In the Garden

Since the dawning of time, two people stood alone,

one was the slave to the being on the throne,

one was demure, and the other a sinner,

in this epic tale there is only one winner.

Since the followers of the sun, the religious led astray,

atheists and anarchists get their own way,

God fearing people, threatened by hell,

besides, the sinners have more of a story to tell.

There stood a man, bold and stern

to defeat the master he must learn

the ways of a warrior,

the plans of a mastermind

with this he is the saviour of mankind.

There stood a woman, swift and wise

to defeat the master she must rise.

She must learn to seize the day

and to do what’s essential,

only with this she reaches her potential.

Millions of years on, not much has altered;

the strong have remained, while the weak have all faltered.

Driven by their dreams, astray by devotion,

the strong don’t sense, the weak show emotion.

Whipped to the fiery depths of the abyss

the heroes now find them selves wandering.

The struggle within causes great pain

and so life will, sadly, never be the same.

The Season of Ill Will

It’s Christmas eve, and the snow’s falling fast
the gift received will surely (sadly) last
for you achieve, again, to ruin the past
as you now leave, my worst Christmas has passed.

It’s Christmas day, as I indulge too much.
Deadly dismay, dithering double Dutch.
No words to say, for my feelings are such.
Happy songs play, but I’m way out of touch.

Happy new year! Starting season of change
so no more beer for I can’t find my range.
Shed no tear. My new found joy is strange;
as the snow clears its seen I was deranged

They say ‘tis the season to be jolly
so smile and bear your despair and folly.

The Musings of a Senile in Love

Unprepared,

as my blood runs like ink

I’m lost and scared,

in your tears I sink.

I lie alone,

somehow, I know that there’s a missing link

as I’m dazed;

can’t remember how to think

You built me up, but I soared too high
(Got to fall down to earth)
I thought I loved; God knows why
(What love do you deserve?)

Undeterred
as no help comes.
I’m waiting for white light,

little air escapes my lungs.
I cry alone
but the pain never numbs
the end is near
cue the drums

You built me up, but I soared too high
(Got to fall down to earth)
I thought I loved; God knows why
(What love do you deserve?)

I must be senile
(Oldest trick in the book)
I’m not in denial
(Frankly, I now know to trust my luck).
You killed me with your venomous touch,
with death I escape your vice like clutch.
I now laugh at the foolishness from above;
the musings of a senile in love.

Post Violence Silence

Everything done, it was all just too rushed
I just needed some space but I found myself crushed
I tried to escape from your vice like grip
All I wanted was to abandon ship

I put up with your games, and you took on my bluff
Can't you see that I've had more than enough
I was suffering, suffocating by your kiss
Surely you realise there’s something amiss

Through all of this I didn't mean pain
But slowly but surely I’m growing insane
Funnily enough I had no regret
I've killed you now, and I'm not upset

Can't remember much of last night
I tried to finish but you put up a fight
But I ended it all with a stab to the heart
Now I see you finally depart

 Finally got you out of my life
But the blood still won't wash off my knife
I look at it daily with a humoured expression
Guess she’s finally learned her lesson.

Summer's Sounds

The sounds of summer are resonating in my ear;

the cacophonous hum of the lawn mower drawing ever near,

like an unwelcome bee parading in my presence

taunting me with its unpleasant end;

a reminder that our defence can be our downfall.

The aroma of the freshly slashed grass rising up to my casement ajar

whilst I can hear the bell signalling the end of school from afar

replied by the reaction of raucous, unrefrained cheers

of children who have plans of late afternoon merriment,

hoping that my den is still intact from last decade's adventures.

Meanwhile, I am sitting in the sorry shade of my mind,

wanting the freedom of Summer's youth to let me unwind,

and whilst I enjoy the exhorting, endearing fresh sunshine

I can no longer find the juncture, context and company

that once made me feel as light as the flowers that float by my confining cage.

Haunt

A smoky whisper in the deceptive air,

was it your shadow that danced with my reflection?

A slight of sight that filled me with such fright

that I was sure that I would not sleep that night.

I turned on the radio to calm my nerve

but I could hear your voice in the static.

I opened the window to cool my frantic mind

only to feel your breath in the cool night's wind.

I rinsed my face to awaken my eyes

but I could taste your chilled tongue in the flowing water.

And so I resigned myself to sleep,

but as I blew out the candles,

the smoke floated past my eyes

and in the complete darkness, all I could see

was your taunting, haunting face.

