Tag Archives: art

There’s nothing natural about this love

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We breathe smiles and similarly we simmer

In summer heat 

play plastic Spotify tunes on repeat 

there’s nothing natural about this love

we hear those songs in sugar, in saccharine smiles all the while telling ourselves it’s love 

we bleed deep, weep, scream in our voices 

in our souls for love

manufactured and distracted by love

to feel love but it’s over engineered 

fanatical sycophants 

who pant and swoon

but this love is more in line with the tomb 

There’s nothing natural about this love

that has to be earned burned in our hearts. 

real love just is it’s more natural than nature 

and it is love

flowing free

not a trap for you and me 

Lonely people

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Only people 

with hidden sparks of divinity

looking into the mirror 

getting shivers 

and quivers 

Looking for love but love doesn’t deliver

another endeavour 

feat of the gods 

the odds 

and ends of messages 

we send 

The revolving door

of lives 

when will hope truly arrive 

karma 

another charmer 

but a bell chimes

and it alarms us

we are living fast food lives

Our souls the only thing 

that isn’t disposable 

water hoses us down 

but we can’t get to the deep

conversations

we permanently seek to leave words 

of comfort even if they are lies 

and we surrounded by people 

with mole like eyes.

Forever lonely only children 

Strength unbowed

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Strength unbowed

Savaged by words

but unbowed

and unbroken

I wish I wasn’t bothered

I wish I didn’t care

courage is sometimes acknowledging our fear

using it to drive us on

the art of leaning on adrenaline

sometimes I rattle the cage

the only war I wage is to be heard

above the caterwauling cattle

who prattle on.

but sometimes I know we all need to be heard

so I go silent for days

the only words are prayers

so strength is adaption

and love is peace

feast upon silence

don’t turn it into violence

fight for yourself because no one else will

it’s a bitter pill

that makes me depressed and ill

but I will fight until I can no more

because life is flawed

and we stand alone

Heavens our home

It was at the start

before our hearts

got jaded

My body may fade

but words are sharp as the day they were uttered

may you live a life without the clutter

of weak words.

Occupied/possessed

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I have been occupied

Like the sign on a toilet cubicle

I have been subjected to your ridicule

Your voice comes and goes

like the wind that blows

Maybe my heart was hollow

and needed to be possessed

but now I cannot rest.

Knowledge is carnage

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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

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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.

Simp-pathetic ?

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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.

In the cupboard of lost purposeful poetry

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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.