A Butterfly's Nudge

The butterflies that ruled my past

appear to have flown away

but I know that they have not died;

for I still feel their wings flutter,

tickling against my itching feet.

I wonder if their wings have strength

to carry me through my fear

back to where I once felt happy

and if so, can I match their strength

and reward their delicate nudge?

I miss this like a punch in the face,

but I will gladly endure

five thousand more if it means that

I am able to once again

be proud of the person I am.

Seven Keys

Why are the streets paved with keys

to cemented concrete doors

that lock us out of the sea

and bury us to the floor?

I cannot take seven steps

without seven injuries,

and now my foot has seven rips

in the shape of seven keys.

I will walk right up the walls,

sailing up in loafing ships

and when my face finally falls

I will learn to lock my lips.

Hide and Seek

I have been hiding in this tree

for what feel like hours

and you still haven't found me

through all your scours.

This game is getting quite stale

and very lonesome

for with each search's fail

I find my nest more loathsome.

Maybe if I fell

and landed right at your feet

I could successfully quell

both boredom and defeat.

So I feign feeling ill

and let myself be tagged,

allowing secrets to spill

before feelings get dragged...

Travelling on Escalators

I am on the bottom step of an escalator with

everything I want at the peak but as 

I start to make my summit, my 

desires also ascend, and so

I begrudgingly accept

that I will never 

get to where

I want to

be.

Horticulture on a Haughty Culture

If the world is our back garden

then I don’t want these fences

that make all these tensions harden

and put us on our defences.

If the ocean is our pond

then I propose we make it shared;

it was produced that way au fond

so why did tempers become flared?

If this country is our home

why do I live amongst strangers?

Is it safer to live alone

when fellow lodgers present dangers?

If the world is our back garden

then it is time we mowed the grass

and pray the withered grant us pardon

for the Earth’s malnourished past.

Veritas in Caritate

Would you tread on the toes of loyalty

if they blocked the path to sincerity?

Would you still treat the loved like royalty

if they acted with barbarity?

And if a friend insulted another

would you step back to let them clear the air

or would you treat them both as a brother

and step in swiftly to fix disrepair?

If the trusted lost your confidence

could you still meet their deceitful eyes

or would you fail to see past the arrogance

that had unblinkingly told those lies.

The tell tale test of a true affection

is to still love past an imperfection.

Dreaming at the Wheel

A world of cardboard cut-outs passes me by

as I drive my car towards the day’s sky

with broccoli trees and sweet wrapper bees;

everything looks false and I don’t know why.

Cotton wool clouds part for the orange sun

and I notice that the day has begun

but in rear view sight I can still see night;

all its colours are beginning to run.

I try to overtake time’s gradual change

but passing the time is just far too strange

so I press the break ‘til I feel awake

whilst keeping my chased target in close range.

At my destination I woke at the wheel

and I realised my drive wasn’t real.

Destroy and Deforest

If my limbs hinder your path

by all means

sever them off.

If my torso keeps you warm

by all means

set it on fire.

                                                          If I welcome nesting lodgers

by all means

render them homeless.

If I can provide shade

by all means

let the world burn.

If I feed families

by all means

let them starve.

If you can forgive yourself

by all means

destroy and deforest.

Ensnared

The viper snaps at the prey

and finds you locked within it's jaw.

You try in vain to squirm away

but end up frozen in pained awe.

                                                     It wraps its tail around your throat

and squeezes until you can't breathe

and when your soul begins to float

it grinds your bones with its viced teeth.

Even your corpse wont escape,

the viper has you tightly detained

so that you lose all your shape

and only your fear is retained.

Magnum Opus

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Masterpiece.

Forget Me Not

Your windows are all boarded up,

they've been that way for quite some time,

but I can see straight through the gap

into your shamed aging decline.

Yet I can still remember you

as that modern beauty in vogue

back when your features were fresh and new

before they became run down and rogue.

Your door is also bolted tight,

locking away layers of dust,

and it's been known to groan in the night

as the floorboards give in to lust.

I want to unbolt that chipped door

and revisit what lies inside

but then I would be wishing for more

as the former magic will have died.

So instead I leave you derelict

and rue your exponential rot

hoping that your boards will get licked

in a wonderful forget-me-not.

Stripped

I wear my heart on my sleeve

so when I take off my clothes

I leave my heart on the floor

and though you may now believe

my finger tied uttered oaths

I am rotten to my core.

If I continued to wear

the blazer which holds my heart

I think that I would settle

but I would rather be bare;

as hurtful as a sharp dart,

as delicate as a petal.

HGV

I was thinking long and hard the other night

when something terribly struck.

I ended up a horrifying sight

as it finally hit me; 'twas a truck.

