capitalistic desire

here’s to the capitalistic desire
to sacrifice our lives
in order to have the
most fancy coffin
just to flex on
our friends
that we didn’t have time for
and to afford a headstone
chiselled with a quote
espousing the value
of hard work
and dedication
to something beyond ourselves
that no one will read

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This poem is from the book, ‘A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken’.

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Distortions

My mind creates this world.
How can you say I am not God?
Every character, every scene, every aspect;
All a variation of myself.

Created in my image, created in my mind.
Both with and without intention.
The universe forever expanding
Inwardly as it does outwardly.

Distortions of reality,
More elegant than any alternate world.
Why should I leave?

Here I am something,
Simultaneously at, in and above myself.
A beautiful story of consciousness,
Played in a theatre of dreams.

Time passes, I open my eyes.
My focus wanes and I begin to forget.
Only the feelings remain,
Glorious certainty, a guide to my higher self.
Fragments of my truth are written and told.
Just a mere representation, a lie.
Imagination takes hold,
Corrupting, corroding, filling the gaps.

Stop. Let me remember.
Let me feel again,
I want the unadulterated truth.

I want to be back there again,
Where I feel divine,
Where it feels right.

Where I don't feel like a character
In someone else's dream.
I want to be present,
Both creating and existing simultaneously.

Doubts creep in,
It was just a beautiful distortion of reality,
A test of faith. Nothing to see here,
Move along. I am awake. It's gone.

---

This poem is from the book Words On A Page

Reflections Of The Self

The world is a mirror to your soul,
Your happiness will be shown
On the faces of strangers,
Your fear will flicker in their eyes,
Your hope will express itself
In the poetry you read, as too will your ills.

The mirror rejects what you are not,
Thus the world will always be you,
In this way you are trapped,
Rejecting love when you need it most,
And the advice you most need to hear.

Yet you are not stagnant,
And neither is the mood of the world,
What happens in one, distorts the other,
Words can scratch, and actions can crack,
So keep a watch on its surface,
And a polishing rag in hand.

Realise that the mirror is in fact imperfect,
Subject to change, manipulation and control,
Those reflections are more than phantasms,
They have a force that can break.
So watch the mirror,
Be on guard against its influence,
But also influence your guard,
For your actions may inadvertently
Shatter someone’s soul.

---

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

Stuck Inside My Mind

This is freestyle improve poem, you can watch the video on Instagram, listen to the audio here

i feel stuck inside my brain
the anxiety is gone
but the pain still remains
my childhood on repeat
embodying the shame
fear
loneliness
self-blame
what remains but tears?
what remains but fears?
what remains but me staring into my own soul?
trying to fill my own
i'm not whole
i'm wanting to see
i'm wanting to be
i'm wanting to move
i'm wanting to be free
but the pain she has me
maybe it's the past
the past me that she had
she grabbed me
held me
hurt me
i don't know me
all those things
are they a memory or they of false lie?
you know gaslighting myself
through the past memories of me?
trauma comes trauma goes
what am i left with?
nobody knows just fucking rhymes
just me speaking to myself
counting through times
saving time
stopping time
because right now i want to be here in this time
now
here
now
right now
what is it about now that feels so unsafe?
nothing's wrong
this thing this place is fine
i am safe
but my mind it feels like a wafe
i'm weak
i feel unable to speak
unless i'm alone
unless i'm holding this phone
unless i'm looking into my own eyes
unless i'm remembering what i despise
a lot of the time
it's myself the ways that i responded to things well beyond me
her eyes who could see through me
i don't even know me
the things that i like
the things that i do
do i actually like them or are they a response to you?
to what you did?
to what you said?
to what you made me feel?
my life will work is just to heal
what sort of life is that?
what sort of a life is one in response
reactive instead of proactive
responding to triggers inside my body?
i feel that i want to heal
not lie dead or turn over and keel
but it's fucking hard to keep going
to keep on showing up
to keep moving
to keep hoping
stop myself from blowing up
i put these words out there
and wonder they’ll corrupt another person like me
into thinking differently
into speaking out
into seeking help
into understanding what it's all about
that they're not alone
that they can find a home
i say all of these things
but it's all a fucking lie
because my body and my brain seem to want to fucking die
waking up in tears
reverberating in fear
it seems clear that this battle is ongoing
that have to keep on showing up
that i have to keep on moving
but it's just hard
it's hard to keep on grooving when the music is playing
sounds like a funeral march
starch words
my mouth is parched
shouldn't go to alcohol
shouldn't drink
because then i'd be unable to think
vomit those words down the sink
with the food
with what i eat
with the souls of my feet
i walk across broken glass
across jagged rocks
raw skin no socks
let alone shoes let alone
support or help
who would break the news?
who would share such blues?
thank god that i have children to keep me here
i have to remain to help them
to show them
to teach them how to tie their shoes
to hold them hand in hand
to walk them across the land
to carry them on my shoulders
to say
‘hey look at life it can be grand!’
i'm blessed with the baggage of life
weighed down by love
despite all of the inner strife
i'm weighed down but i wonder whether my father was also
he had me
he had my brother
yet he fell
to another
to himself
to the trauma he had
generational it’s cyclic
so that i wonder
i hold my kids up
i walk with them
i show them the way
but the way is blocked
by my own dismay
they see it in my eyes
they see it in my tears
they see me suffering
they see my fears
and they know that they are part me
genetically
environmentally
are they cursed like me?
are they cursed to see the world bleakly?
are they cursed to walk meekly
in fear of themselves
and how they respond to every little thing?
people say i'm brave for speaking out thusly
to put my thoughts here
to share what's in here
but it's not brave
it’s all i can do to save myself
to express the inner mess
from the safety of a screen
when really i can't handle being seen
what would it mean for you to see my soul?
to see me
actually
to see my whole?
my whole self
these words
my words
the pain it needs to become my wealth because i can't handle doing anything else
take a breath
drop all expectations
be here now
you are safe
good thoughts
bad thoughts
it's ok to have all thoughts
these are the words i say to myself
daily
let it go and just feel
take some time
take a breath
heal
it's okay
it's okay to look to not know your way
i say these words to myself every day
i say them in my head when i'm watching my kids play
when he's over there and i'm here and we're just a metre away
but i can't seem to breach that inner gap
i can't seem to take that step to have him and hold him and put him in my lap and hug him and say him it's okay to say that it's just a day
that daddy will be okay
because i don't know
and yet i persist
i keep going
i keep trying to find my way
i keep trying to see the truth
so if you're listened all of this way
10 minutes
turn this video off
sit in the sun
speak
find a way to play to make this day go your way
to slay
to play
or at least just to allay
some of the negativity
keeping your brain at bay
see you next time
hey

