The Sadness To Hate Myself

Sometimes pure emotion overwhelms my soul into a landslide steeped in the victory of vacant tears and a breathless truce of beauty but not youth. The contrast of everything to a normal life, a day to day of simple things and little shared beliefs. Just coasting to a place of no return, swallowed into an open casket bound for a place unknown.

I fear I deeply seek perfection, an endless quest to find the circle in my soul that’s not already dead. The slice of light that will forever be my friend, in the darkest of despair and in the brightest torch of July flames. In a moment of repair I pass through stages of reverential grief. The pain of understanding, the simple unacceptance of such toil, the pleading with the prisoners in my heart to hold on more and finally the knowledge that I feel alone but I am never all alone.

There is no valley to walk for miles, there is no desert to crawl barefoot for years. There is no water to avoid for all eternity and there is no joy that can’t be rediscovered and loved for me and for everyone eternally.
I have spent so much time overcoming this emotion, time and space with nothing but a deeper sense of tragic sadness. A fear and loathing, a scapegoat for my many failings, to hate myself, to despise the humanity of my ageing without respect for the world that has provided me with everything.

Perhaps it is forbearance of my future, perhaps the finishing line of all that I have ever worked towards. In another life, through another’s eyes there could be hope for the delicacy of my ponderings. The mystery that carves my template into this earth forever. A different person, a fuller soul, one that will not bleed with sheer remorse. If that is me then I am fine to keep on waking up to reminders of the lifeless skin and bone that i can feel evicerate everything. It is who I am today, be it a curse or a blessing or an uneven spoil, it is free. There is joy and sadness and love and fear, there is a soul so frightened, inside of me.



A wave, a work in progress calmly orchestrating everything. Forlornly seeking cold and comfort arms of strangers, attack the solemn spiteful arrogance of the ungrateful.

A walk, a willful passing through of passions true abandon, a mercy bled unto the arms of angels broken shards of glass. Cracked in crystals, feet and body wept in tears of blasphemy, the crisp and calm and tortured speech of aching bodies, brave in spite of me.

Seering days weak and wounded, pouring into ashen faced half-alive scribes entombed, in a madness made of their own world and of other things. Of words that fill their lonely soul, of fear that grips them and rips them whole.

The said of sounds, the echoes loud, the speechless makers so forever proud. The wild and shanty light commence through a darkness in the mind immense. There comes a bleak and blackened din of comfort and of tears within, the breaking of a body famed in dust and shaped to withstand the years of rust. 

A wave, a strangers pawing claws to the future death, come without applause. To the sounds that answer everything, to forever and to anything.. There is darkness, there is light, there is a burning deep inside.When there is life and death within, there is only silence to keep me in. 

Sadness Measured In Black Balloons

Nothing escapes me. The dull ache of despair that filters and scrambles it’s view into fuller fashion and thinly veiled fascinations, accompany me to the glimmer of severed swollen life and magic places filled out on a landscape shorn of imagination and grief.

The passing tide, the rumours held into passages of passing time. Or withheld, the remorseless wake of flowing epics or miscues. What to understanding lay down further it’s head on a pillow and remained sad for a minute, a future without a reason or mellow maddening of mistakes. In the senseless grace of tomorrow, in the days and weeks where anger followed. 

The darkness that lifts us all to life. That sworn silence between a moment of letting go and a shrill scream of unabashed into the nevering hole. Tongues lashing out at savagery sweated out on a multitude of mirror images so dank and dumb and lifeless and unforgiven. So many moons of passionless preening, so many terror deaths into the earth their bodies ripped and screaming.

Melancholy savoured into joy, savard long dense and swallowing up the swimming of life’s remorse. To breathe again is to seek a new release within. To feel again is to crave the love that will begin. Upon a new and withering plain, where old life be calm remained. A sadness for the souls consumed, their treasures measured in black balloons. 


So close. In an empty room the vacant walls brush against the souls of my endeavor. Like elevators going nowhere, standing still for timeless aching, better still the neglect in a wonderous masquerading space. I am not new but nothing of me seems real, not the boredom in my tragedy, not the working of my days into a pulsing place.

