Stories untold in the little shop of curiosities
Socrates,
I know nothing
am I bluffing?
the pain of each story kept inside
worlds that never collide
I keep in inanimate books
the chaos of which looks
like madness
maybe I fight the mundane with delusions
where there are no real solutions.
they said she would hold your heart
in the deepest darkest part of her soul
her love for you burning like a curse out of control
but they lied or was it fate
because love is hate
war is peace
and you are still free
but dumb in this land of the glum
A setting sun wanting to be her equal
by the quill you write with
you fight with
you love her with respect
does she respect you?
for you were her favourite
where you depraved right?
To turn and walk and away
when she seeks other men to kiss on her pillow
you are just a weeping willow
she cries on
a somber song she lives on
But when is all said and done
you fight for her when the worlds unfair and wrong
you are her strength
the love given that makes her strong
and when she finally sees
the forest from the trees
will you guide her
keep her stride
for you and her make world collide.
In the middle of a picture of industries gates
sat a man who just waits
Unemployed from his 30s onwards
looking for an opportunity
in this life of lunacy
photographed as a sign of the times
this life is full of grime and thought crimes
have we stolen a moment
is there any atonement?
for the man who now sits on a corner
from the established systems in place
who like to hide from the despair on his face.
Without the pain of birth
nothing can happen.
And although you may grapple with darkness
light will always shine free
the truth will out eventually
it cannot be hidden
they buried it but it broke free
and blossomed into a tree
for all to see.
In the space inside my hand only sand flowing through
I don’t choose to be me and I don’t choose to be you
I choose to be voice that says hello
your favourite kind of sunflower yellow
You are my dream you are the sky
I set my eyes on the sun
But whatever I say we are one.
Do you think they will ever care?
the rich and powerful and the big banks
own us with their guns and tanks
will they care when we are gone?
they siphon our money through a straw
Just so they can get richer through the profits of war
on everyone including the poor and disabled
the immigrants and working class able
We are slaves to the rich in this so called Christian country
full of those who would spout forth
I speak of my discourse
but wasn’t it Jesus who said
that it is as difficult as a camel to go through the eye of a needle
as a rich person to go to heaven
the hour is getting late it’s way past quarter past eleven
Or is the doomsday clock wrong
we live on knife edge don’t tell us we are strong
In being poor
heaven can wait for our souls
we need to be cared for…