Just a discord (of a poem that says it’s not a poem.)

I'm sorry kid but no poetry today. I'm cross legged in a room full of pictures depicting the deflation, the declination and deletion of a place that's derelict to me. Can't stand it. I'm sorry kid, but there ain't no poetry today. I'm a boulder, a pillar, in the way of a structure that wants to crash down above, pushes hard this way and that, shoving my back this is anger my friend. I'm seeing red. So there's no poetry today. You see, I'm not delicate with my words today. I don't feel gentle, I don't feel kind I don't want to tiptoe across puddles of water I want to break the ice. I want to scream so many things that would only be a symptom, not a description of everything that's screwed up. I've tried, I've tried. But I can't sing poetry because I've died. There's a lacking soul in here kid, been hibernating for too long under a smothering winter that reeks of sickness. “Dead, dead, dead,” The madness dances from across the room and that laughter that is so loud inside it's tearing my lungs it's messing my eyes. I'm seeing shadows hiding behind the doors I'm haunted I'm torn I'm wrecked I'm displaced I'm anger. And to resist that calling, that faithful, honest calling to break break break break break break break everything. To pick up the phone and say goodbye To walk out the door and imply forever. When I can't remember an entire summer When I can't consider a newborn spring When everything that makes sense disintegrates and the only thing the only thing I hear is “destroy.” There's no poetry kid, there never will be. Poetry is the assumption of a picture, it's lace it's a window, an image a portrait or a landscape what is this? That's simply the point. It is. It says. It does.

Everyone gets a little angry.

but I have to mute this. This kind of recklessness doesn't make for good art. This kind of hopelessness doesn't make for a good heart. I'm resting. The dragon sleeps. Inside there's a monster. But it's name is not “inevitable.”

Shrunk

I feel like the world has shrunk,

and I'm balancing on one leg

and on my shoulders are weights

and I'm being pulled in several directions

and my hands want to burst forward,

but my back is stiff and leans back

while my head, like lead, stays still and dead

as thoughts race and dull at the same time

fade quickly and reappear

repetition, repetition,

sensual inequations unable to meet user demand.

I feel like the world shrunk without me

I feel like I've left the world far behind

and I'm not in space, just a void

no direction, no destination,

no voice, no mind.

Where is the journey, where is the journey

that I thought I was walking

but lost the path a long time ago.

I feel like I'm sick but my body is empty

and tired

and slowly, slowly, wanting to sleep

and rest

and weep

finally, something I cannot endure

that wants my bones to break

but will not ensure their destruction

because I'm not on earth anymore.

I feel like I'm so far away

that rules don't work

yet twist and insert

in ways that stretch me far

like a red goo

but not allow me to snap

so I wait

exhausted.

You tease with teeth and whispers.

You assassinate close strings that held me up

but until you strike the final blade

I shall keep wandering on

in the new land I've made.

We broke the house

You wrote me from a book of disorder.

You stole an identity

painted my name with a tattered brush

long, old, and worn.

Paint thrown thick and black

onto walls, onto paper,

onto stone, brick, and a cold house

yellow wallpaper no longer kind, gentle

the place that you longed for

torn, ripped, decayed and unloved.

The paint drips onto your shoes

as you remember where the first cracks appeared.

But you don't remember how.

Or what.

Except, the hate you have of me.

Grown, kept, nourished

by desperation.

That poison
My dear, it is called addiction.

You cannot resist to taste and paste

my name like lyrics to explain your hate.

To everything purple and green, yellow and red,

you compare me to everything you love and dread.

For all to see and share and learn

the evil you see

the satisfaction you feed

desperate

to help support your sadness as it burns.

Hungry child weeps.

The Moments Between

There's a chair in the middle of the room,

It presses against carpet with four thin legs

and is stuck rigid

forced to endure.

It's master gives no promise

that it will be relieved of it's duty,

the wooden frame groans

as decaying muscle waits.

Brown jacket sits on an unfamiliar lap.

Naked pockets inside lay thin and sick

as the material weeps over knees

and waits.

Foreign hands curl gently and lame;

they fall loose, then rise

as jacket smothers hair and face

and becomes engulfed

in a smell that stains the fabric

from the outside.

Gentle Fade

You are neither day nor night

Dawn, dusk, dark or light.

You are neither sound nor song,

Nor is there any shade so strong

That could define you, dear friend.

You who have gone so long

Without a word

Without a whisper

A suggestion

A glance

A single drop of something,

Anything

That reveals your existence. 

 

Yet you cause the wind to blow away.

You dare the shadows to lie beneath your feet and tired eyes.

