiday.

We work;

To spend 10% of our money online.

We work;

To spend 20% of our income on taxes.

We work,

To spend 30% of our time recovering.

We work;

To spend 40% of our dedication on someone else.

We work;

To spend 50% of our time stressed.

We work;

To spend 60% of our life paying a pension

We work;

To spend 80% of our time disheartened.

We work;

To spend 90% of our leftovers on things we don’t need.

We work;

To spend 100% of our lives in modern slavery.

The matrix is real, give me the red pill.

bustling crowd of sparrows sing chanterelles

along to the beat of tiny green hands

on trees no longer brittle as the sap swells

the fine reaches and hidden aging bands

fighting seagulls wag tongues from grey beaks

a yobbish language a contrast in pink breaches

strut their Burgess Nadsat in pecks and squawks

that must end where roof territory reaches

a passing van is painted to entice

the favours of tourist and the dollar

a repeat distorted call to buy ice

creams and flakes that children follow

like a mob of birds . No discernible words

in this May day operetta a story of buds

bursting with colour and scales heard

from high pitch song to percussion thud

the season is alive it’s spark and ignition

the streets are bursting with springtime frisson