A city is not its landmarks,
They are merely brick and mortar mascara,
Traps for tourists,
A city is its soul,
The veins of the urban centres,
The cobblestone lifeblood of a city,
The alleyways and sights less seen,
The sights and spices and blood,
The sweat and tears and backstreets,
In these asphalt warrens,
You’ll see the real life of the city,
The real people,
The blood cells through these capillaries.
On this stage,
This pantomime of a world,
In all its misplace levity,
The limelight never deigned to look at me,
I had no monologues and action scenes,
No share of the fame,
No fans of my own,
And no ovation to speak of,
I remain a supporting actor,
An extra,
Still chained to the backstage,
My voice silenced with a “cut!”,
This is not the gripe it appears,
I’m content in the limelight,
Perhaps that’s my place,
My mark on the stage floor,
But I wonder at least,
Could my message be mentioned in passing?
A footnote in the plays review,
Or am I just to elevate another?
To be behind the curtain,
To keep in mind,
There will always be a bigger star,
A louder tongue.
She is as a cobweb to me,
A heart-shaped trap above my bed,
A dreamcatcher of sorts,
Voyeur to my crestfallen eyes,
She is a lethal spider,
A black widow with no time for dross,
A powerful and bewitching thing,
A beautiful razors edge,
Which scores against my marrow,
Ensnaring me,
And so,
I find myself in the webs clutches,
She approaches me piecemeal,
Embracing me in her silk,
I am her fly,
And I am willing prey.
I keep walking,
Day by year by century,
Battered and bloodied,
Like a dreadnought shelled from shore,
Calloused toes escaping my socks,
Torn and slate-hued as they are,
My feet only shielded by cotton remnants,
My shoes wore away eons ago,
Burned away upon the Earths face,
As I keep walking,
Now the elements chew at my soles,
Bitten by pebbles and life both,
Pools of acid and discarded razors,
Ore fashioned of every cruel word,
Ripping my socks further,
This has been going on for so long,
I know I could get new socks,
Temporarily soothing the hurts,
It’s a novel concept,
Alas I must keep walking.
Society is a house of cards,
Made up of jokers,
Teetering,
Collapsing under its own unease,
The decadence and cruelty,
They didn’t listen,
A house can’t be built on inequality,
And fools make poor craftsmen,
When winter descends,
Some will be torched,
To heat the hearths of the rest,
And as we all fall down,
You can be sure,
The top cards will elope upon the wind,
The rest will be mulch,
A pile on the floor.
Oh my the cracks,
The veins on a damaged soul,
The carnage within me,
Like tarmac ripping asunder,
Wounds in the earth,
Rent apart by every abusive tongue,
In a frenzy I try to fix them,
I fill them with plaster,
Placating words and self-assurance,
Yet still they seep through,
With all their dust,
And their bile,
They grow each day,
Cracks becoming chasms,
Exposing bone and glass shards,
Dark days growing into cyclones,
Sundering me ever further,
Until someday I fall apart altogether.
Do you find on occasion,
That things launch you back in time?
Like the rewind on a VCR,
A careless word,
An overbearing atmosphere,
A face,
Even a string of notes,
Does it send you backwards too?
Back to a time you’d thought lost,
A time you’d hoped was lost,
Something you believed you’d transcended,
When it was bad,
A black mark,
A chronological curse,
Left by a Davy Jones of the past,
Summoning up weeping and sweats.
No matter where in life I find myself,
The precipice is always there,
That edge in my periphery,
An unwanted emergency exit,
A demon in the wings,
A whispering envoy of the end,
The precipice stalks me,
It does,
If I were to continue the struggle,
Carry on my life as it could be,
Even upon the awards stage,
Accepting an accolade of merit,
The edge of the stage is merely a reminder,
Like each curb or step forward,
A way out I don’t want,
But a way out that follows me,
A cliff edge never letting up,
A siren song never letting up.
I’m often welcome at the table,
And though I’m grateful,
It feels like charity at times,
I’m a puzzle piece from a different set,
I’m but an observer,
In a seat off to the side,
I try to fit in,
Earn the seat,
But my jokes miss the mark,
My anecdotes breed awkward pauses,
My laughter is often ill-timed,
Would they notice my absence?
I have devils I keep muzzled,
Slavering cerberi and taunting minotaurs,
They whisper seductively,
And unerringly,
Babbling of insecurities my pals surely see,
And long walks off short piers,
You see,
I cherish every damned second,
But when the demons finally win,
And they may well do,
Will you notice my silence?
My empty chair?
We are the filth,
The dross,
What’s left in the tray,
When all potential has dripped away,
Reposed in our own grime,
We are the trash,
The rubbish,
Broken tin cans and old plasters,
The fetid stink behind the fridge,
Playmates of carrion and maggots,
Despite the sewage we are,
We are yet alive,
We could hold our noses,
Perhaps all hope is not lost,
Even garbage can become a sculpture,
Recycled,
Given purpose.
WorldofHarley 