Simp-pathetic ?

I love you like you are my light and my life

wanted you to be my wife

loved you like a fetish

black like a rubber skirt

the words you say hurt

you cut my heart to ribbons

and still I am giving

my all

in your dominance I fall

I hit the wall

but I drill through

I love you I still do

but I am ruled by you

the wisest thing to do is to walk away

but I can’t eat or breathe without you

I love you I know I am no wimp

maybe I am a simp

but I love you all the same

in our deranged game.

Under a sign of neon loneliness

Under a sign of neon loneliness

We are all drifting

shifting uncertainty.

If you don’t say what you mean clearly

it falls apart!

Like the shifting sands of a man’s heart.

I love yous repeated like rhetorical questions

a quest never to be won

a word we lean upon

but who really knows what it means

we can only dream

of being narcissistic kings or Queens

with enough love for ourselves

the magazines sit on the shop shelves

Do they dream of being read?

Loneliness the killer of lives

love the flip side of the coin

but they join…

They call me the bravest man in the world

but I just want to be held

and kept in her cage

admired at her whim.

Prison of loneliness

From the lake of fire

to the snake of desire

I am lonely.

Hell is carrying around loneliness with you

it grows out of all perspective

it grows with you

it starts with a child’s heart

of wanting acceptance and love

people’s love

then it turns into anger and rage

that you cannot have those connections you yearn for

that you burn for

in later life

a maddened heart torn apart of the fear

that you will never see one person from one day to next to make meaningful conversation

that ache in your heart becomes more than a sensation

You learn that your needs won’t ever be met

that life has caught you in its net

But you are forever alone.

No one knows what you go through

in truth even if they saw your entire life

their perspective wouldn’t change

or see yours, isn’t it strange?

to be cast adrift in world that promises much

and delivers very little

hearts grow cold and brittle

and they break in many ways

Not just in half in the centre

you may plan your ventures

you may look for adventure

but your only friend is you

and love is only love if that’s the truth

I am the I am

Alienated alone

Friendless in the friendzone

No forks to give in a world of spoons

A real world character in a world of toons

a goon army

that want to harm me

I must be barmy

An only child to a wild man

a Stan to other people

imposter syndrome makes me feel unequal

the film I wrote won’t be a prequel

it’ll be where I stand

to where I finish as a man

This life is bitter

a litter of ironies

this life is a cycle

but the spokes won’t break on this bicycle

I am a nutter

with clutter in my head

I am smart but not book smart

I am art

but in chaos

I am the freedom you find in loss

I am joy but the heartache it cost

I am the I am and I am god

I am the I am but I am a little sod

I am the odd

one out

I am you and your every doubt

the beating second

the way it beckoned

I am reckoning

I reckon

When I reach the end

send

for help

I know I am freedom

this is where I gulp

for air…

The devil on a cross

The whisper of a shadow song

Morning star no glory

just a story

I am just lived backwards

hidden track words

scars like lines across paper

can I save her?

I am not what you think

drinking from a cup of agony

no God can save me

but death won’t enslave me

I am midnight verse

nails won’t surrender to my skin

the truth they told you the lies worn thin.

In the cupboard of lost purposeful poetry

In the yellowed worn out dusty pages

the poetry that had a purpose is not lost

no matter how much the ideas cost

In this cupboard space

like the recesses of my minds eye

Ideas on the page never die

the reader if they thumbed through my poetry

would likely gain a paper cut or two

red ink another happening

mapping the page

the poetic wars we wage

on this desperate stage

between poet and reader

In this cupboard hidden away

will these poems ever see the light of day

like the dead poet lost in time

his reasons and rhymes

still unearth histories

and mysteries of life and of the earth

from birth to the finish

these ideas won’t diminish!

Maybe behind the library rooms and shelves

the poet unpublished poet finds themselves

and their voice

And these poems and half finished ideas

give a voice to voiceless after all these years

will be found and treasured and made into books

that people will treasure read and look

after finding this lost cupboard.