Raincoats and Umbrellas

My mind has clouded over

and though occasional rays

struggle to shine through the drab skies

the wind wrestles them down,

hiding them away like a disobedient child,

locked in their room whilst the vicar

slurps his tea approvingly.

If only that child would learn

that they are free to make their own impressions,

free to obey their own conventions,

free to lighten the cracked pavements,

free to provide warmth to the world;

if only that child would learn

that they are free to live,

I don’t think the world would have need

for raincoats and umbrellas.

Ghost in the Mirror

You're a ghost in the middle of the road,

your arms stretched wide like floating flimsy fences

but no-one's stopped or even slowed

cause their headlights shine through your defences.

Although your stance is solid and static

your image seems to follow my every turn.

I try to shake you off, driving erratic

at a speed so swift it makes my stomach churn.

Your sturdy chin is held so high aloft

with your reproachful glare meeting my eye.

Your broken and battered features so soft

I have a sudden urge to swerve and die.

Instead, I sharply pound at my break

and get out to examine your remains;

upon discovering you're still awake

the guilt that had fueled me slowly wains.

So I abandoned my car and began to pace

and never again sought a ghost's affection.

Not until I got home did my heart race

when I saw your corpse in my reflection.

Running Out of Fingers

I have made more mistakes than I can count

but I'm not too concerned with the amount

as I know they will all be purged away

and only the things that are meant will stay

but still there lingers a sense of regret

that, despite all effort, I cannot forget

so I try to squeeze them out of my head

and replace them with good choices instead

but the pressure mangles my sponging mind,

struggling to go forward as I look behind;

as the pressure becomes too much to take

I realise all effort is a mistake

and if I let chances and choices rise

in a natural manner improvised

then all I can ask is that I have tried

and I have no regrets when I have died.

Rationale

I tried to make the most pristine piece of art

but it seemed too emotionless and cold.

I then tried to be guided by my heart

but the lack of style meant nothing was sold.

I tried to be inventive and unique

but it sacrificed having mass appeal.

When I tried to keep things simple and bleak

it felt as though my strokes were not real.

I tried to keep my messages sincere

but it made me feel naked and exposed

and if I tried to give in to my fear

I started to become timid and closed.

I then remembered to forget the crowd

and any unnecessary tension

for whatever I make, I will be proud

as I've made it within my own intention.

Take it as Gospel

I see your tattered pages

and I find myself drawn in

by your popularity.

Your coarse skin's lasted the ages,

from where the first stroke begins,

with just the same clarity

as if it was freshly written,

your message clearly still intact

in words that still hold value.

So many people are smitten

by stories they take as fact

but just how much is really true?

If your word has lasted this long

it must surely hold some truth

and yet there's still that hindrance

that prevents belief being strong:

when your words are devoid of proof

they are devoid of substance,

so I will respect your bible

but wont hold its word viable.

Teething

The lack of tears

when a baby's crying

confirms my fears

that the world is lying,

and yet people fuss

to notice their needs

placing their trust

into a hunger that feeds,

and so the next time

I'll be more doubting

by matching their whines

with my shouting.

Clocks

The constant tick and sporadic chime

echoes throughout the hushed and hollow hall

as the birds rejoice at the birth of time

whilst the silence mourns a former time's fall.

The old grandfather is wrinkled in rings

that makes him appear both aged and wise

and at each hour his heart bounds and sings

whilst his mind is filled with bored and tired sighs.

Though the constant tick has lasted for years

he knows that its sound may someday cease

and when the silence confirms his fears

he hopes that his death will be met by peace.

But til that day he'll continue to tick

and in death he'll know that time's gone too quick.

The Smell of Dust

Is dust the smell

of

intelligence

or

years of neglect?

Crosswinds

When your route begins to shift

you need to steer the other way.

Decisive action must be swift

to prevent being led astray.

So if one side becomes too strong

pick the  other one for symmetry

then even if your direction's wrong

it provides brand new imagery.

Sanguine Seasons

My personality comes in seasons;

it is now in the height of its winter

and therefore for whatever reasons

I am acting ever so bitter

and so I finding myself wishing for me

when I was that new born lamb springing

and whenever my rebirth will be

I'll have happier songs to be singing.

Charging: 18%

Tonight I'm feeling worse for wear.

These nights are catching up with me

but I will not allow my will to tear

'cause it shouldn't be long 'til I can breathe.

Yesterday I got hope from the sky

and I'm not talking about some God

but clarity within the light

which got me thinking quite a lot.

I realised that I was strong

even if I feel weak and frail

I guess I've known this all along

and that is why I will not fail.

Battery: 5%

My mind is busy, my thoughts are dizzy,

my eyes are heavy, my head is light

but still I must not sleep tonight

so until I get the go ahead

I'll fantasize about my bed

and when I am dead

I will dream of being alive instead.