25th of December, 2012.

Golden Morning Sings

In gentle rain pouring down

Christmas Day again.

House

I feel your anger

Collapse onto the everything

Causing the world to slide down, down, down

Onto the floor

That greyed with dust and dirt,

And the face of a cold, cold darkness

Sunk into the flesh of wooden furniture.

You rush towards the tap

And swing it back,

The hot water bursting onto your tired hands

That always feel disgust.

Old decaying life

Ooze a smell that shrieks loud.

Your longing for a gentle warmth

Spoilt by the shiver of discomfort.

I cannot stand it either,

As your anger builds into your veins.

I fear that it'll burst onto me

And onto you

And onto the everything.

I no longer hope for happiness,

Because you no longer wish to find it here.

And my selfishness is desperate

For you to stay.

Silence on the Borderlines

Logical annotations

To fixed memoirs

Lay on the table.

So subtly label

The experiences into emotion.

Of toil and struggle,

And the laughs of faces

That no longer

Smile.

Lost decaying touch

Fell dead with colour

And leak,

The intended saturation

now weak

And pretending never to exist.

Words we never said,

Words we were too afraid to say

Once we said good bye

Rot on the raining fence.

Stuck, hooked on the spikes between us,

Blowing away in the wind.

You and I

In no more words than

An angry whisper,

Killed the garden we shared,

And slaughtered the keeper.

So that it would grow with weeds,

And then into nothing.

But sometimes I catch your eye,

As you weep in between the trees,

Still tangled by my thorns

Still afraid of new seeds.

And I have sown many more

Bad roses that have wilted.

But when I look into the sky

I see a world untouched by my hand.

I see a world where birds fly,

And colours sing in infinite prose.

Affixed associations,

But escapist intentions

Burn paper by moonlight.

Romanticised hallucinations

Or tangible realisations

Softly suggest

A new way to move from the chess board

Into a snug chair by the fireplace.

High bookshelves stand grand on all the walls,

Crisp, tender new words,

Kiss unknown philosophy gently.

I feel the waves of cold sea

Touch warm toes

Naked hands no longer curled around

Empty glass bottles.

Instead, those bottles are buried in the sand,

Their labels still on the outside

But the corners begin to peel away until

They are all the same,

No longer distinguished.

And that's how I will remember,

The box with your name

that will always hold

All of those memories.

But no longer painful,

As I cut off the canopy

and let the sun fall onto my face.

I still peer over the fence,

And hope that someday,

You too will see the sky

But in your own way.

And feel the gentle breeze,

Not choked by leaf and dirt,

But calm and sweet

In your orange lion mane.

No longer a chariot

Unscrew it, dismantle. Unfold it and lay it out.
Pieces.

Shun

Hideous insides squeeze tight
And there's nothing to hold onto.
Everything turns dark,
And my familiar surroundings begins to fade.
Nothing to hold on. Nothing to hold on. But I'm slipping, I'm falling and-
-I try. I try to stretch myself back into a humane shape
but
Like glue,
My skin sticks to my hands.
And the gravity gets stronger,
And my resistance gets weaker,
And I feel the crushing of my organs
Stain each other red.
Flesh turns to bone, bone turns to dust.
Dust rides the wind,
Choking on itself, never pure.
I'm blind to comfort.
I'm deaf to the world.
And I'm mute,
mute to scream away the current I'm trapped in.
Soul stuck
from love again.