Thursday, 31 March 2011

Scratching Hands

The hands of time drag across my face
for what feels like an eternity.
A systematic cycle of scratching,
grating against etched numbers and my patience.
If I long for this onslaught to speed up
I am effectively shortening my life
and thus life is so masochistic in its nature
that we want the scratch to drag out
or to be a victim of its absence.

Weaving Webs

I weave my web
before my silver string ebbs,
fearing that one day it will snap.
I catch my flies
and basque in their dark demise,
watching them fall into my trap.
I feed on juice
not letting any run loose
til content with the feed I've had.
I then must rest
in woven webs that I'd dressed
and promise never to be sad.


I want to fill every line,
turn every page,
live all the time,
in every age,
taste every flavour,
see all life's beauty,
praise every saviour,
complete all of my duties,
hear the best song,
feel the best kisses,
fall in love with the one,
and stand true to my wishes.

Completing the Picture

We are born as coarse blank white sheets
and each person in life we meet
fills us with their personal paint.
Our choices provide the brush strokes;
out love the emotion it evokes
in completion, colourful and quaint.
Sometimes art is never complete
but we cannot accept defeat
so the strokes become forced and fake.
With beauty I will no longer fret
I vow to just let the ink set
and be proud of the shape it takes.

Hospital Bed

Plain walls, pale sheets,
blank faces, stale water,
expensive machines, cheap meals,
painfree injections, sleep pills,
modest curtains, worried visitors,
scribbled notes, hurried workers,
wired tubes hanging above,
tired patients grateful for love.


A frustrated feeling of finality
that follows a frantic fumble.
How our fear can be our fatality
when we should accept the end and be humble.

Now, I encourage I life vivacious,
seeking the finest pleasures that life brings
but not when in a manner salacious,
sacrificing morals for Satan's stings

I will be carefree yet fastidious
not getting wrapped up in a life of absence,
ensuring choices are not hideous
but aren't built on a bank of false pretence.

I will leap in with wide open eyes
and not concern in knotting the wrong ties.

Fear in Silence

The faint hum of silence
ringing in my ears
has undertones of violence
for it confirms my fears;
this deafening death-like drone
shows me that noone is near
and that I am all alone.

Tuesday, 29 March 2011

Cruel to be Kind

If I put my hand into a flame
I'd want you to let my fingers burn,
for if you didn't I would never learn
and I'd have inexperience to blame.

If I was stood on the edge at a height
I wouldn't want you to guide me away,
and I'm not being asked to be pushed astray,
just with your presence, I would choose what's right.

If I was buried in my soily sorrows
I would not expect you to get a shovel;
let me break free of the hellish hovel
and we'd enjoy the daylight of tomorrow.

If I'm sinking I don't expect your hand
but rather your arms when I break free to land.

My Plasticine Bones

My plasticine bones mould to your wishes
and I'm flexible to take any form,
but rough handling hurts unlike soft kisses
so keep me smoothed over, happy and warm.

Every shape I've made has been pulled apart
and it's hard to revoke the changes made
and although I could be made into art
you'd wish that my simplicity had stayed.

More hands snatch at me; they pull and they pry
til I fear that I may become overstretched
when all I long for is to peacefully lie
and not be expected to take forms farfetched.

If I'm streched too far I will be worn out
so I'll take my form and stay tall and stout.

Monday, 28 March 2011

Wearing Weight

When the weight can't wait
it wears you down
until you can't wear it any longer
and you lose sight
of where you want to be.
I am wary of this weary sense,
but I sense that I am tough
enough to see through these tough times;
I have the time so I shall get a sense
of where I want to be.

Sunday, 27 March 2011

Rewiring Roots

A rot to the roots of what holds us down
that stems from the light from which we all feed.
Burning above us like a short lived crown,
our hunger enslaves us to practice the deed.

But the light that we seek is born in the dark
and so the present shine is never whole,
thus the decay sets in the deepest of bark,
withering all life and claiming its soul.

I endeavour to plant seeds new and pure
that are fresh but pay homage to the past.
A fresh spurt of growth can be rotting's cure
and can make more beauty, forever to last.

These old gardens are torn, tried and tired;
it is time for old roots to be rewired.

