God's Love

*** Trigger Warning ***

He told me I was special,
And gave me all the perks.
Held my hand through prayer,
And showed me how the system works.

He said it would be our little secret,
Kept between him, me, and God.
Told me that I was a good boy.
Summoned me with that little nod.

He taught me what was holy.
To trust in the divine word.
That my doubts were of the devil,
To not trust in the absurd.

He spoke of the afterlife,
Spewing words of eternal damnation.
The trials of earth trivial,
Compared to the day of revelation.

He showed me how a soft caress,
Can feel like the stab of a demon.
That he held all the power,
And that God’s love tastes like semen.

He demonstrated the church’s power,
By denying all my accusations.
How could a priest be sullied,
By a young boy’s fabrications?

He was eventually punished,
They moved him to a new town.
Gave him a new flock,
Other boy’s souls to drown.

He died as he lived,
Safe and admired,
Protected by his brethren,
A biblical patriarchy conspired.

He left me broken,
Mind, body, soul.
What he did destroyed my faith,
Leaving me not whole.

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

When You Look Inside

When you look inside,
Where does your attention go?
An internal energy,
A power,
A flow.

When you observe the breath,
What do you now see?
A play of consciousness,
A freedom,
Serenity.

When you move the body,
What do you feel?
A sense of integrity,
A space,
An ideal.

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

Stop Rushing

Stop rushing.
Take a break.
You are not lazy.
Trust that you will get it done.
You always do.

To perform optimally,
You need to rest.
You need to recover.
You need to heal.
You need to take a breath.

So do so.
Give yourself permission.
Pour the cup of tea.
Feel its warmth.
Taste its subtly.

The world will still be there.
Your work will be waiting for you.
Return to it with fresh eyes.
Embrace it with new energy.
Attack the day.

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

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The Fear of Imperfection

Atelophobia
The fear of imperfection.
The fear of not being good enough.

Crippling inaction.
Stuttered words.
No self-worth.

The fear of failure causing failure.
Not inability, talent or a lack of opportunity.

Just fear.
Just anxiety.
Just unattainable standards.

Standards put upon by myself.
Standards forced upon me by the world.

Others can fail.
Others can be imperfect.
Others can have fun.

Just stop.
Please don’t placate me.
I know ‘no one cares about that stuff’.
I know ‘we all make mistakes’.
I know ‘I’m only human’.

Reason doesn’t stop the thoughts.
By definition a phobia is illogical. 

My only solace comes from the diagnosis.
Knowing that I am not alone.
Perfectly imperfect, together.

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

healing

sadness and joy
in the face of healing
with you
my love

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

He Leans In

He leans into life,
Taking everything on,
No half measures,
Or faked excitements.

He doesn’t lie,
Not about his feelings,
Not about his intent,
He is what he does.

Whole in every moment,
A guiding light,
A beacon of the present,
He is right there with you.

Watching you work,
Listening to your voice,
Copying your actions,
Always accepting without judgement.

He asks but one question,
Not with his words,
But with his entire being,
Do you love me as I love you?

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

God Asked

God asked the man,
Why did you choose to die?
I saw no point in existence,
I couldn’t fathom a reason why.

I couldn’t stay focused,
I couldn’t hold down work.
I’d just wait for the day to end,
to sleep away the murk.

Every day was the same,
I’d already lived it through.
What was the point of repeating
when there wasn’t anything new?

What about the small changes,
the gems of love and life?
What about the lessons learnt
from surviving hardships and strife?

True, I did feel most alive
when things were at their worst.
But how is that reason to live,
just hoping to be cursed?

I could handle the drama
but not the monotony,
nor the vagueness of existence,
nor humanity’s cacophony.

I would sit alone,
I would sit in the dark,
I would sit and listen and
my mind would remark.

Highlighting my failures,
reminding me of lost dreams.
Showing me bad outcomes
and my own devilish schemes.

Where were you God,
when I needed you the most?
Why’d you only start talking
now that I am a ghost?

I was talking the whole time.
I was in the warmth of the sun,
I was in your kid’s smiles,
their laughter and fun.

