Posts Tagged ‘Facebook’

For our graft to bear fruit,
We throw ourselves wholly into our art,
We seek no reward,
That’s not the point,
We don’t want medals,
But perhaps a verbal salve to the heart,

We all want that pat on the back,
A show of hands from family and colleagues,
Acclaim and recognition,
Perhaps even grand fame,
To be acknowledged,
It’s only human nature,

But I say all of that be secondary,
The best accolades come from within,
The warmth of ones own creative furnace,
The feeling of a job well done,
It’s true that we are our own most vicious critic,
But we ought to be our most fervent devotee.

That tenuous line between cognizance and sleep,
It’s a dangerous time for me,
When the sun no longer has my back,
And no valiant comrade can aid me,
The ghouls in my head stir,
Buried there by my own hand,

Silence is the loudest sound,
When the skeletons start to rise,
Dead hopes,
Spectral memories,
Wailing for my attention,
My skull becomes an echo chamber of a cemetery,

It becomes a deafening clarion call,
A deathknell for my peace,
A choir of revenants begin their concert,
Every historical ill laid bare at bellowing audacity,
Clawing at this mausoleum of my head,
Prelude to the nightmares to come.

Gravity feels reversed,
Like an invisible magnetism to the blue,
I may be a helium balloon,
The sky is pulling on my feet,
I grip on to this wasteland by fingernails,
Barely snagging on to this loathsome wild west,

A sudden gasp,
And I’m off,
Falling away from reality,

Off in to the stratosphere I go,
Past an ovation of psychedelic clouds,
My ears pop at the sound of their symphony,
The sky becomess a spirited aurora borealis,
My senses stewed by the prismatic heavens,
Warping around me as I fall upward,

I watch real life fade on the horizon,
I don’t want my feet to fall on reality again,
I prefer this intoxicating madness.

Isn’t life just the worst?
I’ve noticed an abominable pattern,
The brain weaves tales of hyperbole,
Exaggerations you take at face value,
Negative truths in inverted commas,
Detractors to your mood,

That inner voice speaks thus,
You look like a troll without a bridge,
Your intelligence quotient is microscopic,
Not a single soul wants to abide you,
This depressive ache weighs a ton,
You’re the only human to experience this,

These embellishments sound like realities in your glum mood,
It would be easy to let them reduce you to a husk,
But only one truth should be central,
One to be taken to heart,
You’re the best you the world has ever seen,
That is no hyperbole,

Remember that.

Amongst these brick and mortar cattle runs,
Ofttimes there are cries,
At increasing intervals,
Blood and missing teeth have become currency,
Knives no longer endangered beasts,
As violence takes the asphalt stage,

Under grey weeping skies,
There are hooded souls cooped up too long,
Compelled towards a kind of gang lunacy,
Closed fists encouraged by closed doors,
Frustration morphed into crime,
Assault piled atop assault,

It wasn’t always this way,
These sidewalks were once humble and pristine,
A virus has begotten further illness,
Sickness of the mind,
And the asphalt bears the evidence,
Red and running outward.

On one fateful day,
On the straits of Denmark,
An iron knight was laid low,
Clad in atlantic fleet grey,
The Mighty Hood,
Pride of a kingdom,
Reduced to scuttled wreck,
Pierced by HE crows from enemy ordnance,
Sent afly by a chancellors namesake,
Explosions cry out,
And the valour of the Royal Navy is frayed,
Rended and sent below the waves,
To be a monument to a fallen chivalrous age,
Now in cold waters does she finally rest,

Ventis Secundis

Life is a story,
A play,
Directed and starred in by you,
It’s a monumental undertaking,
For which tickets are not sold but found,

So how your saga plays out,
To which heroes you draw upon,
The friends and allies you choose,
The pikes and standards that shall comprise your battle line,
It’s purely up to you,

Which villains you face,
Everests scaled and agonies weathered,
The trials you come to contend with,
The high octane action scenes you orchestrate,
It’s down to your personal plot,

All tales end,
That is the directive of chronology after all,
But rare is the yarn that is remembered,
So make it memorable,
Make it a saga for the ages.

To be normal is such a sad affair,
To attire oneself in grey boilers,
To toe the social line,
To be a drone,
Humdrum,

Uniqueness is a defect they claim,
We are expected to be numbers,
Cogs in a cold machine,
You must be this way,
Or else you are a mistake,

Normality is a guillotine,
A sharpened edge galvanised by off glances,
To live and die amongst a critical crowd,
Without your soul unleashing its colour and zeal,
Without your personal art being displayed to the world,

So I say dance without music,
Paint with your hands,
Think how you want to think,
Don’t lose that element of individuality,
Your mad grin.

There’s something under my bad,
A shadowy ghoul,
I hear it,
As I bang my head against the wall of sleep,
My duvet a cushy restraint,
Complicit in this uneasy atmosphere,
The thing slinks from one end of the bed to the other,
With the mad grace of a fish out of water,

I’ve never seen it,
But it smells of dust and sulphur,
I hear it every night,
It clicks unknowable limbs in revolting movements,
Scuffling about and giggling to itself,
Speaking in ornery tongues,
Alien fangs gnawing on fingernails,
Rustling against the bedframe with oily hair or scales,

I do wonder if it ever peeks out,
I dare not look,
But when I close my eyes finally,
I feel palpable vision upon me.

What is a soul but a piece of artwork?
A brand new canvas on storks feather,
A blank slate brought into the world,
Still mewling for mothers milk,
Aching for a brushstroke of identity,
Of purpose,

Your sires gave you a pencil outline,
A blueprint to be sculpted by your hand,
A grey spook calling for some colour,
Though colour will not come freely,
Indeed the world has a temperamental palette,
It is a chaotic studio,

The soul shall become a kaleidoscope of glee and dolor both,
Pigments from every page of your story,
Some colours are bestowed by embraces and kisses,
Some strokes will be with razorblades and glass,
Chroma from every pleasure and ache,
Art is pain as they say,

These brushstrokes shall form a human soul,
Storied yet chafed,
A picturesque identity with tales to tell,
But by the end the soul is a tapestry,
Aged and cracked in its veneer,
A masterpiece to be planted in the cold earth.