Ink Runs Black

Running smoothly at a glance

with moments of non existence,

does it befoul all things touched

or create something beautiful?

You can never get rid of it, and never destroy it

for what’s said is said, and done is done.

The ink flows and the words pour

like tears to the page.

These words wield wars,

these lines link love.

This ink is my life.

Turn the page and I will write some more,

take away the pen and I will be no more.

So close the book, open the wounds

and press on hard.

Blood Runs Crimson

After carnage and suffering amasses

there is a leaking of crimson down the desolate road.

Darker than the dead

which themselves, in their masses

write their final, pop culture inspired ode

in ink deep red.

A new leaf is turned

an old life is burned

as they sat and bled.

They are just young naive fools,

the popular preyed on the poor and pathetic

because sadness sells.

Depression and low self esteem makes them feel "cool"

with "art" awakening a flock of apethetic,

because the tragedy tells.

A lesson learned,

cult status earned,

as all teens are now shells.

Curiosity

How you wish all was known

and that all secrets were told

yet I know to stay in the dark

when all you want is shown

you have no more life to hold.

Curiosity hunts like a shark

mindful, left free to roam,

but knowledge is better learnt than told,

and most dangerous to hold mark.

Soft tongues shatter hard bone,

when the meaning of life is cheaply sold.

Curiosity is a deceptive demon, coarser than bark.

The Trauma of the Night

A winter's night, a child grows wary.

Shadows, sounds, things so scary.

Underneath the covers hides the boy.

What was it that moved that toy?

When fear flows through the mind

everything is terrible, nothing is kind.

Underneath the covers, the boy grows hot

but peek our from under he dares not.

He would turn on the light,

he could make it bright,

but terror grips him too tight;

he is stuck in the trauma of the night.

The Marathon

Life is a fruitless distant race,

tiresome with little recognition.

We qualify to work, we work to die

and look to the future, and then look back,

endeavouring for the things which we lack.

Perhaps the problem is that we try

to make sense of life's true mission,

when this marathon is more of a chase.

There's no hope in catching our dreams,

they're destined to never be found

so what's the point in liking things

if your search is in folly?

Whey even attempt to be jolly?

This race is cruel and my muscles sting,

and if I even run respectably I won't be crowned

with the happiness that the finishing line gleams.

We spend many days being bored

as our eyes gaze without a glint.

We look to tomorrow to change

and put a smile on our faces

but I am tired of these races.

I want to revolutionise the range:

I'd much rather race n a sprint

for marathons go without reward.

The Incurable Itch

A wall of noise hits him, but he hears nothing,

his head fixed downward, pen in hand.

He notices nothing, but is aware of everything

for almost everything means nothing in that moment and yet one thing means everything.

Is a picture really a picture or an interpretation of life

and life interprets pictures as images of hate and love.

Hand in hand they are united, cancelling, powerful.

And so this inner monologue continues in my head, overdrawn and overspent,

finding precise detail in the smallest event

and yet failing to come to a succinct point,

failing to make my thoughts and ramblings joint.

I feel the need to scribe my each and every thought

so every last moment I remember is caught,

scratching the paper of its incurable itch

making knowledge and history ever rich.

Yet once it is writ

and the ink has dried

I continue to sit

and try to decide

what next is on my mind,

what next I will send,

yet I will never be able to find

the ultimate end.

For I can never stop writing

both by choice and by burden,

scratching the itch, never slighting,

wondering when I get to call it curtains.

Melting the Shrouding Snow

Walking on fresh snow

feeling the crispness of originality,

treading where no other footsteps will go.

Man's fatality

is that they'll never know

their true face, their true personality.

Snow only disguises prior steps spent.

Your truth is black ice,

a life never meant,

a clear but dangerous vice.

You will rue the repetitive route went

for "same" will not suffice.

I now want the sun

to melt away all my previous tracks

as if each footstep a new life begun,

forgetting past acts,

uniqueness undone

as my truth self I can relax.

Prometheus

Silence...

there isn't even the faintest voice in the far distant.

Ignorance is ever persistent.

It is as if our life is without life

and all troubles cause no strife

yet we remain to notice the violence.

Restrained...

for even the voice within is tightly shut.

All this tension in life is easily cut

for a cold desolate place is where

it is frosty and callous, with no warmth or care,

yet this cruel life will never be explained.

No one will hear you.

No one will listen to you.

No one will even speak to you.

It is beyond the grasp of all.

It is beyond the comprehension of mankind.

It is beyond the reach of any known mortal.

Bitter...

a silent solitary creature dwells in this area,

shivering and quivering, pure hysteria

from the chill that seeps down its spine.

It feels its will slowly resign,

yet this creature is not a quitter.

Drained...

unable to escape it's prison of living,

nature is not forgiving,

for warmth there is a never ending quest.

It only wishes now for rest

yet it lay awake, frustrated and pained.

Will there be someone to fight

who will bring fire?

Like Prometheus who stole light

to take to our world from a place higher,

but bringing evil along when used for war.

For the fire will dissolve this place

and all its contents will be hurled.

Its inhabitants will be consumed by the blaze.

Prometheus ruins our world

as one by one we are burned and left to rot.

Emptiness; the Wraith of Life

a feeling of loneliness overwhelms me again;
the emptiness which craves fulfillment
yet, never gratified.


An empty deserted well
I am redundant and inoperable
and an eyesore to the ever flowing fresh water beside me.


I am-
but living dead,
a silent and empty wraith.


Beneath the brilliant facade
and the joviality that I portray
is the mask of bliss that I wear each day.


I am a solitary creature,
an amorphous being
a gloomy silhouette that blends into the darkness surrounding.