I was the crash of the waves,
the vision of the moon,
the spring flower’s scent,
the young lover’s boon.

I was the quenching of thirst,
the purr of a kitten,
the pillow at night,
the book well written.

I could go on
but I think you now know,
I was with you always,
even when you were low.

Ah God, you don’t get it,
your words were too easy to miss.
What with all the noise,
with our collective descent into the abyss.

How could I just stop and look?
How could I listen to the bird’s song?
How could I take a breath,
When everything was going wrong?

It isn’t my place to save you,
nor can I fix your life.
I can only remind you,
that there is something beyond the strife.

That even in the midst of suffering
there are small joys to behold.
But you are right my child,
perhaps I should have been more bold.

No God, I was also wrong.
You know this was my last thought,
I could fix every problem but this one.
Oh how my family will be distraught.

God thought for a moment,
then asked the man,
If I sent you back to Earth
would you change your plan?

I will do my best,
but I make no guarantee.
I will attempt to listen,
I will attempt to see.

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

God Spoke

It’s easy to feel a little woke,
just after you’ve taken a toke.

To feel as if God spoke,
as if you’re the only one in on the joke,
as if you hold a beautiful truth, a fire to stoke.

Thus beseeched, you spread the message under religion’s cloak.

‘This is what you should do before you croak.’
‘This is how you should treat the downtrodden and the broke.’
‘And this is how a lady should treat her bloke.’

Some listen,
some provoke,
word spreads,
the masses convoke.

Pledging their swords,
falling under your yoke.

Pledging their houses,
their bills, and their bespoke.

Then, comes the final solution,
you begin your masterstroke.

You enlist the will of the people,
with His words you doth evoke.

You tell them your divine vision,
you tell them how you awoke,
you tell them of their enemies,
their neighbours who provoke.

Now they’re almost ready,
another push and they won’t revoke.

‘Gather the Kinsfolk
and force them to work.

In the fields and the factories,
in the forests cutting grand oak.

Make them build our weapons,
great waves of fire that will soak.

Then we’ll make our pilgrimage,
to leave nothing but smoke.

Do not hesitate to obey me.
do you think I misspoke?

Do not hesitate to obey me,
do you think my visions mere sunstroke?

Do not hesitate to obey me,
or you too will choke.’

Yes,
it is easy to feel as if God spoke.

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

enraged

the world is too noisy
it asks too much
it never stops moving
and it’s never got enough

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

Empires Fall

Empires fall, by the blood of friends.
Monarchs die, by the blood of friends.
Systems collapse, by the blood of friends.
Revolutions are pain.

A bullet in the back of the head for a select few, followed by starvation and desperation for millions more.

Oppression will inevitably return. The strong will rise. Self appointed kings by another name.

Hiding atrocity behind their new morals.

Hiding greed behind their new distribution methods.

Different faces.
Different words.
Same results.

Public privation.
Private ostentation.

They will tell us that the revolutionary heroes are to be honoured, but not replicated. That the time for violent action has passed. That we need to solidify our gains.

They will tell us that we are in it together. That in order to rebuild, we will all have to work. That our blood, sweat and tears are to be the mortar of the future. That our bodies are to be the stones.

They will glorify our sacrifices. A mass indoctrination of self-flagellation for the state.

Our pain will be our pleasure.
Our bond to the revolutionaries of the past.
Our holy pilgrimage.
Our right.
Our duty.
Our purpose.

We will police ourselves. Pulling down any and all who even so much as attempt to rise above the norm.

Equality of outcome for all.

Yet we will simultaneously accept our new leaders’ lavishness.

For they are men of action.

They are keeping us safe.
They are the bull front of the revolution.
They are the shield of security.
They are the sword of justice.
They protect us from the other.
They convert the heathens.
They spread the revolution.

They show us how our sacrifices at home will lead to our success globally.

They tell us that empires will fall, that monarchs will die, and that systems will collapse.

We just need to make more bullets for the backs of the heads, and more sons to put them there.

We just need to work more.
We just need to eat less.
We just need to sacrifice.

Revolutions are pain, and empires will fall.

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