The erosion of empathy

You play hero I will play villain

though shades of grey exist and the truth not always willing

to rear it’s ugly head

filled with the expectation of being cancelled

and being heard

or Amber Heard

is different from being adept

or Johnny Depp.

we are divided down many lines and labels

and what we are being told merely a fable

when we can’t take it with a pinch of salt

and we halt

and can’t show a sign of empathy

How did life and judgement get so unjust

and all cards we hold are bust

because we no longer care just lust over celebrities

while our empathy is eroded and no treaty

or thought police AI can save us

from not understanding the people we see before us.

Peter Pan as a Man

Drifting from day dream dramas

Karma an unhinged beast

feasting on imagination

His righteous indignation

blushing red against his skin

but chained against his respectable aura

he didn’t want to grow up

He’d rather blow up

like a bomb

Songs gather enemies embolden

the golden days are over

fairies watch dying in the distance

His shadow takes over leading him on

Peter Pan as a man

He’s forgotten to dream

to feed the crocodile of time

these are the days that loose their shine

corporate suits kill

never land roots lost

We all grow up he’ll never settle down

lost in psychosis

waiting for cleansing osmosis

telling tales no one believes…

You look at me with eyes that don’t remember

In your eyes the tragic reminder

that memories fade

into the void

and get destroyed

I loved you more than my heart conveyed

though time is a blade

it cuts out the good and bad

memories or leaves scars

the stars that aligned

now fate has mined

and we with left separated when we should have been entwined.

Voiceless child

I was wild and free once upon a time

a child with time and rhymes

but my parents can’t listen

just thought of me being bad

curbing my behaviour

they couldn’t be my saviours

I went quiet wanting to start a riot

It could have gone two different ways

but life strays on to one path

the aftermath of which

made me a background poet

my poetry is the ink I bleed

from wounds I don’t need

My parents need me to be their counsellor

but I can’t

I just can’t…

cycles can be broken

when loves awoken

but sometimes I want to fight back

to see the crack

of light through the walls.

I miss the days

I miss the bad days

the way you hate me

your words reverberate around my head

we are still in conversation

though in my imagination

sex and beastly claws

the way you wanted more than I could give

I cannot live

without thorns a rose wouldn’t be a rose

I am torn our love wasn’t really love without pain

I am just a blood stained hand holding on

a rose

it’s thorns like all your angry words cutting through skin

love is a tragedy we are all flawed within

yet romantic attachment

when it works

can heal the heart and make it beat like it’s going berserk.

Waking up

Waking up on a cold brown leather sofa

Not knowing who I am

a man and women ask me how I am?

I ask them if they have any children?

they say no

then a child comes in from the voids light

it’s her birthday

she says I will never drive as knight rider plays on tv

then she asks for a sister and two appear

more birthday girls although one older and one younger

Years on I went to that house

a girl not the same one says something terrible happened here to you

because of you

I hear it in the whispers on the telephone

I see visions of the man being arrested

how did I get home?

memories fragmented

this waking dream won’t relent

I am prevented from seeing what happened

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.

If humanity stood for kindness

If humanity stood for kindness

not for the awful blindness of thinking they were better

if love entered our hearts and we wrote love letters to the earth

in the form of actions and weren’t distracted

and cursed.

then I wouldn’t be a Poet against humanity

I wouldn’t ask questions about our collective sanity

I’d only ask for love and peace

for life is unfair but we are beasts.

If we evolve into beings of light

then we must ask ourselves to fight

for to preserve justice

for that is humanities only hope.