The cure to the disease

The cure to the disease

Sparkling and wondrous

the cure to the disease

Experiencing unease

take these pills

tiny white capsules

that won’t make you ill

distilled love

wonder from above

the cure like forest bathing.

misbehaving

often the cure is the disease of a life

lived without regrets

all targets missed and not met

But to try

is to live and not die

a love fragile

but agile enough to succeed

to bleed is to be alive

To breathe is to thrive

the madness the sickness

is to expect no pain

no sadness in the rain

sunshine that burns the skin

balance is boring

whatever gets you through

is the life you choose to do

Politricks divide us all poem

Right left we bleed the same

can we forgive

live

better lives

Cancel culture the cancer of the left

Bitter resentment fills out our hearts

no love either side

thought police divide us all

right authority with no escape

raid the poor

but the poor hate the rich for having more

is there an answer

or only more hate.

Schizophrenia awareness day Poem

Schizophrenia and the caveman

I dreamt of telling stories

forged in magic and music.

I heard voices of gods

angels and demons

In the flickering flames

that kept me warm.

It was part of my evolution

but sometimes

did wisdom is seen as mental illness

Nowadays I am known as a schizophrenic

I was a caveman with a shamans knowledge

Now they say I am something to be feared

When I was just reaching out

to understand.

Knowledge is carnage

Knowledge is carnage it kills lies

Those pretty liars don’t like it!

Knowledge is power

it hurts you want it

more

it opens doors that you shouldn’t want to open

it plays on repeat in hidden escape rooms

with the truth

that pisses you off

it makes you want die

cry open up and ask why?

but it’s scientifically proven

so there’s no getting around it

confound it!

But knowledge is like a clever serial killer you have to look in the right places to find it

and most people unfortunately are blind to it.

The history of words

Words have a history

it’s not a mystery

If you do the research

from racist toys

for girls and boys

we have to respect

words have a history

and so do objects

so please have some respect

and acknowledge the implications

we all want to be loved above stereotypes

and life is cannot be lived in present only;

history matters

and leaves us sometimes in tatters

words will often leave us broken

hurting us more than sticks and stones

and broken bones.

Honesty

People don’t want truth

delusions and illusions

are more loved

more accepted

more respected

Honesty, a fools game

people douse you in shame

a repulsive mix

stick and stones

may break my bones

but words will dethrone

a king from his own throne

and people will turn away

and leave him alone

the mirror of truth is always distorted

we want to keep it that way

we aren’t objective

we want to be respected

but our public relations feed on Facebook

would bleed away if ever we showed who really are

Our fragility and our fragile ego

Break like a dropped model of Lego.

The woman with many faces

In the darkness and light of a daydream from a distant heaven. The woman with many faces but one soul. I have looked at legends and myths. She is a gift. To live many lives and still remember some of them is her curse.

I remember she woke my kaleidoscopic mind like in the song porcelain by Moby. A conversation between the two of us. Her timelines spread across mine. Her heart and soul a beacon for mine.

Giving me a reason for life and seeing beyond the illusion of separation. She has been living all the lives I see through the collective unconscious the Holy Spirit is a girl a woman a mother a sister a friend a lover and so much more. Life would be a mistake without her music. She speaks through the crowd words of wisdom that guide me.

I have been labelled schizophrenic but I can see her spirit in all things. The way the wind moves the trees leaves she is one who guides us all. Oneness is what I have found I am her protector I love her darkness her light some may say I have lost my mind. And all the unkind things but those people are blind.

Exceptional

In the days when the exception they say

doesn’t need correction.

we are all creative

but some have it beaten out of us

at some stage

the war the exceptional person rages

is either to have their words heard

or to keep their creative side alive

and not have it brutalised or strangled

an Angel or messenger of light

has to fight to maintain their angle of light

and their perspective and sight.

If God could answer

Hanging on the cross

collecting the dross

on the doss

the dole,

of having a soul

what are we but clay pots collecting water?

no we are more and always have been

the views we have seen

the rhythms from the heart

the frequencies of our words

the skies, the birds

the moaning of love making

cell division shaking

through separation

like salt dissolving in water

and yet we are sons and daughters

trying to identify with our identities

yet eventually returning to the soul we came from

our bodies returning to dust

but our soul remains

in the Everglades.