Poetry
Writing to, from, and about the parts within. Sharing to normalize the healing process.
Out Now: How To Write Evocative Poetry
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
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.
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 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
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 …
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.
A System Of Inequality
It feels like
I’ve been preparing
My entire life
For a moment that will never come
My body is tense
My mind is sharp
Yet I have nothing to do
With such focus
There is no enemy to fight
No emergency to survive
No monumental struggle to overcome
Nothing other than this day
And the next and the one after that
What glory is there to be found
In the daily grind?
How can I be proud of defeating
The mere anxiety of surviving the moment?
. . .
I crave catastrophe
And ache for the apocalypse
Not as a nihilist
But as a person without purpose
There’s little joy to be found in a job
Creating just to consume
Producing just to procreate
Done daily until death
I am a man without meaning
Readying myself for revelation
When survival isn’t assured life is serious
The useless artefacts will fall away
What actually matters will materialise
Focus will be forced towards functionality
Distracting decadences will be discarded
Leaving nothing but the struggle of life
Perhaps then I’ll find real purpose
Maybe existence will feel equanimous
. . .
How privileged
Am I
To lament
The ease of my life
I am blessed
To have never seen war
Or suffering
I am blessed
Yet that blessing
Feels like a curse of meaning
Without an enemy to fight
Without an obstacle to overcome
All this feels dulled
Life feels like a shadow
A mockery of everything I was promised
Thus I create my own demons
Faceless oppressors
That cannot be seen
Or overcome
Then I cry about my problems
Like they actually exist
Writing angsty poems
From a place of privilege
. . .
As a child
I learnt
Vigilance
To survive
I slept light
A knife under my pillow
Waiting for an attack
That attack never came
But I still sleep light
And have made my body into a weapon
I am still vigilant
Waiting for the attack
That will never come
A Moment That Will Never Come
It feels like
I’ve been preparing
My entire life
For a moment that will never come
My body is tense
My mind is sharp
Yet I have nothing to do
With such focus
There is no enemy to fight
No emergency to survive
No monumental struggle to overcome
Nothing other than this day
And the next and the one after that
What glory is there to be found
In the daily grind?
How can I be proud of defeating
The mere anxiety of surviving the moment?
. . .
I crave catastrophe
And ache for the apocalypse
Not as a nihilist
But as a person without purpose
There’s little joy to be found in a job
Creating just to consume
Producing just to procreate
Done daily until death
I am a man without meaning
Readying myself for revelation
When survival isn’t assured life is serious
The useless artefacts will fall away
What actually matters will materialise
Focus will be forced towards functionality
Distracting decadences will be discarded
Leaving nothing but the struggle of life
Perhaps then I’ll find real purpose
Maybe existence will feel equanimous
. . .
How privileged
Am I
To lament
The ease of my life
I am blessed
To have never seen war
Or suffering
I am blessed
Yet that blessing
Feels like a curse of meaning
Without an enemy to fight
Without an obstacle to overcome
All this feels dulled
Life feels like a shadow
A mockery of everything I was promised
Thus I create my own demons
Faceless oppressors
That cannot be seen
Or overcome
Then I cry about my problems
Like they actually exist
Writing angsty poems
From a place of privilege
. . .
As a child
I learnt
Vigilance
To survive
I slept light
A knife under my pillow
Waiting for an attack
That attack never came
But I still sleep light
And have made my body into a weapon
I am still vigilant
Waiting for the attack
That will never come
Sacrifices
I wonder if
On the day I finally
‘Make it’
I will regret
The sacrifices
It took
To get there