I longed to reread your gravestone

to discover if you are real,

and yet I was terrified of reading the words

that hurt me most.

I'll cling to these ghosts to keep me company

until I find sleep to wake me from this dream.

Worries

Idleness, inadequacy,

deadlines,

silence, strains,

solitude,

pressure, pulling,

poverty,

duties, despondency,

dignity,

sensitivity, monotony,

routine.

Rope

A robust length of sturdy bonded rope

is made from weak strands of united thread,

twisted together with mutual hope

to keep all their ties until they are dead.

Some will break away at the sight of rain

but the core threads will always remain strong

for those who stick together through the strain

are the ones you can rely on lifelong.

I have had threads broken beyond repair

but I know that our bonds will always be.

I know I can depend on you to be there

to keep my own weak thread from misery.

Whilst most of the bonds in life break away

I know that ours is far too strong to fray.

Losing my Relation

There are so many plebeians

that clog up my ears

with statements that make me bite down hard

on to my tongue.

I can no longer relate to some people

who I once loved

and instead of causing offense and telling them so,

I get annoyed in silence.

You aren't smart.

You aren't funny.

You aren't attractive.

You aren't original.

You aren't important.

Matches

A flicker,

a spark,

a brief light,

and then darkness again.

Repetitive Routes

This tiring path that I have been taking

is slowly corroding away,

and the shoes in which I walk are breaking

but I know that I will not stray.

I am running out of scenes to admire;

what is beautiful now seems bland,

for the freshest of flowers must expire

and paths don't always go as planned.

I look left and right, but find no resolve,

no direction on which I'm clear,

and whichever factor I may involve

fills me with irressolute fear.

I find myself longing for a brief rest

to stop and take my bearings

and then prepare for the final test

when I can assess my faring.

And so I grit my teeth for the last slog,

wading through uninspiring muck

until I am away from this numbing fog

and I have new scenes on which to look.

Swallowing my Pride

This morning I wrote a list

of all the things about myself

that I hate.

Then I scrunched the note

into a bowl,

put it into my mouth,

chewed it up and swallowed it.

The list read as follows:

1. My pride...

Reforestation

When a seed is planted into my brain

the roots reach out and asphyxiate me,

they strangle my thoughts, render me insane

and blossom into black views that hate me.

When your words branch out deep into my soul

they block out the sunshine and reign my skies,

and a growth of madness makes my skin crawl

until I'm nesting the bird's lamenting sighs.

When my leaves plummet down to the hard ground

I feel each loss just as deep as the last.

Without their shelter I feel the cold wind pound

and I regret growing my trunk so vast.

When my despondency is deforested

I will grow again with thick bark more tested.

An Ode To Rave

Blinding headlights on fast country roads,

the excited youth in buzzing hordes,

fuzzy stereos blasting distorted bass,

the passenger's getting off their face,

cheap shellsuits and overpowering aftershave,

crushed cans, pre-drinking outside the rave,

an empty warehouse with sticky floors,

ostentatious classless girls dancing like whores,

second hand smoke, second hand sweat,

stale ale spilling onto all already wet,

the music is building to a crescendo,

a deafening progression of in vogue electro,

ringing eardrums and close proximity,

pills being swallowed in a life of toxicity,

the crowds are being hyped by the MC's improvised rhymes,

they are all living for these good vibes, these good times.

Road Trip

I've been looking at this map for days

but I'm just as lost as when we embarked
and on the folds I can feel the frays

of where all our favourite places have been marked.

I don't even know to where we are bound

but I have a feeling we'll get there soon,

and of all the routes that we could have found

to journey with you is most opportune.

I will never pull over from this road

because I will not tire of this drive

and when we must finally unload

I can say what it's like to feel alive.

I wish that this was an everlasting ride

for I feel so content with you by my side.

Dawn's Deadline

A storm is brewing in the sky outside

with the clouds struggling to part for daytime,

whilst still under the hills, the Sun does hide;

she aims to rise before the clock's sixth chime.

The squabbling clouds come to brutish blows

creating a rumbling riot of turmoil,

meanwhile, the Sun's panic to rise on time grows

but Father Time must remain ever loyal.

The Sun anxiously attempts to burn

but she stays cold until obligations spark

her desire to share her light and to learn

to overcome the clouds evergrowing dark.

After all that fuss, the day broke early

and so Dawn's deadline went smooth and fairly.

Procrastination

For too long have I broke unuttered promises to myself.