Authenti City

The mass media is murdering the image of common man.
The affluent, erudite, nonchalant pretenders
feign a life of poverty and struggle
wearing a stalwart facade.
An art 'for' the common man
by the 'common' men.
The modern day anti-Robin Hood,
taking riches from the poor
by talking of their own none existent squalor.
A commercialist attitude towards urban life,
glorifying dishonest work and convincing the kids to lack care.
I can hardly relate to this myself
so some could call me a hypocrite
but I don't pretend to be anything that I'm not
and I care about the way
words can touch someone's soul.

The Sky's Mystery

The sky envelopes me in mystery
trying to comprehend infinity
for when they shine, the stars spell out your name.
I crave to see each star and bring them back
to provide you with the sparkle I lack.
If elsewhere, would our lives still be the same?

The sky envelopes me in mystery
trying to comprehend infinity
for when it whispers, the wind is your voice.
Travelling across the land, ensnaring
those whose aspirations with mine sharing
but would the wind settle, given the choice?

The sky envelopes me in mystery
trying to comprehend infinity
for when it shines, the sun lights up your smile.
Yet I only catch brief glimpses through shade
so I long to desert this town, man made.
Would the sunshine come and light every mile?

The sky envelopes me in mystery
trying to comprehend infinity
for when it pours, the rain brings out your tears.
Pathetic life of fallacies, fickle
although colossal, the skies are brittle
and though it brings much joy, with it comes fears.

The sky envelopes me in mystery
trying to comprehend infinity
for I miss your presence when the sun sets
yet when I see the bright summer sunrise
I see the same beauty inside your eyes
so let’s follow the skies with no regrets.

A Furnace within the Falling Rain

Falling rain cannot extinguish the fire
of our passionate interlocking love
as the clouds burst and splashes grow higher.
Our holy embrace is blessed from above,
rasting what had been my utmost desire
of our passionate interlocking love.

Each sweet second seems sensually long,
drowning within feelings of affection.
Using the sweet sensual tastes of tongue
we wash away all our imperfection.
But for lack of air I’d break into song
drowning within feelings of affection.

Our love was baptised by falling rain
softly singing “safely: be ascertain”.

Fight or Flight

You say you want to spend your life with me
but could you cope with my lifestyle of risk?
would you endlessly worry for safety
or would you embrace all reckless and brisk?
Each time I jeopardise my health with sport
is there an awe or alarm in your eyes?
and if I was to then cut my life short
would you be rueful or my heart despise?

When I soar off, down into the ocean
do you wince at the jagged rocks nearby
or do you have faith with your devotion
that your love’s will alone could make me fly?

When I risk life would you put up a fight
or let me ascend free and grant me flight?

Fighting the Shade

The treetops filter the shining sunlight,
shadows of leaves flickering in the breeze.
Below hills lies the city’s broken sight
yet I stand in a serene crook with ease.
With my future, in your radiance, bright
I hope to bring this joy across the seas
where the shade of memory will delighti
In the heat of habit; my life’s reprise.
For through heart’s joy, my head is still not right
a storm cloud gathering, my dark disease
so I look for your shelter through the night
where your soft soothing ways are sure to please.

If you detect storms, then flea not in fear;
in your shining presence they all disappear.

House of Cards

House of cards, piled on a joker,
I want to knock you down
and see the King of Hearts’ crown fall.
Crumble away beneath my feet
I’ve built you for so long
yet now I wish to smash you apart.
Give me a pair, give me a run
all I want is consistency
but instead I’m getting jack.
Where is the rhythm, where is the rhythm
a pattern that guarantees success
defies me, for now I’m bust.
Never will I recognise a good hand,
never will I stick.
I wish I could see my opponents cards
and defeat the game that we, so fruitlessly, play.
Where are my winnings?
I thought I had done well.
Blow, blow, brief house,
life’s but a mountain of obstacles
which, when conquered
crumbles beneath my feet;
an avalanche of diamonds,
an Ace amongst catastrophe.
King. Three.
Nine. Queen.
Eight. Jack.
Ten. Four.
Five. Six.
Where is the one?
Where is the solitary fact I yearn?
Yet again, I’m left with a joker.

The On-Going Novel

Each day is an empty page
waiting to be befouled by ink,
getting more renowned with age
with more memories to think.

Yet some pages that I’ve scribed
I’d rather tear and discard;
chapters when dullness was ascribed
when the flow of ink was hard.