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

All I See

all I see
when I look inside
is the hole
where the memories
of my father
should be

---

This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

A Sun Shower

A sun shower
Beautiful nourishing chaos
Raindrops of gold
Rainbows painting clouds
Warmth of the light
Meets
Chill of the water
A moment of bliss
A moment of peace
A moment of reflection
Birds call
Wind blows
The moments past

---

This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

This Day Is About To End

This day is about to end
It’s almost time to do it again
To pretend you’ve got reasons to attend
To trade time for the stuff you can spend
Five days then a weekend
Repeated without the chance to ascend
No chance to transcend
No bonus dividend
No time to mend the relationship with a friend
Just a life you barely comprehend
Attempting not to offend
Attempting not to condescend
Working on autopilot until you expend
Look at that, it’s year’s-end
Nothing of worth penned
Nothing of worth to recommend
Just an overspend on the new trend
A backbend in lieu of a godsend
How will you fend
When you have no meaning to contend
No higher force on which to depend?
I don’t mean to offend
But this day is about to end
And unless you want to do it all again
There’s some things that you should attend

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

me at 36

i’m 36
crying and triggered
remembering when i was 8
remembering my stepfather
remembering the warnings that went unheard
remembering the pleas for help went unanswered
remembering the fear
remembering the confusion
remembering the choice to force myself to forget

remembering
crying
writing

remembering
crying
and writing more

desperately hoping that all this is somehow also healing

it’s my birthday and my family are watching me breakdown
i am stoned on weed
valium
memory
and music

tears
my ink

pain
my pen

words
my voice

… it’s time to blow out the candles and make a wish
perhaps i’ll live to wish another …

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This poem is from the book Poetry from a Dark Night of the Soul

Do You Love Me, Or Just The Idea Of Me?

Do you love me,
Or just the idea of me?

I may be your ‘dream girl’
But I am real,
And that reality is different
From your fantasy.

How often must we fight,
Just to clarify
That you expected
Me to speak differently?

How many tears must fall,
Just to realise
That you expected
Me to be something I’m not?

If you love me,
Please drop your expectations
And open your eyes
To the real me.

My body has blemishes.
I will lose my temper.
I judge unfairly.
I get things wrong. 

I am not perfect,
No one is.
Unless of course,
They’re just a dream.

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This poem is from the book A Requiem For What Could Have Been: Poetry For The Broken

Eyes

She has sad eyes. Forlorn. Longing.
Young, but not innocent. She’s seen things.
She hid, she ran, she learnt.
Yet her troubles still follow.
So she smiles wide, laughs and parties.
But it’s just a cover.
Mostly she’s acting.
In attempting to fool herself, she loses herself.
Questions arise. These questions she ignores.
Her worries are of the future,
Yet she lives for the now.
Avoiding. Pretending. Feeling. Breaking.
But she is young, and she is pretty,
So most are captured by her smile.
Not by the pain in her eyes,
Reflecting the depth of her soul.

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This poem is from the book Words On A Page