Justifications for Obligations

Loving is egotistical,

the way we crave admiration

and affections from another.

Do we seek to better their lives

or merely to gain confidence

with the application of lovers?

Either way, it is a futile art

That inevitably ends

by burial or cremation.

All I need is my own approval,

afterall, I can rely on

my self-gratification.

Fake Account

This persona that you have created

that you like to wear behind the screen

embodies everything you would have hated

should it be something your real self had seen.

Behind the keyboard you become cruel

and your profile seems so forced and derived,

such a contrast to your natural cool

when your every action is not contrived.

I am tired of being one of your lines

without being a part of your realtime stream

and as this friendship slowly declines

I think it’s about time I changed my theme.

Since I’ve unsubscribed to your put downs

my face has been blessed with fewer frowns.

Primal Instincts

Would hunger make me hunt

or has humanity held me hostage to compassion?

If I became more primal

I could find happiness without the need to ration.

So, in a survival of the fittest,

I will try to stop being sentimental.

I will catch the day and devour it

until my stomach’s not as temperamental.

Montage

Life is just a collection

of ‘best-of’ montages,

It’s up to us to make

major movements

out of

minor moments.

The King and his Empty Court

You’re forging defences against a fly

who is harmlessly trying to befriend you,

and the only damage done is made by

the very fences which defend you.

Why do you build these thick walls of steel

whenever someone reaches your border?

Are you afraid that you might start to feel

an attachment you feel out of order?

This concrete will only hold for so long,

deep down in the earth your foundations are weak

and as much as you make your fortress strong

someone with compassion might expose the leak.

There’s no enemy, so discard your shield

and instead take someone’s hand you wont yield.

Cling

The fallen tears of the tree

are hoarsely whispering to me

as they crisply kiss my toes.

They are so demanding

with each needy rustle landing

following wherever my foot goes.

Ouroboros

When your mind

starts to comprise

conversations

with components

of your subconscious,

you’d best get some sleep.

And your constant

rubbing,

won’t help the sting

of your peeled eyes

and your constant

writing

won’t help the sting

of your troubled head

and your constant

repetition

of this routine

just goes to show

a tired fool

displays exponential idiocy.

Consistent mistakes

are still consistency,

are they not?

Emo Jamz

You couldn’t forgive a blind man for looking at you wrong

when you feel your self-pity beginning to sting,

and you latch on to the lyrics of an old Midwest song

as if the words were yours to sing.

You say they make you feel lighter

to know that someone else feels the same hollow

but I notice your throat is getting tighter

with the years of the same sad songs that follow.

You see, we all will grow old

but not everyone will find themselves along the way,

and some constantly need to be told

that their happiness will find them someday.

You still seem so bitter and full of irritation

like your sadness is the only thing to which you can relate

and the only time you find any hint of elation

is when you are stressing all of the things that you hate.

So I think it’s about time you sang some happy lines

and hope they start to heat up inside your throat down to your heart

until the feeling behind them radiates and refines

those resentments that you had expressed from the start.

So the next time a blind man looks at you wrong way

you may lend him your hand to guide your new found friend,

having faith that you have brought colour into his day

and that the sad songs were about to end.

We are all Born Strangers

We are all born strangers

so, please don't apologise

if you should cause me any pain,

the fault is entirely mine

for ever looking you in the eyes

and letting your presence remain.

We are all born strangers

so, please don't ever feel rude

should you one day decide to leave,

because you were never mine

and this life we live is so crude

for presenting the chance to grieve.

We are all born strangers

so, please let's keep it that way

to save us from that awkward ache,

let that born choice be mine,

you have no obligation to stay

and this heart is mine to break.

A Call for Passion

The kids these days look like clones

as if they need reassurance that they're not alone

with their v-neck shirts and vintage skirts,

stretched out ears and meaningless tattoos that prevent careers,

they kick their canvas shoes as they talk on their expensive phones.

I don't mind if they have chosen this image as their own

but when it's no function all fashion, all profit no fashion,

a mob without a mind, the blind leading the blind

then I am worn to the bone.

The irony is, most of these reject the mainstream

like their subculture is much more unique than it seems

but they are all investing into the notion they're protesting

and the words lose their sense coming from mouths of pretence.

Those true to their roots get tarred as the same team

forcing them to begin off-shoots to revive their dream,

so with the foundations dispersing, the rubble start cursing,

causing trouble for the true who are now just a few

and so style over substance reigns supreme.

Against the Tide

For the past few months I've been swimming against a tide

which has been dragging towards the jagged terrain,

so if I was to relax and grasp a wave to ride

I know that it would ultimately result in pain.

So I have no choice but to struggle against the pull

and hope that my efforts lead me somewhere secure

when I can take advantage of the tempest's lull

though I know I still have the worst of it to endure.

And now the clouds above me are starting to get so bleak

and all of my muscles are beginning to ache

but I can't show any outward signs of feeling weak

as sharks are circling to snatch their supper that's at stake.

As I notice their presence, I feel like giving in

like all hope and vigour's deserted my every limb

but I see my reflection in their sharp daggered fin

and realise that I have enough strength left to swim.

I'm still no closer to reaching a safe dry land

but I sense that I'm becoming stronger with each stroke made

and when water is shallow enough for me to stand

I'll be content to remain wet and gently wade.

Secret Therapy Sessions

A poem a day

keeps the therapist away,

or at least until they are read,

but I know that they

largely unread will stay,

so my secret's safe 'til I'm dead.

