Making The Words Go Goodly

Some days it’s hard to make the words go goodly.

Other days,
The words just flow,
I find ways,
To make them go.

Go goodly,
As they should be,
A verb key,
To eternity.

Deep lines,
Writing to be heard,
Poetry shines,
With perfect words.

Self expression,
Of a self broke
Digging deep,
Truth spoken.

---

This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

Other Than Here

The inner storm meets outer calm.
A silent fury.
Impotent rage not expressed.

Other than here,
Other than now.

The inner fog meets outer clarity.
A quiet constriction.
Clear thought not expressed.

Other than here,
Other than now.

The inner grime meets outer cleanliness.
A mute warning.
Functionality not expressed.

Other than here,
Other than now.

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This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

The ABC's of Mental Illness

*Trigger Warning

A - Anxiety

Anxious animals apt at accentuating angst, apprehension, and annoyance.

B - BPD

Borderline bodies berating buddies based on biased beliefs.

C - Crisis Plan

Critical contracts created to consistently control crisis conundrums.

D - Depression

Dark days diabolically dictated by dubious and delusional diatribes.

E - Eating Disorder

Every edible entry erroneously examined, entirely eroding elation.

F - Fatigue

Floundering, flopping and feeling fried, with fleeting fierceness forcing forward fixes.

G - Gambling

Gluttonous gaming gods grabbing guy’s gold, gutting glorious goals.

H - Hoarding

Heedless of his hoard he haplessly hastens his having of a hundred more holdings in his home.

I - Insomnia

Intermittent issues impeding interests, intelligence and insights.

J - Jaded

Justifying judgements that don’t jive as just joking and joining in with the jerky jesting.

K - Kleptomania

Knaves kidnapping kingdoms knowing karmas coming to KO their kink.

L - Lame

Lonely, laden, and lambasted, lost in a labyrinth of languish and laughter.

M - Meds

Medication makes melancholy minds mostly manageable.

N - Narcissism

Neglectful narratives with narrow niceties never noticing normal-natured neighbours.

O - OCD

Obvious overthinking obliterating one’s options, ostensively obscuring optimism.

P - Psychosis

Plain pills placating problematic perceptions, producing pleasant personalities.

Q - Quandary

The quintessential quandary; to be quiet, quirky, queasy or a quitter.

R - Respite

Rest and relaxation resulting in radiant reductions in relationship rundowns.

S - Self Harm

Silently suffering, she slices skin and swallows serious serums.

T - Trauma

Terrifying thunder taking a terrible toll, until time totals thought.

U - Untreated

Unfortunately ultimate unhappiness is upon us, unless we use unconventional unguents.

V - Visibility

Vigorously vocalising our varied invisible viruses invalidates vulgar vitriol.

W - Wellness

Wise worriers work for wellness with whatever willpower we wield.

X - X-rays

Xrays, examinations, explanations and excuses, just expectations for the unexplainable.

Y - Yo-yoing

Yelling a yarn of yearning, for the yeses and yeahs of yesteryear.

Z - Zombie

Zonked zombies on zinc and Zen, totally zapped before the zenith zooms.

---

This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

Another Bad Day?

Another bad day?
Good,
Your art will thank you.

Bad days are just writing fodder.
Fuel for the fire.

More content.
Increasing tension.
Emotional depth.
Nuanced complexity.

Suffer now,
Write later.

Suffer now,
Draw later.

Suffer now,
Create later.

Past pain providing prospective pieces of professional products.
Proof that there is always a silver lining.

---

This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

Memory Violation

Brain oscillation,
No concentration,
Thought invasion,
Constant rumination,
Memory violation,
Past commiseration,
Unwanted stimulation,
Apologetic compensation,
Fleeting determination,
Hypocritical deliberation,
Personality creation,
False presentation,
Total ostentation,
Needing defibrillation.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Swallow The Poison

Swallow the poison
Trade your day
Time for money
Life’s wasting away

Work to live
Not to thrive
It’s all you can do
Just to survive

Take a moment
Look around
This is your life
What have you found?

Your kids are old
Your friends are gone
Your dreams are unmet
But you can’t move on

You earn just enough
To cover the bills
You know what would happen
If you took ill

You’d lose your job
And then the house
Then the car
Then the spouse

So every day
No matter what
You swallow your poison
The only hope you’ve got

To earn enough
To survive the night
And do it all again
The daily fight

 Not quite the fairytale
You were promised in youth
But let’s be honest
No-one could accept the truth

It’s the daily grind
Called that for a reason
To hope for other wise
Is demonized as treason 

We are in this together
The workers plea
Collective repression
Then distracted depravity

Work for the weekend
Then pay to play
Porn, liquor, and drugs
Then some takeaway
 

It’s not in your budget
But you convince yourself it’s okay
Cause it’s all you can do
To survive another workday

Don’t think of the future
It’s far to long
30 years more of this
What could possibly go wrong?

