21: 23
Aging out of love.
Body no longer easy,
the circled shadow doesn’t thin,
a reflection of darkness
that expands and consumes.
Spend a week of running scales,
no difference.
Accept a new reality of
darkened vision,
only then will
love remain.
Poem 21:22
21:22
One-trip wire of
defence remains,
finger curled around
its sharp line,
cutting deeper as
you wait, wait
for the one who
tries to rescue you.
Look deep into
their eyes
as you tug
the line and
explode.
Poem 21:21
21:21
Mask the death
from the world
with nature’s
tears.
Wash away ashes
in the river of
blood, too thick
to see those
drowning,
reaching
for your hand.
Poem 21:20
21:20
Hello you,
child yet to meet the world,
yet to meet me.
You are not of my body,
my blood, my lineage,
but a family can
form together
through love and
learning,
understanding.
Your life may start
out tragic, painful
with loss before love
can form,
but we will be
waiting here,
ready to meet you,
love you,
complete both our worlds.
Poem 21:19
21: 19
Smashed spiders on the page,
a language even the
creator finds hard
to translate.
Poem 21:18
21: 18
Judging small faces as
small minds.
Speak words with no
filter.
They don’t understand,
they won’t feel the tone.
They won’t hurt with feelings.
21:17
21:17
Independent mumuration,
no hive mind to control us.
We are individual,
heading in the
same direction.
Will you join us?
Poem 21:16
This isn’t really a poem, it was me just messing around with lines when planning out The Pathless poem.
21:16
Light footsteps,
dreams?
A film over reality?
Disconnected steps,
surreal breeze of happiness, peace,
spinning and seeing
and constant, and constant.
Lazy ripples
see the life in your heart
crushing, crushing, gone.
Lazy glimpses of importance
searching, following their presence.
Reaching for connection,
chasing and falling.
Muffled sound in a surreal land,
leaves brushing against bare feet,
but cold and ground not harming them.
A body no one sees as ugly
despite the blurred presentation.
Poem 21:15
21:15
A water bottle
large and bold,
2.2 litres you
can hold.
You’re carried around,
drunk from
and cherished,
for the liquid
you can hold
to revive and
hydrate us.
Yet the bottle
has a dream,
a goal of its own,
to sit in the
driver’s seat and
take us home.
Feel the power of
deciding a course,
of being noticed,
and offering a choice.
But the bottle has
no hands, no feet,
no eyes,
you remain in the
passenger seat,
unnoticed and
alone.
Poem 21:14
More of a rant than a poem. I can’t even remember why I was so angry now.
21: 14
I hate people.
I hate their fake concern,
their indignant nature,
thoughtless justifications
and self-righteous excuses.
No one is more important
or more deserving
or as hard-done by
as a person forced
to do more than
they want.
They look and find
someone to
blame,
push,
condescend
until all is right
in their world again.
Who cares about
the other,
their life is good
again, nothing
is more important.
Leave them there
to bleed.
Scribbled Thoughts 