Key in Hand

My hands are pressed against bars of cold steel

and it's hard to tell on which side I stand,

but there's no escaping the way I feel

whilst knowing that no judge will understand.

I can't figure out if I am in jail

or if I'm keeping the world locked away

in either case justice does not prevail

so this empty cell is where  I still stay.

I'm hoping someone will give me a fair trial

or maybe it's me who decides their fate

and if the proceedings may take a while

I hope the verdict doesn't fall too late.

In light of evidence, I hope I'll see

that I am the one holding the key.

Isolation

I don’t ask for much from life,

but it seems that those small pleasures that I do seek

don’t correlate with the hopes and wishes

of anyone that I know.

Individuality is often encouraged,

people are told “be yourself!”

but a fault that one could find

is that yourself can be a lonely place.

So, despite our efforts to reject

popular culture and mainstream subculture

we are consequentially

rejecting society.

As such, one could ponder

is humanity and personality unnatural

and would we find more happiness

as numbered robots?

Tinker

People often say

“if it’s not broken don’t fix it”

but if it is broken,

it’s most likely beyond repair,

so if it’s not broken

please fix it

and keep on tinkering

with loving care.

[de/re]Construct

The person I am is a paper-mache

of who I was and what I want to be,

a mismatching collage with gaping holes

with materials which never agree.

So I plaster myself with more false hopes

that I can cover up all my mistakes

but the foundations I've built are so flimsy

that the excess I've added never takes.

I serve myself with no real function;

just a poorly constructed DIY,

a prototype that never made production,

a faulty product that no-one will buy.

So go ahead and please tear me apart

because I could surely use a fresh start.

Lesser Evils

A short sharp pain

or a long dull ache;

which is worse to take?

For sores to remain

would cause more hurt

than a short sore spurt.

Kinsella

I'll sit on the lawn until the dew soaks

through my clothes and penetrates through my skin

and I will breathe the night air 'til it chokes

and stretches my trachea paper thin.

I'll look up at your room 'til the sight burns

from the fires flickering from your sill,

I'll wait out the night 'til the moon adjourns

and even when day breaks I will sit still.

I'll shiver in the wind 'til she's lost her voice

or she goes to howl at some other poor soul,

I will pretend that this is all through my choice

and that everything is under control.

But it must not be okay, sat on your grass

and all night I wonder if this will pass.

Paranoia

I get intensely paranoid at the thought that every action is regulated

and free speech (or even free thought) is a fantastical concept.

Perhaps this thought, my fingers scribing these words, and your eyes

flickering from the end of one line to the beginning of

another have all been planned and prompted for some unknown purpose.

I can't even trust my own brain if I'm not sure what's controlling it.

How many people are listening to these thoughts as I roll over

in my crowded head in an empty bed.

I can't decide if I'm more frightened by the prospect of having some unknown other

watching over me and controlling my every move

or being completely alone and being left to make my own disasters.

Textures and Layers

We are cursed with the complexity of life's complexion

and I can't contain my curiosity to crack their code,

so I panic and try to clutch to the faintest connection,

thinking and overthinking until I start thinking I'll explode.

There are so many layers and textures working at all we've known

but I've always wanted to know what lies at the core;

under skin is muscle and under muscle there's bone

but what happens when we run out of layers to explore?

H_r Nam_

The lettering on my keypad is worn

from spelling out your name.

When you study a word for too long

it can drive you insane.

You start to question your own knowledge

and if your spelling is right

so now I'm beginning to question

what did I just write?

Nightwatch

I've been peeking through my curtains for nights

wishing I'd see past the polluted haze,

but the sky's been consumed by clouds and lights

so I've found nothing in my wistful gaze.

I still cling on tight to my drowning hope

and still I always look towards the sky

but I'd find no use in a telescope

when only the darkness catches my eye.

So one day I dragged my curtains together

then within their gap I saw a glint

and with the surprising change of weather

the reigning clouds ended their shrouding stint.

And suddenly everything felt so clear

as the moon shone on all that I hold dear.

Unseen

It kills me to know

I won't hear every song

when one unheard could make me feel so strong.

It kills me to know

I won't read every book

when one unread could offer the advice I never took.

It kills me to know

I won't view every piece of art

when one unseen could glisten inside my heart.

It kills me to know

I won't visit every inch of this Earth

when so much untouched beauty cannot prove its worth.

It kills me to know

I won't know every person here

when I may not meet that one who I will hold the most dear.

It kills me to know

I won't get to stand on ever star

when they all look so consummately bright from afar.

It kills me to know

I am just a tiny speck on the floor

when (it kills me to know), I'll never be anything more.

Roadkill

I travel along a snake-like road,

right from its very tail

to the hungry jaw in which its forked tongue sits.

As I curve along
the slimy crevices of its body

I encounter carrion led flat in its stomach.
Gathered around the death

is a flock of esurient crows

pecking at the remains the snake has left for them.

As I approach the remains,

the condemning glare of my headlights

frighten the foul flock away from their feast.

The prospect of death

frightens the benefactors of death

away from their own slice of death.

Read All About It!

I keep thinking of those things

my mind tells myself not to,

and each time you force your way into my head

I try to distract myself

with mundane thoughts

such as sports or the weather,

as if you are the gloomy headline on the front page

which I am trying to avoid.

Give me entertainment

over current affairs

any day.