Dissociated Rage

I wake,
Writhing against invisible bonds.
Whispered screams
Echo down the empty caverns of my mind.
The more I understand,
The more I wish for ignorance.
Pain and pleasure hurt the same,
Numbed inebriation my only relief.
Dissociated rage gives way to disjointed understandings.
Terrifying realisation gives way to impotent connections.
It hurts.
Everything hurts.

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

death

death
is not true
but it seems like
it is

do not mourn
my passing
life isn’t complete
until it ends

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

Creating A Monster

Take away a man’s hope
and lace him up with dope.

Abuse him as a child
and expose him to the wild.

Show him that God does not exist
and remove all reasons to persist.

Put him under significant pressure
and reveal the joys of cardinal pleasure.

Add to that some mental illness
as fractured minds increase in willingness.

Explain that societal rules are collective fiction
that everyone follows with utmost conviction.

Tell him to observe and play the game
to patiently wait until it’s time to take aim.

Indoctrinate him into an extreme ideology
Explain all injustice through the lens of this philosophy.

Teach him that bad people only get punished in stories
and that in reality they die old, basking in glories.

Finally, give him the ability to read and learn.
Now there’s nothing left to do, but watch the world burn.

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

Click

Hold still. No you need to smile more.
Click.

How can a picture be perfect,
If people are perfectly posed?

How can it be a representation of reality,
When you stopped reality to create it?

How does crafting an ideal,
Justify the destruction of the moment?

And when you look back over the album
Do you think it will all be worth it?

Not like that, move over. Pause.
Click.

It didn’t just happen,
Every aspect of it contrived.

A list of people to invite,
A list of rituals to perform,
A list of words to say,
A list of food to eat,
A list of tears to shed,
A list of clothes to don,
A list of those to thank,
A list of songs to dance,
A list of jokes to play.

A list of pictures to pose,
To prove that the boxes were ticked.

A list of pictures to post,
To show that it was all done.

A list of pictures to paste,
To evoke the right emotion.

Shuffle over. Too much. Back a bit.
Click.

You got the perfect picture,
I hope it warms your heart.

You got the perfect picture,
I hope it is enough.

You got the perfect picture,
I hope you’ll get another.

You got the perfect picture,
and that’s all you’ve got.

Let’s do that again. Smile more this time.
Click.

The one you’ll show your friends,
To gloat about that perfect night.

The one you’ll show your family,
As a way to win the fight.

The one you show your kids,
To warm their darkest night.

The one you’ll show yourself,
When you want to remember it right.

Click.

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

Caged Animal

Isolation.
Pacing.
Caged.

No hunt.
No kill.
No thrill.

Domesticated.
Trained.
Punished.

I want to run.
I want to fight.
I want to fuck.

Your protection wasn’t asked for.
Your protection isn’t needed.
Your protection is a slow death.

I am safe.
Trapped behind bars.
Never missing a meal.

Stuck in a comfortable rut.
Stuck in your routine.
Stuck and on display.

Nature sanitised.
Whitewashed reality.
A parody.

Just one slip.
Just one mistake.
And you’re mine.

Devoured.
Devoured screaming.
Devoured alive.

Your fault.
You caged me.
You attempted to tame me.

You put me here.
You put me on display.
You dropped your guard.

Lulled.
Hypnotised.
Dazed.

Cornered.
Primal.
Rage.

This is evolution.
This is inevitability.
This is life.

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

but a feather

i am but a feather
drifting between worlds
forced to float
on the whims of the wind

perhaps
one day
i’ll be allowed
to rest

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

Bound To The Wings Of A Butterfly

If I was to die, would you cry?
Would you look up at the sky and scream why?
Would you lament being shy for not asking after I?

Please do not deny.

Just know that I am forgetting my why.
You don’t need to be a spy to see that I don’t have the energy to try.
Truth is, I’ve barely enough to sigh.
No longer spry, no longer able to apply, no longer able to fly.
How can I amplify? How can I stay wry? How can I make that pie?
I’m just a lonely guy, trying to imply the need for you to reply.

Perhaps I need to demystify before I say goodbye.
Perhaps I need to clarify before I horrify.
Perhaps I need to verify before I falsify with this note left to justify the lullaby.

Don’t worry. These words are a lie, just a sly attempt to identify.
Just an attempt to pre-emptively reclassify when you turn a blind eye.
Just an attempt to declassify and diversify the constant misapply.
Just an attempt to edify you on the thoughts that multiply, the need to certify, the ennui.

I see how others get by. They gratify and deify; they codify and fortify. Believing that the Mystify will specify how they should diversify.

But not me.

I can’t believe that rallying cry.
Life has no retry.
Just a constant attempt to scrape by under a dark sky.
Just a vain attempt to signify.
Just cause and effect bound to the wings of a butterfly. 

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

Birdsong

waking up
to bitter coffee
and a birdsong

breath visible
in the crisp morning air
attention turns inward
finding nothing

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

Behind A Smile Lies Darkness

Looks can be deceiving,
Behind a smile lies darkness,
An illness invisible.

Laughing through sorrow,
Acting through pain,
Lying to survive.

Learning to pretend,
Saying the right words,
Diverting attention.

I’m fine.
I’m just tired.
It’s nothing.
Don’t worry.
I’ve got this.
It’ll pass.

Self imposed exile,
Hiding from the world,
Hiding from myself.

Time to think,
Time to regret.
Time to practice my smile.

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

Wrist Locks From Guard

I used to have friends,
Then I broke their wrists.
Playing this game from bottom,
Of pain I did insist.

First I hunted their legs,
Then focused on their hands,
After me they can no longer push,
No longer grab, or walk or stand.

Some say it’s dirty,
But I tend to disagree,
Grab whatever sub you can,
Like it’s on sale, bargain bin free!

Yes people will not enjoy it,
They may yell, cry and complain,
Saying you are being cheap,
Taking the name of Jiu Jitsu in vain.

But they just got subbed,
A victory I just earned,
So hide your hands baby
It’s a lesson you just learned.

So come to the dark side,
The techniques aren’t that dodgy,
Just ask yourself,
Why are you ignoring 4% of the body?

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