I look back at some chapters
with a fond recollection
of summers harmonic raptures
and a friendship’s affection.

Some lines are forgettable
telling of times tedious;
their lack of depth’s regrettable
that life’s took so serious.

The contents page perplexing
a non linear life led,
without structure, it’s vexing,
how long it’ll be ‘til I’m dead.

Who is the author behind
the spine, hiding within words
showing the weakness of my mind;
I’d rather sing them with the birds.

Will I die a proud writer
or get lost in time’s soft sigh?
I had made my mind lighter
so do I need a reader's eye?

The book is fast becoming full
but I need more pages to pen
so I now yearn for days dull
for life to be slow again.

Whisperings of the Heart

Wanting to write the whispering of hearts
are futile fancies that fools fall into
for feeble fruitless words forever departs
and uttered words will forever reign true.

Yet I always long to engrave my view;
phrases filling faint feelings profound times
so that my words will forever reign true
on the parchment, and into future minds.

So you advise that the words of love blinds
to the needing and weakness that it brings
so that all lovers lose their future minds
and only the mourning bird of loss sings.

Allowing emotion to pull your strings
may make you dependant, but also whole
and the bird of loves rapturous ode sings
so I maintain to be in love’s control.

Without my words there leaves a gaping hole
and love’s luring laugh will always entice
I leave your vice-like clutch and take control
by wandering away from poor advice.

The Storm

A tale of ups and downs like torrent waves.
Painful adieus that both can barely brave.
A loving reunion both hearts crave
will send these lovers to their early graves.

A sudden end that must tear us apart.
The black sky is the colour of my heart.
Just as we must do, the waves below part
but one’s coastal end is another’s start.

So distant yet we stare at the same sky
under this; we can never say goodbye
I would wait for you ‘til the sea would dry
if I never had to witness you cry.

The breeze leaves me a farewell, salt kiss
blowing away faces I’ll sorely miss
as the white cliffs escape, I reminisce.
Are you or I truly ready for this?

The moon hides his face in bashful despair
for he can see this parting is not fair
yet the moon does not see you standing there
by my side, hand in hand, wind in your hair

Our love is so strong that it knows no bonds
making entire oceans seem like ponds.
The miles could never drown out our sweet songs
or stop our ship sailing to the place it belongs

We do not belong in this cruel black world ,
unrelenting, salty snow white clasps curled
as broken timber, bones, and heart were hurled
as taunting lost dreams acerbically pearled.

This ultimate voyage will take us home.
Where this home is? Answers finally known
as our souls crash on rocks, violently blown.
Heavenly death, by your side, not alone.

Captain Foolhardy

I am the pirate that unwittingly plunders hearts
then sets sail and, without a glance, departs.
Yet I am not the captain that you perceive,
you would have to know me to believe
I may be skilled in sword fighting
but, with words, I’m ever plighting.
I leap onto islands thinking I’ll stay
then the winds change and drive me away
but I will never get those pieces of eight
unless I learn to be patient and wait
for I start a battle at a simple mistake
and I’m convinced my crew are all fake.
I must learn to sail through the storm;
it will eventually lead somewhere warm.
Before I change my direction
I must know I can’t find perfection.
Before I consider you with scrutiny
I must know that your words aren’t mutiny.


Every problem will solve
because I’m able to evolve,
for every trouble I am apt
due to the fact I can adapt.
When my smile begins to fade
I see the world through a different shade.
When my brain power is on low
I find a new direction to go.
As I see I’m in too deep
I look at things I want to keep.
When I feel I’m out of range
I reflect and then I change.
When I no longer know what to do
I prepare you all for my V2.

The Vagabond

I seek no company
but my own,
only I
know where I roam.
Across the deserts
on the plains,
through towns and cities,
all the same.

They are so desolate,
dark and discrete
I dare not talk
to those I meet.
They stare back
so quiet and afraid,
as if they know
the mistakes I've made.

People know not
what to fear,
the time I'm there,
or when I disappear.
For I bring such
happiness and glee,
but pain and fear
linger with me.

My friends are dead,
my family spent,
I've wandered alone
not knowing what’s meant.
I shall wander
forever more,
and maybe, one day
I'll find a cure.

For my solitude
releases pain,
I am alone
with no loss or gain.
I am unknown
to all I meet,
walking forever
on my own two feet.