You whistle, you hum,

You throw a stake at the nothingness

When you feel anger you shout

But the shout comes in a wave of thunder

Bursting, burning,

That hate you let out

It twists and turns

And it is no longer a shout

But a single phrase

You say to another ear

But mine.

Amoré

I want to share this moment's warmth

And sing it's softness with a breath so sweet,

that it would curl around you and hold you tight.

If only I could reach those strings and play those notes

you so easily release into the air,

that transcribed from your voice, your touch, your love,

locks me into a synethesia of rich colour

that bursts beneath my feet

and keeps me         floating.

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.

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.

Block.

She’s blank.

Grey stone stuck on paper.

Tools, here and there, strike.

Loose grains of sand so scarce,

Drowning in a white river

Disappear instantly.

Blank canvas, blank novel, blank sound

Bleed into a single screech

Of flats and sharps

Making the air heavy and

Sick.

Rotting desk sinks

As hands fall to the floor.

Raindrops

There is a sadness leaking in my heart.

It doesn't drip like a whisper,

But empties in a scream.

Looking through a blue hue,
At the regrets, pouring down

Down, Down

Through a single stream.

One note, one wave,

A whole entirety

Summed up in such a singular world.

Echo upon echo,

The river pours,

A chemistry of darkness,

In poetic slumber.

But it's such a beautiful world.

Nylon Strings

There was a parcel left for me yesterday;

Dressed in red ribbon and fancy writing.

I had came back from work,

Weary bones, weary mind.

The house was full of dust,

It hadn't be tidied for a while.

I took a sigh, turned on the kettle,

And sat down, unwrapping the beige paper.

Sitting inside was an old cassette,

No note, no name.

With a little hesitation, I plugged in my stereo,

Put the cassette inside, and without another thought,

I pressed play.

I closed my eyes as I recognised your honest voice

Singin' our truths,

Along your refreshing beat.

A cold stream of music tickled my ankles,

Making my stuffy surroundings blur and disappear.

I stepped forward into the ocean,

And let my body free-fall onto the surface,

A splash of colour as the water swallowed me,

And I can began to sink deep,

To a world of water; of the tears I had cried,

The laughter I had once sung,

All the smiles and the frowns,

The warmth and the coldness of my heart,

Intertwined.

Your lyrical exhibit sang to me,

Flooded my surroundings with bright coral

And strange shadows I could not recognise.

My body sits still with a lowered head,

As I explore and swim on,

Your beautiful waves of rhythm,

The seaweed waves along,

In total harmony.

The ocean so expansive,

My sorrows hadn't left me,

But I could no longer cry.

I watch above and around,

The melody is the heart of the ocean,

The sea bed wild with chords so grand,

And your essence,

The streams of light from the surface,

From my life's aquarium of emotion.

Revealing old memories,

Newer hopes, greater times,

A promise of a world full of everything,

And as the music fades,

I see a room not full of clutter,

But a home.

The shiny wall isn't always blue.

Blank stare
With grim expression.
A face that can only be related
To an empty pit,
Of something ill-fated.
But she's soft-centered,
A smile begins to melt the water,
The image falls, and begins afresh.
Something new, something young,
Something with a dress.
A woman that once sung 'impossible'
Now with a posture so strong, yet still fragile.
She's independant, she's renewed,
And beside her feet, is a glorious sight.
Unlimited tins of paint, unlimited light
To a canvas that is as wide as the horizon.
She became the artist.

Hanging on words that no longer rhyme.

So there I was.
Standing.
Just waiting.
Listening. Hoping. Longing;
For its voice to return,
To a familiar tone.
Not the angry one
That was displayed in front of me.
But all there was
Were thorny vines,
Creeping. Surrounding. Binding.
Wrapping around my insides,
Like a poisonous snake,
It’s words leaking into my veins,
Like a foul dye emptied into water.
Every new sentence
Began with an uglier word,
Distant. Cold. Heartless.
Is what they wanted to say.
But that isn’t what they said.

Stone stares with blank face,

Blackbirds tweet it's usual phrase.
No meaning in the song,
Just an intention to make the photograph
A forgotten memory.
She’s not like that, anymore. Anymore.

It might be called growing up.

