Posts Tagged ‘Sorrow’

When you imagine an artist,
You do not see me,
You see a noble practitioner of the word,
Your Tolkiens and Pratchetts,
Not me,
Not this freak with a pen,

I’m no artist,
I’m a monster of art,
My process is more of a hunt,
Deranged savagery in each stroke,
Less the orchestration of an artistic vision,
And more the dismemberment of prose,

The words I scribble are the meat,
The meanings behind them are a bitter aftertaste,
A happy accident,
Rending phrase from stanza,
Mutilating rather than composing,
Poetry coming from a state of psychosis,

I’ve read the greats,
My fangs were cut on their work,
This creature is a deviation from their ways,
I write because I must,
Perhaps one day,
I’ll write this monster a happy ending.

There is a weight upon my spine,
I don’t recognise it,
A small body holding twin instruments,
It feels primate in nature,
A simian struggle exists on my shoulders,
A quaint fez and maroon waistcoat,

The beats of its being ring true,
I recognise every clang,
They scream in my ears,
Every hateful fact I have embodied,
Each fault resounded in shrill tones,
Every tone of my inadequacy,

Nobody deserves this fate,
Not even this ghoul,
Profound cymbals against my temples,
Trowels glancing off block,
So in rage I hope you’ll endorse me,
F@#!?!K that monkey!

Is there herd immunity to loneliness?
I find myself something of a black sheep,
Not in familial terms,
But societal ones,
I find myself overmuch grazing alone,

These ebony rags of wool grow tiresome,
I hate how they suit me,
Like this I despise my form,
The mealy stench of my visage and attitude,
The feeble and disgusting sound of my bleat,

I have played the misanthropic loner for long enough,
I’d much rather be part of that herd,
Their grass looks far greener,
I don’t want to be me,
Can I instead be one of them?

Do you still hear her voice?
A solemn call in the brume,
As the nights grow more beastly,
As the winds grow ever in tempo,
And winters spectre peers from behind trees,

Do you feel her caress?
By the fireside,
Under that sedate harvest eve,
As the atmosphere swims in sandalwood,
And the breeze tears up that amber carpet,

Autumn comes every year,
And it is a season of entropy,
So tell me,
Do you still hear her voice,
Upon autumns mournful boughs?

They tell me that I’m alright,
And I may well be,
But a cruel occasion has reared its head,
Joy seems to be held behind a veil,
I simply don’t feel it,
I’m not sad either,
Just hollow,

Pleasure is a memory,
One that feels like an echo,
One that I’m unsure really happened,
I do smile ear to ear,
But it’s just sketched on,
I have a painted smile,
From the palette of social expectation,

Sensations turned down like a volume control,
Hobbies become trials,
Food and drink taste like static,
Humans become boogeymen,
It’s a curious phenomenon,
Perhaps of a mind cracking,
Or a man broken by the world.

When the worlds teeth clamp too deep,
I retreat to my safe haven,
This fabric hovel,
Threads and strands as seedy as my form,
A veil against human elements,
It keeps me safe and secure,
A suit of tattered armour,
Acquired at the thrift store,

Clad in plum tabard,
I’m clear of any prying eyes,
Overzealous words,
And clasping hands,
It’s a simple thing,
To feel impervious,
But no force in this world can grant it,
Save for this haven of a textile.

I can’t keep that beeping out of my head,
That incessant crying,
The trilling of the heartbeat monitor,
Forced on when my heart was trod on,
Decibels striking my thoughts with scourges,
A result of things gone wrong,

That flatline,
Blades across eardrums,
But the bleeding has ceased,
Flesh is replaced with stone,
A warm soul is now calcified,
Heartache has given rise to blizzards,

I shed my person suit,
This is the demise of that former quintessence,
This war has made me cold,
Now it’s every man for himself,
Now let me embrace some chaos,
Now I embrace that beep.

I’m a rotten clown,
All maggots and red noses,
I’m no good at making them laugh,
At least not in sincerity,

I’m a pitiable jester,
All rags and body odour,
Dressed up and ready to dance,
But the stands remain empty,

They tell me I need fibre in my diet,
It’s good for the gut they say,
But why care about their wellbeing,
When I’m led to hate my own guts?

Self hate is an artform,
And I’m something of a critic.

No my friend,
That is not what rock bottom is,
My soul dissents,
Rock bottom is not crying and screaming,
Not tearing down the walls,

Rock bottom is laying prone at night,
Thinking instead of sleeping,
A prison cell only we can see,

Rock bottom is staring stony-faced at work,
Into the face of a furious Karen,
And not hearing a single squawk,

Rock bottom is sitting in your underwear at 2am,
Stuffing your face full of treacle tart,
And not enjoying any of it,

Rock bottom is not aesthetically pleasing,
Not a work of art,
It is not convenient,
It is suffering,
It is purgatory.

Let me off,
My life has become this wheel,
I grow tired of this rotating farce,
Each and every rung is the same,
Cheap plastic and flimsy build,
Run round,
Run round,

The scenery never changes,
The same streets and bus routes,
The same grey skies and pained mornings,
Let me off this hamster wheel,
My rodent heart could burst,
Taken by the horror of the whole thing,
Chance would be a fine thing.