Breaking the Ice

Want to know me; then why not break the ice?
But you’ll face the risk of sinking under
for what you see of me is just the tip
of an iceberg that strikes you suddenly.

I can be ruthless yet I can be nice.
I don’t always mean to steal your thunder
yet on broken ice you or I may slip
for, though pleasant, I don’t always agree.

I always use my wisdom as my vice
but I have been known to make a blunder.
Now, my melted ice, away it does drip
my mind melting; what will become of me?

Now that I waste away into a stream
you too must not sink; build your own esteem.

The Pond

Smooth as glass and dark as night,
the pond reflects the morning light.
Faintest ripples nudge the edges,
gently swaying reeds and sedges.
Winter sky and snow-clad tree,
lie in perfect imagery.
Something soothing and serene
covers this hibernal scene.
From the road, you'd never know,
that an artist walks through the snow
leads you to this lovely place,
where the pond reveals his timid face.

Piercing Our Clouds

The grey mist approaches from the green hills
threatening to engulf my heart’s essence.
I look out of the window to bleakness
it is taking complex minds and their wills
too stubborn to learn their final lessons,
they are too proud to accept their weakness
and so the damp air leaves a residue
as it weightens our lungs and heavy hearts.
At another gaze out I notice why
I forget my pride and I turn to you
then, as the elegiac clouds departs
I see your piercing smile shatter the sky.


The yellow and frayed eternal pages
are crying, just with ink, still of the same.
The years turn to words and seem like ages
of grief in such a thin and subtle frame.

This memory-evoking prose of sorrow
is life... or scattered pieces, left of it,
of looking forward to the damned tomorrow
that happened to be nothing but deceit.

Then from behind the words a stranger, known
appears, from each page, she stares at me.
I miss those days of our dawn,
the dawn of the life that's meant to be.

I'm reading, and it feels right like the first time,
my tears have washed what's left of ink away
Together with the sentimental old rhymes
of prose - that I never dared to say.

...I cut my hand while listing reminiscence;
I'm brought to life by strong and sudden pain.
The paper's edge is sharp though torn to pieces,
and all that's left is just a heart-shaped stain.

My Jailor; Judgement

My mind is a prison cell
that I willingly occupy
but should I try and break free
in pain I’d be forced to dwell
so it’s better not to try
and take away the key.
My jailor; judgement does impel
to the point that I would cry
yet I just let it be
for against myself I can’t rebel
if I wish to see the sky
and so guilty I will plea.

Melting the Frost

The warmth of your eyes always melts the frost,
the smile on your lips parts the thickest clouds,
your consummate beauty is never lost
with your radiant glow seen in the crowds.

Your assurances make feeble fearless,
your docile wisdom leaves me in wonder,
your joking makes me smile when I’m cheerless
you keep my heart from being torn asunder

Without your presence I am a mere shell
of the confident character you see.
I pray that we may never say farewell
and that our wills should never disagree.

The power of your love made me atone
I’ve changed my direction now not alone.

In Fatality, Yours

Dear beloved,
listen to me for the final time
as I depart with my final rhyme.

You shall now receive my love and last word;
if you have received this then the worst has passed.
My love I send you that you may keep it when I am unheard
and my council that you remember it when life has surpassed.

The pathetic and timid deserted us
and all others hath perished and plundered.
In this battle I was but a pawn
all of whom bustled and blundered.
I would not by my will present you with sorrows
let them go to the grave with me and be buried in dust
and seeing that it is not God’s will that I should see you tomorrow.
Bear life patiently, and with a heart like thyself you see why life is just.

Be not curious in unnecessary matters
for more things are shrewd unto thee than men understand.
Another’s life is more worthy than the latter’s
as I step into the abyss that is the unspoken land.

I was cast asunder, burned, buried and radiated astray
yet they that sow in tears shall reap joy.
In another life, at another consign thou shall find a way
to my devotion once again enjoy.

For although they have taken my life, they can never take my will
in much wisdom is much grief; and he that increases knowledge increases sorrow.
My life and vigour they may kill
but no man can kill tomorrow.

The heart of the wise is in the house of mourning
while the heart of the fool is in the house of leisure,
my heartfelt thanks for reading and one parting warning
do not over indulge in life and pleasure.