I find myself always wanting to accuse you and say “How can you...” but then I realise that isn't the right question. I want to tell you that you are wrong, and you are betraying your own beliefs. But I'm betraying mine, by letting you get ahead of me. You're happy, and you seem so fulfilled, as if you are gently prompting me to ask myself “How can I...?” It is somewhat mean of you to counter my own stereotypes of your world. But I cannot hate you for that, because your counter is beautiful. Although I do not believe I can follow you, you've inspired me to find my own path. In a way, I want to find out that I am right, that my own ideas are better than yours. But I don't think life quite works out like that, and not everything needs to be a competition. I must remember that. Happiness is something that cannot be measured, so for certain I will never know if I will ever find more or as much as you. But at least I know it exists. And I want to thank you for that.

The dawn of adulthood

I closed my eyes and saw fishes swimming in the sky.

I opened my eyes and the fishes fell and died.

A warmth for my own.

 

“You didn't believe me did you, but there are some promises I intend to keep.” He said with a small smile, but a full expression of guilt and regret. She said nothing and looked away from him. He didn't bother trying to make eye contact, but knew that somewhere in her empty shell she could hear him. “I'm even putting your past friend behind me. Moving on and everything. Even though they – and you – all said I wouldn't. Couldn't. But I have. And now I'm back.”

“Back?” She repeated in a light, small voice that held doubt and twisted sarcasm.

“Yes. Back. Guess you're not alone any more. So...” He sighed as he sat down beside her. “Why did you bring that past friend back anyway? In here? I thought you were the one to let go of him first.”

“He said he'd come back.”

“But he didn't.”

“He didn't want to.”

“And so you still held onto that promise?”

“I believe some people can keep all of their promises.”

“But not him. You know that underneath all that warmth there is a darkness so cold that it'll freeze your lungs and force you to scream and cry in silence. But... I understand. You find that warmth comforting don't you? In this place, where there is no fire or colour.”

“It's an empty space.”

“But no more. Here, give me the lighter your friend gave to you.” She obeyed, focusing now on his hands with a suspicious look. “We can use it as a candle and make our own flame.”

Her eyes widened and she watched the small flame flicker from the green lighter. She curved her hands around it for a while, and peered close to it. Then, after a moment she moved her hands away and let it flicker freely. “It is... A small flame.”

“Yes, but why only rely on one small possession to light this place up?” He stood up and walked outside for a bit, only to return with various items in his hands. “What about these?”

“Those aren't lighters.”

“But the lighter you gave me has no fuel. You just believed it did. In this place, I think anything can bring us a warmth.”

“Then lets try.”

And so he put various objects in a small pile – objects perhaps only existing by memory, others tangible and still alive. Various books, pens, clothes, watches, stones and feathers laid by both their feet, and both him and her watched the pile glow a bright light.

He looked at her, and noticed she seemed a little different. Still empty but more closer to a smile. He then saw her hold a necklace that was glowing the brightest round her neck.

“Decided to keep that one close huh?”

“Yes, this one is special. I hope that is okay.”

“Of course it is my friend, for you are me, and I am you-”

“-And no longer shall we rely on other's houses.” She sang with a honest melody. “No longer should we burden them with our frosty breath-”

“-For now we can make our own flame,” They both held hands and began to emit a colourful hue. “And when our light becomes brighter we can give them the means to make their own too.”

Love yourself

Naked               body
Wrapped   in   warmth,

Soft skin against cloth,

Damp toes tickled,

By gentle rug.

Human.

Love your reflection.

I always liked the rain.
I may complain and moan but--
Rain has a heart... A mythical essence,
That wraps round your soul,
Makes you feel that you are alive.
Even if you're mind is in despair,
The rain tells you that you're living,
It assures you that you can still feel.
If you can feel, you can still be alive,
and you can still have hope,
for a warmer day ahead.

But then I would look beyond the curtain and scream.
Mirror reflect back naked body,
Stand still and then--
Cold wet shower,
Attacks my face.
Toes grip bath tight,
Wait there, upright,
Withstand,
Be Strong.
Like a soldier.
A minute later,
Orders seize.
Then a meeting face to face,
With own reflection.

Another scream, drop down to the floor.

But it's you.

Pick yourself up.

Start over.

You are who you are,

Wrap your arms around your chest.

Feel your shoulders,

Shivering, cold.

But alive.

You are human,

No matter what you are to others,

No matter what you are thought of,

You can accept your reflection.

Older Stuff

I've always used writing as one of the ways to deal with emotion and reasoning. In particular
'It began with a card', it helped me to figure out a way to deal with anger, and as cheesy as it sounds, to have some kind of sympathy and forgiveness at the end. 
Most of the time I use my own emotions to write expressively, probably 'The Rumour' was my most 'angry' poem/rant. When I read it I remember the anger I had felt - and even though I firmly believe in forgiveness and letting go of the past... Remembering your experiences and emotions which made 'you' at the time yourself and explained what your past self is like is important.
------------------------------------

It began with a card

 And so it read...

