Madman

Calmly,
Selecting paths,
Creating waves,
Inciting ink to flow across the page.

Could passion prompt dissention,
Will force destruction,
Confound,
Obstruction.

From orderly possessions come stupidity,
Expectations of normalcy,
Employed action,
Disdain.

Reflections,
Obscure the view,
Deflect,
Correct my step.

Tomorrow needs for nothing,
Yet somehow,
Demands,
What sweet folly is this?

We are but sparkling dust,
Dissolved from error,
Escaping,
Disarming chuckling spirits.

Another night,
Perhaps another evening will confirm,
Reality,
Is but judgement.

What greater reason could we need?
Immortality springs forth from word,
From thought,
From misunderstandings.

Capture this script,
Hold it to the flame,
Burn,
And be satisfied.

For I have chosen to walk the path,
Not stroll, but march,
Not whole,
But longer still.

Bleeding,
I finally see the man,
Composed of infinite metaphors,
Wrought of silver.

Purchased from the tortured shadows,
Justified,
Escaping mere innocence,
Seeing nothing in my past.

Rebellion is a sin,
Which frees the soul,
Shackles,
Only the wrists.

Madman,
I hear voices,
Directing prosperity,
Feeding on tension alone.

This day is over,
Dying,
Repercussions exacting,
A measured tone.

Performance Anxiety

I’m sorry it has been so long since my last post! I have recently moved into a new apartment and it threw off my routine completely. Between cleaning, planting veggies in my garden, visiting family and work, I have had little time to write or respond to comments…

But enough excuses! Here is a long awaited piece of poetry.

Performance Anxiety

Looking forward,
Pressing on,
Sating thirsty souls.

Undue tempers,
Pieced together,
Framing my aplomb.

I have but little else to say,
I have possessed the whole.
Despite the nature of the game,
I’ve learnt to strike the chord.

Playing with the devil’s flame,
Writing from the heart.
Breathing naught but effigies,
Seeing naught but forms.

Today is spent with baited breath,
Tomorrow knows suspense.
Even as the hour grows cold,
All new ideas lent.

Could the worry,
Justify,
The nerves exposed to you.

Or does the apple,
Withering,
Upon the branch confuse.

Tormented

Confirmed,
Known as less,
Known as paltry,
Known as jest.

Despised,
Kept dormant,
Left to descend,
Met with abandon.

Tortured,
Destined to fail,
Known for illusion,
Gone from thought.

Imagine,
Perfect harmony,
Blessed prodigies,
Incumbent child.

Torrential,
Sloven motion,
Horrid frailty,
Choral sound.

Common,
Felt as terror,
Known as caramel,
Seen as God.

Justice
Owned by mother,
Quoted honourably,
Kept outdoors.

Night,
Under finger,
Under footstep,
Solving time.

The Postcard

Simply snapped,
Brusquely captured.

As seasons pass sweetly,
Performed for others,
Displayed for warmth,
Betraying that which lies within.

Enchantment.
A rosy wash beneath
Expectant hues.

Discarded thoughts,
Remembered heights.

Convenience draped in sentiment,
Images left to cross
The blue divide.
Wrote to spare us depth.

My duty fulfilled,
Three sentences,
Speak the truth.

Your Love,
Is worth a postcard.

Torn from clouds

Common paths are drawn,
Shaping the pavement,
Filling silence.

Tracing vulnerably,
Left unsaid,
While Mother weaves.

Raindrops course the gutters,
While currents soothe our battered skull,
Creation bargains.

As if of heaven,
Torn from clouds,
Quenching damned thirst.

Tombs devour the rivers,
Sewers overflow,
Nature still abhors us,
Tonight we sleep alone.

The Symphony

The jagged symphony,
Waits with baited breath,
Ignores paltry applause,
Forgets to sound our death.

Imagination seeds the thought,
But can it persevere,
Violists pluck in measured time,
Whilst timpanists count years.

Desertion seems to be the norm,
Distraction seems the goal,
Yet nothing beats the frolicking,
Found within music’s whole.

Alas, all said the harpist cries,
Disdain, laid with the tune,
Discern the field, perchance to form,
The perfect chord is hewn.

December kneads the melody,
September strikes the gong,
Yet we can verily confirm,
April provides the song.

Within the promised orchestra,
Without the fervent theme,
Alone abides the commenter,
Disturbed throughout the scene.

Dreams

Cornered,
Pressed beneath falling snow,
Left unsaid, unused, untried,
The morning breaks.

Impure,
Alone despite the crowds,
Washing eyes of vulgarous thoughts,
Mimicking the clown.

Laughter,
Used at once as self defense,
Carried harmlessly,
Wielded as our shield.

There will not come another,
Not as sweet as this.

Feverish,
Dreams that toss and turn,
Ghosts that flutter,
Past the window pane.

There could not be another,
Not as great as this.

So I will press onward,
Captured,
Soiled,
Filtering my passion,
Needing nothing more.