I always knew You were not right in the head
.That is not how normal people act
None-the-less, I longed for your caress
I could understand
But you know me,
Who plays with fire to get burned.
I cherish the lunacy that resides in All of us.
Let’s “namaste” wild gods, thus:
My inner psycho master greets
The schizo deity inside of ye
We all have a part that is out of wack and unbalanced and rather than repressing and ignore it, I am trying to treasure it and acknowledging.
People with mental illnesses deserve to have relationships. For that they need understanding compassion from others.
I am not trying to make light of those conditions, specifically mentioned or any mental health issue. But this is me, acknowledging that we have a propensity to get there, to the same place some are at. By recognising it in myself, I recognise it in others and that puts me in a position of compassion, rather than judgement.
Poets are lovers of words
If you are going to approach
Make sure that you boast
About your vocabulary.
Use everything that you carry
Use everything that you know.
Poets like verbal displays
Being able to express how you are feeling
Otherwise, we won’t hear what you are speaking. “Hey beautiful” is just a mere sentence that echoes.
That might just mean, they don’t really know how a poet operates.
Poets adore serenades
We like to play with the words
We substitute them with grace
We like to hear definitions
We paint life with letters that won’t erase.
But when you get simplified sentences,
Copied and pasted.
Everywhere, in your space.
It frustrates you to some disgrace.
Poets see the world with creative variance.
We seek novelty, diversity and new experience.
Not the simplification and limitations that the superficiality of a “hey gorgeous” brings.
Next time you come near
Make sure to sing me some epic hymn.
The process of writing poetry is fascinating. I have a considerable amount of stream of consciousness lines to work on and weave into a poem. Nonetheless, sometimes the flow does not come so I leave them aside. This poem came from a tag on instagram for the hashtag #youneverleft.
I love how free flow poetry works. One line pushes another and there you have it. You don’t really know where it will lead you to. In truth, the last lines came first and I built my poem from these pillars.
Just a reminder: no one but yourself can make your dreams come true. But this line just alludes to the fact, there was a wish that was never fulfilled. 👇
A dream-not of you
The rising shine of morning rays
Tickles the eyes, hatching for the day.
The first thought and memory that delineates my mental landscape
Are not yours, they are mine to gratify and celebrate.
Finally, I achieve peace.
No more worrying, “does he love me?!” The focus is, again, internal
The breaths and heartbeats make this poetry’s symphony.
Our story will remain stamped on my cells, the body’s journal,
For the learning does not die, it keeps on coming.
Forever ingrained in the patterns of the unconscious.
Then, I realise,
You have never left, never really withdrew,
That is because you never came
To make my dreams come true.
Who said loneliness is not tangible?
It is the phone that doesn’t ring
Or the finger taps that don’t please.
All those people in your feed,
Shutting their blinds down
On your window screen.
So, I download that app and walk around
Hoping our paths cross around town.
The red light beeps
Like my heart beats that bleeds
It is not a notification,
But my battery that ceases.
Town is buzzing, eyes are crossing
Heads are turning, men are watching.
Ripped jeans and some fake tan whiff.
Going out for a drink?
Ain’t nothing better than this?
How about a bicycle trip?
You’ve left this digital space
It seems, not only I, devastate.
This realm of virtual overwhelm
Where you used to co-create.
I mourn a death, like they do in old time sakes.
Only, the information is not delayed.
This notification, is heralded in a fast pace.
You can see it, straight away.
Like a slap in the face,
A goodbye note that is left
And cannot be retraced.
You are now, more gone than before.
There’s no more peeping through window blinds, no reason for.
When the person exits your virtual world
You cannot knock on their door anymore.
They leave a blank space in your analogue globe.
Like an empty house, where memories are forlorn.
You type and retype and seek for a shortcut
But you only waste time,
Trepidation waves in the gut.
Suddenly, you have a hole, between your chest and bones.
Then, you learn
Against death, there’s no winning.
Let the questions burn
Ignorance keeps your head from spinning!
Today is a memorable day, since had the first of my poems (“On Aging”) published in the honorable Scum Gentry Arts website.
Do check it out. They have great content, in regards to alternative poetry, prose, visual art and games.
My poetry got wings, it landed in Edinburgh City
It’s cold, breezy and dark, it’s not, yet, even evening.
Where are these men with tartan skirts?
I want to bag their pipes, they want their bagpipes to be heard.
I want to see the Loch Ness erupt.
From swampy waters, undeterred.
So far it seems quite different, from where my spirit lives.
I’m reminded of this partition, when I need to pay any fees
And when listening to quirky accents, as Scottish people speak.
The modern toppled buildings, reminders of my previous life
Old structures elevate the neck, causing shimmers in the eye.
The novelty of all, that can be absorbed
Is captured by these optic nerves.
Be it windows, doors, graffiti.
Nothing here goes unobserved.
A new city tastes like the freshness
Of coffee smell on a morning rise.
As Nan Sheperd once said: “It’s a grand thing to get leave to live”,
So I’ll follow her advice.
I enjoy my holiday in the land of brave hearts.
Hearing kingfishers sing, as the moon makes her depart.
Edinburgh is a magical city and many birds sing through out the night!