                Fly!   If you want to.

You can if only you want to!

Fly without strings – nothing to catch your fall!

Say their name and no reply,

But you can damn well FLY!

Fly as high as you can – so no one can see you.

Fly over to visit – so they don’t have to come to you.

It’s all because they’re holding you in their heart...

When it’s convenient.

And they’ll let go, when it’s just as practical.

So lets fly!

Fly over to say hello, how are you?

Such bland conversation with no meaning,

The demand of thinking so demeaning,

Would you remember my name, if it wasn’t written down?

Somewhere on your desk, is there a note ---

Remember her name, on that day, write a card, make it

say...

Fly! If you want to.

 -Only-, if you want to.

Fly one way, one direction.

Fly my way, a grand dictation.

Your only wish, is my decision,

Your wings fly towards me,

Like it’s my mission

I have to say it was kind of you,

 To think of me so fondly,

 Such happy memories you describe,

 When you saw me as a baby,

 Did you remember the colour of my eyes?

 Did you watch them grow and change?

 It’s easy now to see my face,

 New photos online to replace,

 The old ones you never had,

 The ones you never asked for.

I don’t think I’ll fly the course,

I’m eighteen now, I see through your cloud.

I won’t play along any more,

Though I'll remain at the same place,

To return your once in a blue moon messages,

And your birthday wishes and kisses.

I know you're busy, I know you have your own life.

But if only you knew how wrong it was,

To think I can so freely fly.

-------------------------------

A true friend never drops a stone.

No, no, just no more. She can't say yes any more.
Burning flames, light the stone,
Never mind that, leave it alone.
Go back to the crowd, it's easy that way.
Abandon the flames, take it away.
You walk, you go, you leave, you know,
That stone gonna burn, gonna burn through the snow.
Let it melt away, forget it's decay,
She can't yes anyway. Any more. Any day.
She don't care, she's free now.Free from that small little stone,
A small little stone that's going to burn,
No love, no regret, no wish, no debt,
As long as she's not bound from that tiny stone,
She's fine, she's happy, she's alone.As long as she can abandon the stone.

But when that stone's flame extinguish,
By one true friend.
By one one true distinguish.
The little stone will remember,
Who set it on fire, and who saved her.

One small stone you could not save.
One small regret you have made.
------------------------------

The Rumour

After two years your whispers have turned into a direct scream,
That leaves me shivering,
And hurt.
I find myself in the dark room you seem so eager to push me into,
Because I am not you.
Because I am not like you at all.
Do you like me pretending not to hear,
your comments that you so loudly preach to eager listeners? Of your so called tales of my life, that you call actual 'history'?
Are you so brave in fact,
that every so often I can hear my name,
I turn to see eyes looking at me and mouths closed.
I turn away.
And you continue.
Is it easy because I'm open minded? Because I'm so gullible? That I were to think that you were not leading me to this dark, cold room,
but to a grassy field were perhaps, we could all just get along?
No.
That's not how you work is it? I've learnt now. And I'm disappointed but...
I open the door and leave the dark room.
There is that field ahead of me – but it doesn't involve you. It's far more nicer than that.
Sitting in a circle are my friends – amazing friends. They speak louder words that you, and they have honest eyes.
They are true to nature, and true to me. I haven't needed to care any more, about your deadly remarks.
The ones that leak poison, the ones that hurt again, and again like a wasp's sting.
Because my friends are the cure, the remedy and the sun. They remove the darkness, and now you're affect on me has gone.

---------------------------

My ShoeBox

My shoebox has no windows.
My shoebox has no light.
And now my shoebox has a lid,
That is wedged on tight.

In my shoebox there are moments.
That one cannot share.
Of things like smiles and voices,
From everywhere.

I know that some people may not understand
The box I'm carrying around.
I know that some people do understand
How tightly I hold things close by me.

(They whispered about effort, distraction, lack of concentration.
They whispered about clothes, face, sexuality.
They whispered about things, they knew I could hear.
And they whispered about things, they thought I couldn't.
What hurt most?)

I also know that its already too late
To change what has been happening of late.
But I needed that time, to prepare
To be strong and kill that nightmare.
And continue...

So soon after, I will try harder.
I'll be as strong as I can.
I will practice, know and master.

And: Then I will build and make
A new shoebox for me.
And this one, will be just as precious
With every good single memory.
With my new 'obsession' embedded into me,
Letting go won't be easy.

And I won't let my shoebox ever die.