Insignificant and trivial,
the appearance of absence of which
makes not a tiny tinge of difference.


Indeed, I am just
but another insignificant life-
nobody.


Drained.
Dejected.
Disheartened.

Questions Within

Something's not right.

Everything's bleak.

I need a light.

What do I seek?

I must be somewhere.

Where? I can't see.

Frustrations flare.

Where should I be?

I can't find my place.

Although I try.

I can't find my face.

Just who am I?

I  can't keep hold.

Life feels hazy.

My heart feels cold.

Am I crazy?

I can't get a grip.

Joy and pain torn.

I feel life rip.

Am I alone?

Why so surreal?

What's in fact real?

Why this cold steel?

What is this that I feel?

Contradictions

Contradiction of the soul

I feel alive but not quite whole.

Half of me feels light like day,

the other half as black as coal.

Contradiction of the mind

I look forward, but not behind.

Not able to see my way,

I don't know what I seek to find.

Contradiction of the heart,

is this the end or just the start?

I don't quite know how to say

when the time will come for me to depart.

Contradiction of my sight

I can see that there's something not right.

All vision in disarray

I yearn to return towards the light.

Contradiction of the sound

I hear silence whilst the world is around

I can't hear the words that you say

as my ears begin to grind and pound.

Contradiction of my touch

I can still feel but not too much.

All alone, but you will stay

I know your pity makes it such.

Contradiction of my taste

all I love has gone to waste.

All I do is sit and pray

for a new tongue to come in haste.

Contradiction of my smell

I sense your love, but not too well.

White nor black, your feelings grey

there are urgencies felt, which I cannot tell.

Contradicting right and wrong

you knew how you felt all along,

now I must sit and mould my senses into clay

and try to clarify this distorted song.

Scars Over Scabs

Old wounds take an age to completely heal

then resurface like banished memories,

left with scabs so you can still see and feel

the pride, pleasure and pain of memories.

With scars you wont feel blood seeping away.

If you pick at scabs they will just return.

It is better to forget than let it stay,

then you wouldn't wish old joys to return.

"To remove shrapnel you must take a wound

so let us walk openly into ache"

I was once told and staggered and swooned

and sure enough, I woke without my ache.

If you don't want to hurt, you must know pain,

only with time can your demons be slain.

Photographs

How I wish life was a photograph,

capturing moments of suspended time.

Faces forever fixed in a full laugh,

no diminishment of age from our prime.

We wouldn't have to make any mistakes

living in a defined world of colour.

We wouldn't have to feel pain when death takes.

Then again, photographs can fade ever duller.

There is no room for progression when fixed

in a moment of memories affection.

Cold and distant, with our sentiments mixed,

devoid of feeling in recollection.

Photographs are but cheap imitation,

what they represent has limitations.

Lust for Death

I am not suicidal, yet part of me lusts for death.

I would gladly give up my last breath

only to be illuminated to the mystery

of what happens when our lives become history.

What really happens when we pass,

are we still there in spirit, without human mass?

A mere shadow of the human soul,

life-like, yet not quite whole.

Do we simply cease to exist

like being asleep, only we don't subsist?

Nothing is there, all is black,

no way forwards, and no way back.

Are we awaiting judgement from above?

Rewards for those who showed God their love.

Retribution or salvation for wayward sinners,

should those with devotion be the ultimate winners?

We could come back as another being

with a new way of living and a new way of seeing.

Death is just a spoke on a huge wheel.

Everyone thinks different, but one theory must be real.

If death is an eternal rest

does it follow heaven is just a dream

and hell a nightmare, sinister yet superficial?

We may reach our yearned rapture

but what of when we awaken?

Are the unjust forgiven or forsaken?

Are soulless spirits able of capture?

Questions on reality on the artificial,

matters of life and death, significant and supreme:

part of me lusts to put these all to the test.

The Circle of Crime

The tired warehouse in shrouding haze,

the hue of orange from polluting lights.

The floor scattered with the windows broken glaze,

the breeze-block brick the sorriest of sights.

The tracksuit clad youth stood in their huddle,

the clouds of smoke float away from their lips.

The drunken boy seeks more than a cuddle

the drugged-up girl clutched by her hips.

The sirens join their raucous laughter,

the dying man just a block away.

The group doesn't know what the police are after,

the criminals know they cannot stay.

The worried wife sits by her phone,

the tears welling up in her bright eyes.

The man whom she loves has not been home,

the phone does not ring, the worry intensifies.

The ambulance races through the street,

the wounds are critical getting worse.

The police follow the pattering feet,

the next week, the man will travel in a hearse.

The wife grieves in her jet black attire,

the jet black hearted thugs get off again.

The uninspired youth will never aspire

and so the circle of crime begins, again...

Foggy Rail-line

From where did this fog arise?

It clouds our thoughts,

it shrouds our skies.

From where did this mist arise?

It makes air thick,

it breaks our eyes.

From where did the rain descend?

It drenches the floor,

it quenches the poor.

From where did the snow descend?

It eases our care,

if freezes the air.

From where did the winds arrive?

It blows on my bones,

it throws leaves alive.

From where did the sun arrive?

It warms the world,

it allows us to thrive.

From where did the weather set sail?

The skies are seas

with waves of breeze.

From where did the weather set sail?

The ground's the ocean bed

and so we're drowning, dead.

The Saligia Suite: I, Superbia

Lucifer, the morning star

who yearned for clouds too high.

He bore the light, yet would not bow

so was cast away from the sky.

Fallen angel of dark hubris

would watch humility die.

The prince of conceited pride.