Poetry is
The art of the heart
Written in the lifeblood
Of the soul.
You’re
Good enough
All of you,
Every part,
Whether you feel
Good,
Bad,
Up,
Or down,
Unable to move,
Or bouncing with energy
All of you
Is beautiful,
Because
You are
You don’t need anything,
Or anybody
You are perfect
Just
As
You
Are,
Right now,
And forever.
Be
At peace.
I feel
Like the jagged edges
Of my innermost sensitivities
Are bare for all to see,
Broken psychological bone,
Piercing emotional skin,
Leaving me raw, so raw,
That, to let just anyone in, is a
Risk I cannot take, I cannot even
Stand the nitpicking details of
Minor misfortune or irritation –
If it claws at the very centre of me –
Cracking the core of who I am
Meant to be, as if each iterative jibe
Tears at the very fabric of my reality,
Cracks in the ice of my dark sanity,
Leaving me staring down into oblivion;
Knowledge that the world I live in
Is not as it is written on the tin,
But rather an illusory reference
To something even more silk-thin –
That I am on the edge, all of the time,
The edge of me, the edge of all I am,
The edge of all I will ever be, and
That’s just fine, as long as I don’t
Let anyone push me over that line,
For if I allow the core child inside
To be bashed back down even as
I try to unhide, I will be broken for all time –
This is no melodrama; as mortally injured
Know they are going to die, or as I knew,
Falling naked through late London
Afternoon sky, this very precipice
On which I sit is the outer edge of what
I can permit, and, in the immortal words
Of that bulging forearm’d Popeye, that’s
All I can stands, and I can’t stands
No more!
So that’s where I am,
For now, hopefully not forever,
For it leaves me balanced like a car
At cliff’s edge, waiting to tip and tumble
Into the rocky ravine, ending in an explosive
Scene, at the slightest touch of the lightest
Feather, and whether this is all overplay,
Or real, does not matter, for it’s how I feel,
And if I do not protect that emerging child
Inside, he will only dive back down and
Hide, biding his time until the end of mine,
And I cannot allow that, so whether minor
Punitive petty repetitive snipe at work,
Or my own family making me out to be
A jerk, playing the same old punishment
On my own internal tuning fork, humming
Uncomfortably in my chest, asking me to
Dance, once more, to age old guilt-ridden
Jig, I can only say, ‘no more,’ and,
If pushed so far down to that dark, frozen,
Cracking ice floor, scream back “fuck off,”
Because my very core is under attack,
Even if they can’t see that, they should
Know better – I’ve tried to say it nicely
Enough times so far, to no avail, leaving me
With only a primal scream of pain, for them
To get off me, take their forever weight
Away, because I have neither the room,
Nor the energy, to continue the lifelong
Games that we all play, for I am too raw,
Forever and a day, and now’s not the
Fucking time to push me down, or mess
Me around, cause I’m fighting for my
Very life with every breath, and you’re
Blind flailing ignorance of my state
Is more than I can take on my already
Overflowing plate, so if you will either
Treat me with love, compassion, and an
Open heart, or, at the very least, try not
To treat me as evil, as if I fit the part,
That’d be very nice, thank you, and if
That is something you have neither the
Inclination nor situational awareness to do,
Then happily go away and leave me alone,
Cause I’ve got enough to deal with on my
Own, sitting in my dark living room,
Tinnitus ringing in my ears, in tune with
The humming projector hanging in stasis,
Cheeks drying with tears, joints aching,
Stomach bloated, brain creaking, as I type
This on my phone, so, please, either see
And treat me as the person that I am, or
Leave me the fuck alone.
I don’t know if that’s what I am, but
I manage to get along as best that I
Can, muddling through each and
Every day, feeling lost, and alone,
With so much to do, feel, share, and
say.
But I’m quiet.
I know many would laugh
At that preposterous thought,
Because quiet,
Is something
They’re sure
That I’m not.
But that just goes to show,
What the clowns already know;
That – if you put enough garish paint,
On the side of the face where the pain ain’t,
Nobody notices
How you ache inside.
Tears pushing through sorrow,
Choking back the sun, with this
Empty ache echoing forever
Inside
Each
And every one.
I’m tired,
It goes without saying, too,
As I don’t want to be a burden,
I guess I’ll just carry on
Seeing
This through.
I may not always be alone,
But, yes, I am lonely,
For this space I rest my weary head
Is for me
And for me
Only.
That’s not so much a choice,
As a curse three times nailed,
The postman has come and gone,
My effort’s been mailed.
And I’ll keep on trying,
Keep pushing on through,
Because the alternative
Is not an option,
So trying
Is just what I’ll do.
I’ll try to find happiness,
Try to find one other,
Someone to spend time with,
A soulmate…
And there I freeze,
Because I – aside from the breeze,
Blowing softly across my knees,
As I listen to the traffic outside,
Going by, as normal as you please –
Am no longer one with this world,
If I ever was.
The tinnitus in my ears, and others’ eyes
Running for the hills as I try to read lips,
To discover goods from ills, is simply an
Aural manifestation of what I have known all along –
I am outside of it all; boat and swing
Missed, fog-man distracted by internal thought,
Left swinging in the emptiness, swimming inside,
Sitting lonely on his couch,
Having forgotten to have cried.
Is stubborn, forcing us
To see, the precipice
We nearly miss, just to
Remind you and me,
That we’re never really
In control, not of this life,
Or even our very own choices,
And the illusion of control,
Is no more meaningful than
Making success the goal, as
We spin on our heals, faces
Glued to our various devices.
This is no
Mid-life crisis,
No crisis at all.
Instead, I feel
Empty
And calm,
No longer rolled tight
In a ball
Of stress, and strife,
Fighting for breath,
Yearning for more
Life.
And now
Is the stasis,
No more status quo
Of chasing, and running
With nowhere to go
But round, once more
Mad rush to the floor.
Still,
All is still
And quiet, inside
The voices of urgency
Crying loud, like seagull-screech
Deep in chest, they have left
Empty nest, neither squawking birds,
Nor baby chicks crying for food,
No up and down roller coaster,
Just slight shift in mood.
I go up, and down,
And back again,
Always the same,
Dearest of friends,
Round to call,
Yet not the same,
For underneath it all
Is something calm, leaves coating the ground
Multi-coloured nature’s blanket, unraked,
Unneeded, unnoticed, unheeded, but all of that’s
Just noise, background hum,
Sliced through by the tinnitus,
Sound of silence, constant
And when all’s said and done,
Cliche after cliche marching two-by-two,
This one is truer than that one,
My eyes are clearer than yours,
Money pouring from pockets opens doors
That don’t really matter.
Will I ever hear the little pitter-patter
Of un-padded feet?
Is that the aim of life,
Or something else entirely,
Something achingly deep,
Soulfully wide,
Scarringly bright,
That we carefully hide,
As if
To share
That one deep dark truth within,
Would be the greatest of fears realised,
Life’s ultimate sin,
Against ourselves,
Throbbing ache deep in gut,
Or just above,
As if the hole of lonely acceptance
No longer misses the love,
But instead resides – monkey-like –
In chest,
Never to be warmed by soft-armed vest,
The hug of a loved one
Momentary relief
Loves empty crater
Memory of happiness
Slightest of balms
For later, but now all we have
Is the roundabout thought,
The feeling of loss
That itself means nought,
Great empty divide
Basin invisible in the dark,
The playground from hell,
Broken reality,
Healing heart.
