Posts Tagged ‘Emotive’

I see you,
I see what you’re doing darling,
What you’re intending,
The voracious hunger behind your pupils,
But not for me,
Nay,
But for what I can provide,

You let the mask slip a pinch,
Your words were unsalted butter,
Melting into my hungry ears,
Sustaining yet unhealthy,
Offering that which you had no intention of giving,
An out-splayed hand snapped away,
Toying with me like a yoyo,

You’d ask me for this,
You’d request that,
You’d see me a husk,
Spent and emaciated,
And yet order a stone from atop Olympus,
A pearl from the Mariana trench,
It’d never be enough,

You used me,
But no more,
I see you now.

We sit here together,
Face to face,
In our proudest visages,
Within this living room senate,
With representatives from previous events,
Our relations incredibly warm up until now,

This alliance of lovers has been jeopardized,
By an international incident of a tryst,
A war in the making,
Raised voices being the declarations of war,
Flying plates and glasses being the weapons,
There is no diplomatic immunity here,

Outside espionage is present of course,
Voices from foreign officials discolour negotiations,
Misled assumptions and false intelligence,
Each point of view comes to the stand,
To be voted down by our alliances knowledge,
No outside bribery of hugs and drinks shall suffice,

Our nations of heart belong together,
Our very own democracy must survive,
The final vote comes to love and trust,
We fought for this with our initial rebellion,
These negotiations shall continue at length,
Until we fall into one anothers arms again.

We speak in different fonts,
Even without our knowledge,
You and I,
Him and her,
They highlight myriad elements of our words,
And translate the meanings behind them,
We speak documents to one another,

Typeface to face,
Times new roman to stores and syndicates,
Calibri in your social circles,
Wingdings after a few sherbets,
Your interests pointedly underlined,
Capitals for ones agitation,
Honeyed words handily italicized,

The human mind is a word processor,
And can handle any font,
So be certain to utilize it wisely,
Train your tongue to push the correct keys,
As you type out your speech,
Lest you never speak,
And never be understood.

Each morning brings an uneasiness,
A longing fear of peering into that mirror,
And seeing that misshapen carcass,
Like a portal to a world of monsters,
A bogeyman on CCTV,

I see myself,
But is that miscreation truly me?
This is no abstract,
But a very real abomination,
A brown haired accident,

Each glimpse at the mirror,
Is fingernails on chalk,
The portal remains open,
Blue eyes like the abyss scowl back,
A hide blemished and spotty,

That foul visage still watches from the glass,
The other me,
The me I wish I wasn’t,
And I avert my eyes,
Dreading the next time I see that mirror,

The reflection smirks.

So our council of folly,
The hollow authority of our isle,
Open their mouths wide again for our daily rice,
Drenched in the sweat of labourers and nurses,
Taken as if it is their sacred right,
Our gratitude for their incompetence,

This old island is sick,
A blue scourge holds dominion,
Riddled with deaf worm-like things in suits,
With brown envelopes enveloped into their forms,
Finances put to foolish and wanton projects,
Folks held to ransom by foul ferrymen,

We weep at the tax office and county hall,
But those councilmen run out the back door cackling,
If the white cliffs begin to crumble,
And the foundations of our island splinter,
Will they still accept our sweat as thanks?

Daily life is a cruel overlord,
And the world is a sycophantic thrall to it,
Pointed heels and crimson banners,
On a petty crusade against mans stability,
A grinder on our heads,

There is no absolute escape,
But we can always take the rear exit,
Take our hands off the wheel for a jot,
Clinch on to lunacy and escapist methods,
Rotes of digital and chemical evasion,

Play air guitars and perform in personal talent shows,
Vanish into virtual reality made by men in basements,
Sleep the suns and moons away,
Sedate your mind with bottles and needles and nicotine,
Excess by design of course,

Who needs real life?
Let that grinder have your wreck of a body,
While your mind escapes into detachment,
Fit on your spacesuit and take your umbrella,
And off into that make-believe universe of quiet.

Life is a long dusty road,
We all know it in our being,
It is a foregone conclusion,
Built to test and vex,
Winding and windswept,
But it’s a road of jagged nails,
Bent and mismatched by travelers before you,
Karmic spiderwebs and societal roadblocks,

We walk it in agony,
Our boots split and feet skewered,
Each step forcing out more moans of pain,
Yet we march on,
With a pace set by our heartbeats,
Ashen-faced yet galvanized,
This serrated path cannot stop us though,
Nothing can stop us,

The end of this road is a cruel joke to some,
Our reward for our torment,
I fear there is naught but a red sun,
And a doting incinerator at the end,
Yet we march on,
Life trundles on,
Nails cannot break our spirits.

Folks always extol the worth of certain souls,
Sportsmen and craftsmen and merchants,
Politicians and drivers and hairdressers,
They glorify the benefits these have upon their lives,
Overt blessings upon their lives,
But do think they think of the artists?
A true unifying force of human nature,

Less important?

Less palpable in their perks perhaps?
Sculpture to break up the monotony of construction,
Literature to open the mind,
Music to bring an emotive bounce to your being,
Paintings to lay bare invisible elements of the human condition,
Theatre to bring to life stories of eons,
Dancing to exhibit human beauty in mobile styles,

Less important?

Imagine your day without television or busker melodies,
Your living space without beautifying icons,
Without the great paintings of historical genius,
These may not keep your body alive,
But they breath life into your soul,
We need the arts to be human,
And not mere machines.

There will come a dark day,
As the candles grow delicate,
And your body finally feels lifes gravity,
When you must solemnly discuss,
With your kin and comrades,
About which kind of death you wish,
Ordained is the schedule,
But not so the modus operandi,

Do you run and yell impotently?
And be torn from the mortal coil by scythes force?
Do you have your time stolen by plague or happenstance?
And need to be carried beyond the styx by lifeless hands?
Or do you meet him calmly at your windowpane,
Take his cold hand and expire to the night?
These things must be prepared for,
Death is always approaching,

But will it be as a nightmare or old friend?
An ordeal or a release?

I do wonder to myself,
Is being nice such a strain?
All humans struggle with it,
Even this wretched clown,
Humanity is programmed to choose himself,
Niceness and generosity are akin to naivete,

But why not be a strangers sun?
Even during a stormy day,
Be a reason for someone to smile,
Give your loose change to a vagrant,
Hold the door for anybody,
Donate that stray dog a blanket,

Being nice is not a sign of weakness,
It is the strength to overlook mankind’s faults,
It could be a tiny gesture of in-consequence,
But maybe the only light someone will see,
Be the sun,
Be kind.