Fatally yours, as Darkness falls

Hiding the Soul's Hesitant Songs

Silence but for my singing soul
and the seeping of river’s flow.
I hope not to be overheard;
my voice isn’t tuned like the birds
and you might hear my hearts mourning.
with bleeding ink, my mind is dawning
that I’m not alone in this place
and so I climb a tree to hide my face
but prying eyes seem to give chase,
mocking my voice’s sad disgrace.

I decide to sing loud and clear,
not caring if others can hear
for my voice overpowers the hush
of blown leaves and the waters gush
which makes the seconds seem to last
Wwth contemplating of my past
until a unison of song
with delicate birds rid my wrong.
The seconds passing not so long
with songs of joy now on my tongue.

A Birthday Poem to a Dear Friend

Birthday Odes to someone I’ve hardly known,
yet I’ve known you enough to make me smile.

For the short amount of time acquainted
the prettiest picture could be painted
of all of our memories that we’ve had
from foolish to funny; from good to bad.
The year has been worthwhile, just to meet you
and the way that nothing can defeat you,
the way you have your beliefs and your whit
and the fact you are all true and legit.
All my compliments (like you) are sincere
and I hope they provide you birthday cheer.

You’re such a great friend for such a short while
you’ve probably guessed that we’re not alone.

Finishing Time

The clock’s hands realigned with changing time
yet the glancing hands were unadvancing
and converged hands should be you and I merged.
Why can’t it chime whilst I’m still in my prime?

I think of you, and know your care is true
yet I can’t act on this heartening fact;
such tedious hours are rightfully ours
for we will rue all that we did not do.

My eyelids dance in a dazed dreamlike trance
for time does not pass in this irksome class.
My mind wanders whilst our time squanders,
I sit stagnant, patience a mere fragment,
not listening, my eyes stare, glistening.
Each moment is spent with my mind dormant.
Frustration mounts as wasted time amounts;
oh taunting clock, I yearn to hear it’s tock
to end the ennui and set me free
to go and spend time with you this weekend.

Finding a Place

These familiar facades forge false faith
in a setting where my face has found fame
and now I long to live life like a wraith
and find a place where no one knows my name.

Proverbial provides complacency;
I want to explore horizons unknown
to fill my heart’s ultimate vacancy
and find a place that I can call my home.

I long to get lost somewhere untainted
where I can explore, and unearth new haunts
for my wraith life anew be acquainted
and find a place where beauty always flaunts.

So this ghost must fly through oceans to find
a place where he doesn’t feel so confined.

Esmerelda the Great

Glossy leaves conceal the rusting bark
of a mind that’s aged through the summers passed,
with branches withering into the dark,
smothered by the foliage that has massed.

It longs to rid the confines of beauty
to stand tall, proud and wise, without burden
yet it must fulfil its long kept duty
and remain rooted to chains of Worden.

It prays to let its murky roots be shown
so it can offer no more false pretence,
cut down the forest and leave it alone
so that its loadful thoughts are not so dense.

This, the great tree they call Esmeralda
was happy until man’s passion felled her.

Bridge of Broken Dreams

Beneath the bridge of broken dreams
flowed healing waters in silky stream. 
Who among us hasn't had broken dreams
at one time or other in their life,
and so they could visit the bridge of
broken dreams for solice and advice.
A wise man that lived near
didn't believe it fair that
some had more broken dreams
then others that visited there.
So he would offer wise advice to
those that seemed to have
excessive broken dreams, and yet
it was not only his words that
consoled them, before he sent them
on their way, for in a rustic shed
upon the bridge, there were buckets
of precious stones, and these stones
contained the blessings to heal broken
dreams, and they would work
their magic when one was ready to
cast them upon the silky stream.
Those feeling destitute and alone
could find solice casting a healing stone.
For each stone that was cast, represented
a willingness to let go of the past,
and as each stone was cast into the stream
they gave forth love and healing,
acceptance and self-esteem, and finally
one of the greatest gifts of all, the
precious gift of new hopes and dreams.

