Heaven is heartache

Heaven is heart ache

just beating in my chest

At least it’s still there

It gives me no rest.

I turned down a goddess in her underwear

just so I could play saviour

all my dreams made of paper

nightmares paper cuts

doomed to hear the words of sluts

Starving just to lap up leftovers up

I dream of being a hero

but I am fascinated by the villainess

the heroine is too much of a drug

I slug it out with my mind but depression is a thug

dominating my ever move

I love to dance but my song isn’t my groove

Self isolation sleeping beauty

Sleeping on a bed 
waiting for the world to stop it’s lockdown
you are a vision of beauty
waiting for this pandemic pandemonium to cease 
you didn’t eat a poisoned apple 
you just sleep,
waiting for the apocalypse 
or a prince’s lips to kiss
oxygen is hard to come by
and we can’t let you go 
you sleep, waiting for the virus to stop 
we give you a shot
of antibiotics. 

The nurses and doctors know
that you a few days left to show
whether you’ll recover 
your life and find a lover.

But this life is cruel and unfair
we love you
but you look back at us with a blank stare…

Atlas

It tares apart like paper
born from a saviour’s verse
The devil doesn’t mind, she makes it worse
I collect the curses
I recycle them like newspaper
rhetorical rhymes
in my life of grime.

I shine like the steeple of church
but I’d rather be the birch the trunk of a tree
for this a goddess induced reality
Wisdom causing minds full of incoherent clarity
I lose my faith wandering in garden labyrinths
the chances are we won’t find the goddess or her nymphs
or there chalices in the angles or angel absinthe
that we drink or think outside our boxes
so neat we feel no feeling in our defeat
yet we drink it all down
like sad pathetic clowns
in the pubs wearing our overalls and scrubbing away.

Polishing our lamps just to find genies or djinn
in our lives that our extraordinary and full of sin
yet we all fall beneath the skin
the earth full of mud and shit
the page half written is full of it
yet it feeds us and bears fruit
forms the roots of all we cultivate
for man is no man unless he has a little hate
and enough love to permeate
his sad heart
beating in tune to the bleeding womb
he wants to enter
another grand venture
trying to give his child
the wisdom of being wild
and free while they try to chain his children
with the care they placed on his shoulders
I love you Atlas don’t get tired
Or older the love that beats in your soul
don’t let the fire get colder…

Loneliness the beast of burden

Loneliness the beast feeds on my confidence

until all have is insanity

I will hold it back with words driven home with meaning

maybe I will be dreaming

a better a life

maybe I am reaping what I have sown

but I will not believe in fear I love myself and own all I am

I am the shadow and the light

and I will fight until my hands wither

and I grow faint

I will ignore the loneliness and it’s taint.

Panic attack

The breathing, needing distance

Panic attack insistence

beating against the ribs bones and skin

I cannot escape I am chased within

By the a hound I cannot see

It’s agony

My breathing speeds up

I lose my voice

I fear the destroyer of peace of mind

I am the death of kindness

and insistent

to cause such pain

I am agony and fear like death

I am agony and lack of breath

The ghost child of the man in the asylum

In side the beaten white walls of an mental institution

where people go to be uprooted from their delusions

Sat a man his hand outstretched as if holding hands with the dark

No spark to light his way, only the tragic marks his way

he used to play childish games by himself

look they say where is his mental health?

has it left him altogether why does his play childish games

he would call a name on the wind

for the child he lost unbeknown to them

Tilly or Matilda the ghost of a child of six

who he held in his arms before he was sick

she swallowed her tongue in an epileptic fit

but before then were eye spy and guessing games

before then were pin the tale on the donkey and blind mans buff

I guess we are all in a way sheltering memories like ghosts

In the places in the heart we hide

which we can never move away from no matter how we stride

or how many steps we take

life is sometimes an evil fate.

To die at sixteen

All your dreams never started

dearly departed

That’s how I felt

Kneeling on a hospital floor praying to you

to save my life

you are my goddess of wisdom

my teeth going rotten

like the dreams I had as a child

it’s heart wrenching

my parents said my psychosis

was a bereavement

the life intended, lost

I had to be mended there would be a cost

goddess of the universe, girl with many faces

I have been through a war with myself

but my mental health

is the thing I can never get back

but sometimes their are cracks of light through the wall

I know the goddess understands us all.

Clown huntress

The circus mirrors gives her the shivers

Her lips begin to quiver

She hates clowns

and her frown

turns into bestial snarl.

her cheeks flash red

all she can think of is blood instead

and meat

Which she wants to eat

as her hairs stand on end

and are caught by electric instincts

her teeth become sharp and canine

and eyes shine an unnatural shade

as her body begins to rearrange

her spine tingles

her coccyx sprouting out of behind

A now wagging tail

Her feet bursting through her dainty shoes

her arms begin to flail

she is in shock but somehow it feels right

those clowns will get it

they will not live to regret it

growling at the mirror at her reflection

her skirt tearing at the seams

full moon screams turning into growls

then a howl

As her body is exposed

this is what the crystal ball

and fortune teller said

“when the moon becomes blood red

you will see what you are in the distorted mirrors and be fed”

As she smashes the mirror

drool dripping from her tongue and teeth

the werewolf released

from her human cage

to rage against those foolish clowns.

Authors of the great myth

Given the gift

of sight

we fight and wrestle

nestling

in escapism

but it’s a prison.

she is out there

Sophia the goddess of wisdom

she spoke to me when I was 7

now I am nearly 37

I hear her voice

like yin and yang

Speaking her words to me

Am I just hearing things?

Is my mind just broken and in a sling?

Or am I just another author with a gift?