Rhyme & Verse

The Unstartable

Eating my words
You chew with delight
Carving your bones through mine
Devouring my sanity.
To you they are all wasteful.
Pointless.
A din in your ordered world.
They taste bitter.
What’s wrong with you?
You say it so honestly
I believe it myself.
I did.
This lost bridge.
This gap.
This invisible nothing
Where the emotion should overwhelm.
That is where we end.
Because we can’t begin.

Wretched 

Dancing in your fog. In the wonderful world you vaguely make, where I fill in the gaps you leave. The gaps you deny you made. So it is my fault, again. Of course. Guilty of my gullable self. Wretched with love in my soul. You never asked for it, even though you laid the path and walked me down it with such ease. Edged with the unsaid, that which cannot be trodden on, that which I know is there but that you steer me away from. But look at the view, you say. Look here. Look up. So I do. So I ignore that which you sweep under my feet. I can feel it under my toes. In the blissful high I still know it’s there, like soft pebbles prodding at my soles. My problem. My fault. Half a gift given. Half a truth told. Half a step left. And still I am led. I am hung by your strings. I am savaged by your song. How can I unsee? How can I unknow? How can I unfeel? How can you break what you’ve already broken? 

The Woman That Will Always Be There


The scarf, faded peach. Delicately worn and straining at its near nonexistence. Hunched at your door in your grey woollen coat, bought to last. It has proved itself. The key seems too big for the lock, to small for your crumpled fingers. The old red shopping bag laughs against you until the relief of your bundled body pushes through the damp wooden door. Behind the nets you go. Somewhere, in your world. For that moment, though, I shared your life with you. Each day, I did my thing, you did yours. And we saw each other, and remembered. I could not tell you your face. I don’t know the colour of your pinched eyes, or the shape of your smile. But still I remember you. Even now the nets are gone and the faded peach scarf can finally find rest. The woman that will always be there. I remember. 

Watching you give up

Watching you give up.
The saddest movie in the world.
The heaviest weight.
In the darkest pit.
All but you can see the light.
Blinding in its vibrant scream.
More unique than ever.
Bursting with flavour.
You are there.
Locked. Caged.
Covered in worthlessness.
Strapped with gutless hatred.
You guard your own fortress.
Unreachable.
Impenetrable.
The precious fortunes must stay hidden.
I know their wealth.
I know their unburdened brilliance.
I’ve seen them shine.
I can see them now.
Through that fearful glint.
Behind the defiant resignation.
Within that numb world.
Made by your own choice.
So many long to free you.
From this war only you can win.
Like the saddest movie in the world.
We are watching you give in.

I want to reach for you in your night
I want to hold you while you fight
I want to lick your wounds
And kiss the pain
Fill you with love
Warm the strain
I want to push you on when you fall
I want to push you over that growing wall
I want to nurse your grazes
So you can carry on
You can push me away
But I’ll never be gone.
I want to hold you up and show your worth
I want to shout it loud to all the Earth
This beautiful human
This creation of one
Stronger than before
Because they won.

Run away

Run away
It will fix itself
If you’re not there
Run away
Uphill
Away from the depths
Where it can only be worse
Which you cannot bear to explore
To confront
Too hard
Run away
From the you you most fear
That fatal truth
Too much to feel
Too much of a battle
Run away
From that waste of time
To higher ground
To the edge
To fall again

Beautiful Truth

Beautiful truth.
In all its heartless grip.
Beautiful life.
Fuelled by sadness and consequence.
Stoked by need and unknowing.
The elated numbness.
The joyful hate.
The high of the sickening fear.
The stabbing depths of the alone.
Pure.
Ecstatic in its freedom, dancing with sharp toes over a threadbare carpet of hope.
This beautiful truth.
That of no other.
This beautiful now.
Unsharable. Uncontrollable. Unpredictable.
Delicate and crushing.
Primer of pain and pleasure.
Until singularity, when everything makes sense but it no longer matters.
The last beautiful truth.
Alone and free.
The beautiful end.

Little Death

That pain no one sees. An invisible emergency, without medication. No one notices the death before them. And so they stoke the fires.
It burns, that ball of pain. Sometimes so hard that it releases flares into the world. The visible tip. The end of an internal reaction that feels so all consuming and powerful, the result unfinished and limp. The rage of motivation. An engine of raw splutterings that leaves a thin vein of gold amidst its blinding smoke. If only you could drill down deep enough to see.
Sometimes it goes out. Then there’s just the pain. The choker. The grinder of madness. The visceral mincer. Hurting so hard. Too hard. The only hope is that it will light itself again. And that hope has the last of life’s consequences at stake.
Everyone needs a little death sometimes. To fail. To fear. To be killed and left. Unbloody and tired. Knotted and weak. Humiliated. Ashamed. Abandoned. Utterly naked with truth. Waiting, starving, as the longing seethes and begs. Grappling at the feet of courage’s own death, before there is nothing left. Before it’s worn out and too rotten to care. Before the skin can rip enough to tear through the thick endless time while the dust settles a new layer and the ashes begin to shift, ready for the next blinding spark. Until then…