Will Vs. Reason, Round 1

Chasing the last glint of serene sunlight
I scale your branches not heeding the risk
of falling from your omniscient height
and brittle branches always break with brisk
yet the fissure in leaves is within my sight,
strengthening my resolve to reach the top,
over eagerness may come back to bite,
nevertheless, I am too high to stop;
will and reason engage in a fight
neither wins for a challenger appears;
disaster…indecisiveness my plight
I should not of heeded unspoken fears

In its nest, the bird cries its mourning part
I would of seen light had I heard my heart

Sense and I

I am unnecessary; is sense?
Sense making, not words, but opinions
destroying truths and forging lies, hurtful.
Ease my pain…pain my ease.
Hurtful lies forging, and truths destroying
Opinions but words, not making sense.
Sense is unnecessary; am I?

Extinguishing the Phoney Fire

How do I hear such laughter, humorous
and have no harmony in happy mirth?
False amusements are ever numerous
and having to grimace falsely is not worth
the jaw ache, and my heart’s inner hurting
that hell’s howls extinguish humility.
These false manic smiles are disconcerting,
hiding happiness’ visibility.
Leave your chuckles for the heart to heed
for your hooting lies I find hideous
and is like a popularity plead
- save it is I, being fastidious
and I am a grim humourless killjoy
that hates to see peoples unshared pleasure,
letting the pretentious people annoy
and ignoring my own true happiness.
The wax smiles are melting off your faces
with no one there to see; the candle fails,
extinguishing artificial races
revealing melted distorted details
as I release a flame of hearty laugh,
ostentatious candles have felt my wrath

Bleeding Sun, Healing Moon

The skies subtle change of tone,
the great trees have so quickly grown,
the mix of colours, wind blown
all show me that we’re not alone.

Energising in our bed
we admire how the sun has bled.
Sky’s gentle fade; blue to red
and then to black as day is dead.

All colours begin to run
it feels as though it’s just begun,
the beauty of this does stun;
adieu to the sinking red sun.

The absence of sun does chill
but for last glimmers, high on hill
which, sadly, the shade must kill
and all around me seems so still.

The glisten of dew on grass
gently dripping, as time does pass
whilst birds remain; bold as brass,
rivers reflect beauty none could surpass.

The skies subtle change of tone,
the great trees have so quickly grown,
the mix of colours, wind blown
all show me that we’re not alone.

A Letter to Letters

These bonds grow tighter, gripping
the harder I pull away.
I feel my passion slipping;
patience has been led astray.
I see more letters ripping
for I can’t find words to say.
Tiredly tongue tied, tripping
you are driving me away.
Until my ink is dripping
my words or I cannot stay.

My Distorted Reflection

You are my jailor,
you are my escape.
You are my passion,
you are my hate.
You are my cancer,
you are my cure.
You are perfection.

You are my failure,
you aren’t my shape.
You have no compassion,
you aren’t my fate
You aren’t the answer,
you aren’t so pure;
my distorted reflection.

In the Ring

I dream of an eventual glory
writing a happy ending to a hard earned story.
I cannot be lazy in this craft
so I will continue to work and put in the graft.

An intense battle of skill and will,
the carnage ongoing until
the bell rings to summon the end of war
or the ref pulls me off and says no more.

Some say I am not ready for such a test
but I am confident I can put the doubt to rest
When training gets hard and I can no longer smile
I think of glory to go the extra mile.

It’s going to be tough, and yet so am I,
and all I can ask is that I honestly try
to make all of my hard work pay
so there's no doubt that I will be ready on the day.

A Gathering of Delinquency

Mingling with the dregs of society
feeling their contaminating presence
yet through this we remarkably unite
and could each learn our personal lessons.
All lifestyles together in this riot,
“superior” abandoning pretence,
even the lazy standing up to fight
yet some only come to feed on the tense
atmosphere, drunken liabilities.

My company brings overwhelming shame
for they are moralless and seek trouble
and I could never be classed as the same
whilst their dark undertones are not so subtle.
They are the exodus left to remain,
fearing their diseased plague from the gutter
I was expecting protests to be tame
yet their foul mouthed ways have spread like butter
and so I leave this scene, my thoughts in vain.

Sunday Morning Confusion

Lights flashing in my head
I felt alive, now I feel dead
Last nights events I can’t remember
As my inferno shrinks to an ember
Just what was said? Whose fist swung first?
Whose room is this in which I'm dying of thirst?
What secrets were spilt in my drunken disregard?
Should I have guilt, or did my conscience keep on guard
Did I behave, I need to know what did I do?
It was a rave, that’s for sure, but who the hell are you?