On the wall

It creeps steadily on.

Without knowing, without noise

without feeling sympathy or regret

for the hurt that it causes

as it creeps steadily on

with no thank you or embrace

or grand shows of gratitude

for the joy and the music.

 

Each grain falling to the bottom

and with it millennia of memories

lost to the master on the wall

the second passes like a bell toll

sounding for us all.

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There’s not so much difference between us

There’s not much difference between us.

You wake up with a knot in your stomach

I wake up with that same feeling

and whilst we ponder different troubles

those troubles aren’t so different

that our conditions are unrecognisable to one another.

The bin men wake up early

to collect our waste

and they share laughter in between stops

and that laughter believe it or not

is made of the very same chemicals

as that of two others in expensive suits

toasting to their wealth.

The human condition is complex

in that we are so alike at a most basic level

yet we think ourselves so different

as to distance ourselves from the pain

of fellow man

as if put in that very same position

we’d be immune.

Canvas

You are the maker.

Through sheer thought

You’ve managed to build

this whole world around you,

full of friends and

laughter, joy and despair.

Each smile or shudder

forming another block in your universe.

Your perception

slowly strokes the canvas

to paint over

drab lines or old wounds.

There’s no guarantee

that this is a masterpiece

despite your wishes and aspirations.

 

There’s no guarantee that you’ll like it

and however you may try to influence it,

it would seem that

some specks of paint were always doomed to fall as they did.

Sense

Feeling my way

Understanding that

There is no right or

Wrong

The path is mine

To tread

And shape into

A road

The sound is mine

To make sense of

And turn into

Movement

The call is mine

To hear.

The saddest part

Would be looking back

And realizing

That I never took that step at all.

Reflections pt. 2

The first few words are a bitch.

But after that it all seems to make sense

And flow with ease

Some of it isn’t worth reading twice

And some of it holds the deepest truths that I can’t begin to express

In any other way.

It’s like having a really close friend

Who knows you well

But still, wants to know you better.

His appetite is hard to satisfy

And his questions are what keeps you awake at night

Thinking about all your regrets weighing down on you,

Trying to undo them with the power of thought.

 

Needing to understand

The reasons behind those choices

The movement of the gears

Setting off the chain of events

Ultimately leading to the inevitable.

You would take those moments back

Or make a different choice given another chance,

But what if each one led you to discover some truth about you

That would have otherwise remained a mystery.

 

Would you take it back then

And leave that part of you covered in sand?

The dance

We danced around the fire under the glimmering dark. Sparks rose from the flames to create stars that settled in their own corner of the night. The sand felt cold beneath our feet, each granule pressing against others to accommodate the movement of our souls. Some were thrown into the air and gripped by the wind, carried away to play a part in another story.

Some dug deeper into the ground beneath entrenching themselves into this moment in time.

The fire was burning brighter now, and it seemed that its light was reflecting off the moon onto the surrounding clouds. We knew this was not the case but, in the moment, it’s hard not to think that we are the Creator.

The clouds, oblivious to our masquerade, had their own dance; slower, moving to a different rhythm yet still obeying the same principles of space in exchange for space, movement in exchange for movement, energy in exchange for energy.

In this way our dance and that of the clouds seemed connected.

 

 

Used

She was the kind of girl who’s heart weighed less than others in the hands of men with weary hearts themselves.

He who’s hurt seeks to hurt another, and the cycle repeats itself until we’re all hurt by someone.

I’ve hurt because I’ve been hurt, and withdrew into a broken shell whose pieces barely stay intact.

It’s difficult to be honest with yourself, and it’s more difficult still to admit that the thing that you need is the very thing you insist you don’t.

It’s difficult to let go of the past, when the past is dressed in rose petals seen in sepia.

The realisation isn’t instant.

It’s not a pill that you take, that suddenly makes you grow more fond of the present.

It’s more like the outer layers of an onion peeling away to reveal the flesh inside.

Feelings hang in the air attached to one another struggling to distinguish themselves, settling for something resembling a smile.

 

 

Reflections pt 1.

I seem to be constantly fighting a battle against a voice in my head that reminds me of my weaknesses and my shortfalls.

It’s an enemy that has studied my every move, taking note of each stumble and each stutter.

It preys on my insecurities, and grows with each one. At times, it stays silent giving the impression that it’s not actually there.

I let my guard down. It emerges. I search for defence by way of reason, but reason is either absent or impotent.

I always wondered how hard it was for the blind to find their way home. I wonder how I’ll find my way.

 

 

 

Mass

You unplug yourself from your Lifecharger. Your watch displays your vitals – everything seems to be in order. You stand slowly and walk to the kitchen where you take one tablet for your mood. In the meantime, you sit in silence and wait for the tablet to take effect. You read somewhere that a new model of the Lifecharger will be able to dispense the tablet straight in to your blood stream. An exciting prospect that means you’ll be able to eliminate this waiting period and improve your daily efficiency by over 2%. The mood tablet takes affect and you can begin with your day. You walk into your toilet, through the body washer/ dryer, swirl some mouth disinfectant, and put on your grey suit.

You’re good to go.

An autonomous transport machine waits outside your house for the residents of Building N7HY. You all board, avoiding eye contact in order to ensure that there are no misconceptions as to one’s sanity. You can all find your second tablet of the day in the pocket of the seat in front of you. Held in a time release capsule, it ensures that at precisely 8.30am, as you arrive at your Workstation, you begin to feel a sense of anxious urgency to complete the tasks at hand.

You arrive in what was once known as Liverpool Street, but is now referred to as Central Works. The crowd carries you to the front entrance of the financial institution to which you swore allegiance to 15 years ago. You had made the right decision. Time has proven that your organisation is far more efficient than its rivals. You feel proud in having contributed to this efficiency.

At 8.30, you and your equally efficient, hand-selected peers take your seats and plug in to the Workstation.

Tribute to Jean-Michel

The brighter the light the more they want to extinguish it

the warmer the smile the more it burns them

your quiet foot steps still echo in the present

their praise turned poison turned forgotten past

all with their hands up in a failing class

searching for meaning where they can find none

taking your meaning because they crave some

let them squabble and claim to understand

what they never will.

What was full in you is empty in them

and what is empty in them will never be filled.