I Know You All Too Well

i do not need a passers by guideto know how I feel insidei do not need bitter anecdoteson why we criedentrenched in corrupt pasturesin a childhood left to diei do not need to be told how it wasi know how I feel insideopinions can be banded aroundauctions for a point of viewbut please spare me from self serving historyespecially when people do not have a clueand have you noticed how the commentatorswith their blank faces and ignorancelook so much like the instigatorsthere really is no differencei do not need other people’s madnessi have a box in which i store my owni know you all far too wellthose eyes flicker and cry alone Monday 12th November 2007

Pass the Parcel

these days –i defend my positionyes, I know I am madi always have.i inherited it one Christmas,from Mum and Dad. but my madness,is the same as yoursthe endless banging,on life’s closed doors.not the look at me,look at how mad I am.which if truth be told,really means, please understand these days –i throw occasional sound bitesfrom the ramparts,of my castle.madness came one Christmasfrom a game of pass the parcel.

Bags

packed up the bagsunder my eyesno sorrowand no goodbyeshad to declare,independence,for my mental statei left for my capitalbefore it became too latei held onto,lemonade dreamsand blanket skiesand then I packed upthe bags under my eyesmoving onmoving awaythere’s an alphabethidden in the things I say

Crush

i am massacred by remarka sentence,can tear me apart. and when looking at my deckchair eyesthe painand the past elegantly collide. i am felled by a comment,strung upby easy jibeand when looking at my bare bonesi fall apart so easily inside. people can be crueland think nothing,of taking you down a peg or two. they look at meand my pastand think, he has the strength to take itso they nail me to the mastbut I cannot fake it,or even barely make it,that resolve – they so easily break it. i am massacred by their insensitivitya sentence,can so easily crush my reality.

Today

today is sadif it was dressedit would be wearing greys and brownsa tatty frock overcoatand with eyes ready to drown. today is sadif it took a day offit would be sat at hometrying to make sense of this worldfeeling quite alone. today is sadif it was humanit shoulders would be hunchedits head bowed downit would paint only in greyand its eyes would be ready to drown.

The Daily Mail

you believe what you read –in the Daily Mailwithout questionwithout failimmigrants over running whiteterror plots and the evil EUyou believe every word they writeyou do, don’t you it plays to your sepia fearsa green green grass middle Englandof bygone yearsbut all you do is feed your ignoranceat this made up past you leerit is easier to read the bullshit paperthan mop up the tearsyou believe every word you read –in the Daily Mailwithout questionyou always fail

Silent Birdsong

the birds will not sing todaythey will stand on the branchesas a mark of respect today birdsong will be silencedand flowers will bow their headsfor a while happiness will lie downand grief will be there instead the birds will not fly todaythey will sit in their nestsand birdsong will be silentif only out of respect let the birds be quietlet their silence tell the talethough birdsong raises a smilehappiness for while will be stalebut remember one day it will returnthe sun will shine againand flowers will flowerand the birds will fly the grief is unimaginable and painfulnever letting go, but saying goodbye know that you are not alonewe hold you inside

Praise

praise,it does not rest easily with meas it was given I twisted and turnedand the awkwardness of childhood returned. praise,as it was given I shuffled and stammeredremembering how once the nail had been hammeredwhen the awkwardness of childhood held a gaudy banner. and I felt so embarrassed,not so much because of the praisebut because of the potential I had failed to raiseand all those jokes I too easily gavei could have made myself a better futurebut I was too busy dismantling my lathe. praise,they gave it and I blushedsuddenly all the insecurities made a headlong rushand the awkwardness of childhood returned.