"I will get that done today" I say without conviction,

but my plans soon collect dust on the highest, out of reach shelf

I know that I will one day pay for this dereliction.

For too long have I suffered procrastination

resulting in unproductive, unfruitful late night rushes

for I pick other tasks to carry out for the whole duration

and only do what I am supposed to when the deadline pushes.

And so this poem is just another waste of my time

when I have other documents open, hungrily waiting,

and as my frustration and panic is beginning to climb,

I'll get back to other constructive sources of creating.

The Disillusioned Clown

I am growing weary of this marquee.

Travelling in this circus from town to town,

I would find more acceptance under the sea,

I don't feel like I can truly be me.

I am growing weary of playing the clown

when I have lost my will to laugh or smile,

under this painted-smile façade I frown.

You laugh, unable to see that I'm down.

I am growing weary of feigning guile,

juggling knives that will one day be my demise.

I am growing weary of trial after trial

only to find a reaction hostile.

I am growing weary of this fool's disguise

which only attracts alienated eyes.

Heart-Shaped Flowers

I never believed
  that I could feel this strong.
     I never thought things could bloom
       to become the beautiful orchid we share.
            The flowers from you that I have received
                 will last and still be beautiful  forever long.
                    They will burn brightly against the dark and gloom,
                     reminding us of our future, so very fantastic and fair.
                You're more beautiful than I first perceived,
            sounding as sweet as a bird's soft love song,
        smelling as divine as an angel's perfume.
     I will continue to nurture your care,
  evergreen our love grows,
this love never goes.
 
             

Redrafting

Don't lose sight of the person who you are

when you try to eradicate your flaws.

Perfection can only get you so far

but only if correcting your own cause.
 

You polish that wooden mask everyday

so that its glossy shine reflects your beauty

but now all the detail has been scrubbed away;

do you wear it for pleasure or for duty?

Don't scribble out all the lines that sound wrong

but store them away until they're made right.

It is fine to change the words to your song

but don't let its meaning get out of your sight.

You cast away those parts of you that you hate

until rid of all flesh; you are but a ghost.

For some, you've got rid of an endearing trait;

our imperfections are what defines us most.
 

Don't fear all the mistakes that you may make

on the road to your final draft being set.

Life is not a test that we can retake

so we must make choices without regret.

Ray of Hope

On a cloudless day the prospect of rain can seem incomprehensible;

everything is perfect and you can't imagine clouds appearing.

You end up questioning where the rain ever came from when it reappears

like an almost forgotten enemy

and you curse the skies for banishing the sun.

And yet, on those cloudy days, there is always that glimmer of hope.

That ray of sunshine that burns through the clouds and makes the skies that bit brighter.

Maybe if we realised, on those perfect days, that things must surely change

then the rainy days wouldn't make us feel so dreary.

Falling Under Conscious Keenness In New Guises

A moral mind manifested by madness?

Are there memories or mistakes made?

A deed that could cause in some part sadness

and a deed in parts that sadness evades.

For fun can form from frolicsome functions

but some find it fatuous and fallacious,

so when I reach afterlife's crossed junctions

will I regret things done when vivacious?

A decision made deliberated

with prudent precision to the choices.

With the right person I'm liberated,

fortifying feelings Ambrosian.

If this is a sin, then cast me to Hell

for I don't want to break free from your spell.

Quarantine

When I get a problem

I think and think about it

until I can't even remember what caused this slumber in the first place.

My thoughts gnaw away at me

like a ravenous zombie,

not stopping the constant picking at my brains

until consumed completely

and I become infected with this strange disease,

and what started as a little worry

has devoured my reason and rationality.

All I can do is wait until the day you put me into quarantine,

away from my own mind and from your words,

sometimes I think it would be better for everyone's safety.

Elegy

Tonight I questioned what I will be remembered by.

What short, spirited sentiment will be etched on to my gravestone?

Who's words will it be, and who will decide upon them?

Who will attend my funeral;

how many through obligation and how many through genuine grief?

I would rather have a genuine elegy:

"Rian Mercer

good at plenty,

great at none".

I then realised that it is too early in my life to ask such questions,

when I have my life to live and future to create.

I am writing my own requiem

with each action that I make

so that when I die

whichever words and whoever's words-

must be true.

Then again,

just what will I be remembered by?

Wrapping Up

This time of the year has come again

when everything must change.

I accept it with a sigh,

for I hate change as much as the next person

but I've come to realise we have no choice but to embrace it.

The Winter has come, and so we must dress accordingly;

I assure you that this darkness will not last.