But hey!
Doesn’t retirement actually seem good?
Finally you have the time needed
To do everything you wish you now could

So you delay gratification
Of most every form of joy
Problem is you’ll be too old by then
To enjoy it anyway

Still you delude yourself
It’s part of the poison
Swallowing your dreams
Then acting with caution

Besides those weekend benders
Leave you with little spare wealth
With little motivation
With diminishing health

You sometimes wonder
How you ended up here
Overwhelmed by resentment
You crack another beer

‘It is what it is’
‘Inflation is high’
‘It capitalisms fault’
To yourself you justify

There goes the weekend
It’s time for another dose
Off to work again
Hunting that promotion grandiose

A different brand of poison
A variation of the old promise
You’ll get paid far more
Cause you’re no longer a novice

In your new role
You think you will finally be free
Until it dawns on you
All that extra responsibility

Even less time
For those that you love
For the friends you don’t see
For all the hobbies you let go of

But what other choice
Could you realistically pursue?
If you changed path now
Only chaos would ensue

So you swallow the poison
You trade your day
Exchanging time for money
Letting your life waste away

---

This poem is from the book Wage Slave, The Unpaid Overtime Edition

The Newsman's Breath

The newsman’s breath,
Just a harbinger of death.
Constructing narratives with
False comparatives.
Corporate goals funding,
Logic holes.
Population dividing,
Conspiracy confiding.
Distorting truth,
Radicalising youth.
Their greed trumping
Our need.
Environmental destruction,
Mining construction.
Wage exploitation,
With no contemplation.
The same old story;
Power and glory.

Our only answer?
Revolutionary fervour.
Rioting on the streets,
BLM meets.
Public doxing,
Twitter mocking.
Grudge harbouring
Guillotine sharpening.
Wealth distribution,
Billionaire contribution.
A social awakening,
To a generational failing.

A new world order is needed,
Led by those less conceded.
Those who believe in humanity,
Who are blessed with a semblance of sanity.
People who plant the tree,
That they won’t live to see.
People who care about the children,
Regardless of their colour or origin
People who choose life over stuff,
Who actually can have enough.

Is this idealistic dreaming?
Or realistic future scheming?
What’s the alternative?
To agree with the affirmative.
To accept the status quo,
To look away saying ‘go’.
In my name invade and kill,
In my name do your will.
It can only end if we try,
If we are willing to fight and die.
To stand up and speak our minds,
To break society from its mental confines.

How?
Act now.
Write a letter,
March on a population centre.
Rally support,
Take the corrupt to court.
Speak out,
Get clout.
Subvert the narrative,
Join a collaborative.
Just do something,
Cause right now, you’re doing nothing.

---

This poem is from the book Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

Your Actions Are A Prayer

Your actions are a prayer,
To the Gods of functionality.
Your mind, your body, your spirit.
Honour them.
Wake early.
Sit in silence.
Then move,
Attend the iron church, or run, or dance.
The Gods smile upon those who act.

You are what you do.
So study your craft.
Work on your craft.
Share your craft.
Take criticism and praise in the same breath,
You are neither as good or as bad as they say.
Embrace the daily grind.
Work when nobody’s looking.
Work when nobody cares.
Work when you are doubting yourself.
Work, because to you, work is play.
Push through all resistance.
The lights are never all green.
There is always a reason to stop.
Don’t.

Your actions are a prayer.
You are what you do.
So act like the best version of you.
This is the true power of
Faking it until you make it.
Of embodying your true calling,
Of greatness.

This change will take time.
There is a lag between action and reward.
And when it does come,
It won’t be announced with fanfare.
Growth will be incremental.
Small gains,
Tiny improvements,
Minute advancements.
This is as it should be.

So act.
Act as a prayer to the Gods of functionality.
And have faith.
Faith in the process,
Faith in the future,
Faith in yourself.
And remember,
You are what you do.

---

This poem is from the book Reflections of the Self, The Poetry, Insights, and Wisdom Of Silence

Curation: A Poem On Self-Expression & Medium Success

My last six poems got curated,
Here is what I have learned:
That that kind of exposure
It must be earned.

So I write daily.
Read books like I’m crazy.
Pen and pad live in my pocket.
No excuse to be lazy.

Fighting inner resistance
Is a constant reality,
Realising that my lines here
Only show a fraction of my depravity.

Because good poetry,
It comes from truth,
And that truth,
Reveals a shattered youth.

So I share my inner world,
Twisting words onto the page,
Most of it’s garbage,
I only share what looks sage.

Throw enough darts,
And one will hit centre,
So I just write my mind down,
And then press enter.

Chances are that
You are better than I.
You just hold back,
Never risking a try.

I’ve learnt
To only look forward.
To let others judge me,
To not feel awkward.

To write what comes,
To write some more,
To keep writing always,
To keep open the door.

To the muse,
The source of my creativity,
Because really I’m just a vessel,
These words are not my proclivity.

I choose to be open,
Then the words just appear,
So I write them down,
And create something people hold dear.

Even these words you are reading right now.
I don’t know the next rhyme,
Paragraph, topic or theme,
But I know it will come in time.

So trust the process.
Believe in yourself.
Surrender to the muse
And acquire some poetry wealth.

I’m not merely talking about
The proceeds from curation.
I’m talking about spiritual gains
From focused concentration.

I’m talking about
Getting your mind online,
Exploring your inner world
And tapping into the divine.

Perhaps you are saying
That this is far too mystical,
So I instead will
Urge you to be statistical.

Look up, read and research
What the top poets are doing.
Imitate and extrapolate their work,
Find the secret with some sleuthing.

Or simply reread this piece,
And check out my other poems,
And you too will get curated,
By expressing some emotions.

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This poem is inspired by the book How To Write Evocative Poetry

Mantra

Be present,
For now is all that exists.
Grow, enjoy, and act morally.
Drop your ego, listen,
Empathise and forgive.
Trust your intuition and be compassionate.
Nothing more is within your control.
Let it go and just feel.
Accept yourself.

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This poem is from the book Reflections of the Self, The Poetry, Insights, and Wisdom Of Silence