Clocks, voices, clicking screens, telephone imagery on the ceiling like romantic pictures placed into frames for the sight of a billion star struck eyes. Older and still full of life, bright through dawn and into the glow of a new day’s rise. Together as its shadow shaded through the door of mourning, passed into a fillet spiked savor and smart where all our hopes and dreams restart. 

A message bottled so brief. The screams that thunder into a minds slow release. Cagey, wired to perfection but not blasted into every sky or fading light, nothing into the dark outside. A mirror underneath that burns every image into a soul impressed in the vacancy of clouds deceased. A torture but a quick and thankful race, a shocking moment captured in the lines on a swollen face.

Am I happy or am i sad? Am I more a kid and less a man? Becoming what I dreamed was what I planned, into a future of tragedy or pure romance? Waiting, still asleep for many moons or days and weeks repent, the room that holds the answer soundly remains my voice within. To a turning of despair into a light that’s edging there, through a morning of memories made, into my immortal soul inhaled. 

Every Single Detail

I live alone through sharper eyelids that become my own, glaze and gazed upon a piercing smile, a to be continued deathly hallowed fierce full light. Between the lashes, deep into the mire of more worthy even tempo come a breath filled wake of glory bequeath all reason simple.

I be the man of many days, none wasted on earthly vows wormed in the soul of humanities staring temple. That shapeless spine, that lookout post for treasures aching void between, that which wonders forever so rich in dreams. Esquire tell us folk there comes a god so clean, from where men so old grew into their frame and slowly began to speak.  

I am in every single detail, i feel the drops that threatens to cascade the temptress of a soul setting space. Awkward and yet pure, milling to the edge of rivers waiting wall, the takers that shake off the fears demur. Placed in glass, circled with a ribbon tied to the sighs of a sweet love life lost.

I am the feather escaping forever into the atmosphere like a perfect swan gliding to the end of everything heavenly. That which takes me cannot break me, it can but enfuse and engulf the surrounding light of my quenched memories immortal. No finer made of cloth, no more symbols of a love since lost. A drip, a drop, a defining sway full stop.. In every single detail clocked, my eyelids now become my rearranging rock. 

Silvering Of Solitary Life

Wander into dust, carcass bled with tubes of lust and grey sinking sharpness. The fullness of its murky world ensured more than it’s most meaningful abandon. Little people in their large tree bound houses, awake at the mere sound of mice trailing the floors for new light.

A quarter of a second, a sharp clash of a million noises ever more severe and less secure between the clips of movie moments without a voice. Taut and woeful, harder end of an accident, betrayal these eyes that catch glimpses will let you down again. No-one complains but it falls back into remote answering of questions.

Who is between my heart? Who is the delicacy with which I give up everything to obey? For that which walks inside me, wakes to find my soul screaming out landslides but upon waves of streaming silence. My Silvering of solitary life in exclamation points, woken to the breaking of my already broken bones. 

There is a depth and a world and a swollen passage to the size of annihilated highlights. There is a movie made with me as myself and nothing happens for hours, somehow it all seems to fit, it all works away and I am lamented, be gone or be brave. A carcass bled with so much of everything and still left here worth nothing.

For between the darkness there comes  a fog, a murdered man forever salvation not my hero or cause, not mine to applaud. For the instant circling of just all joy, for the reasons of cherished noise. The man that owned his life stood poised to become less him, more just a boy.

The Places Of Yesterday

Once a swallow,  one of earth’s greatest but not a songbird lilting into sounds of acorns and shallow ground, nothing more gracious than broken stick pieces melted into mud flakes on the soil of our saviour. It is his light, his demise that sweeps our mind mellow into the dusting.

The yellowing of Autumn, the passing skyline between the specs on my forehead wilting into shapeless never. Bang goes the clap of beaten work waveless in empty promises and false fatherhood. Not now not ever, not for me to scream into the abyss of my childhood. 

Sad men walk with weak legs and dead souls drifting into long nights of pain and protection, no mirror for laughs, no escaping the terror of the unrelenting quick sand. The places of yesterday, the coming week of truth display the passion’s lake on a fire breathing beauty used.

Hail and wept, so deeper glory can still reborn, the finer sights of teardrops drenched in the cold whisper of many days shivering. The darker depths of what remains in the bleakness of old Summer are now in the Autumn years of forever. But for lonely cost, and true for tragic circumstances trapped the places of yesterday ache with love and the signs of everything and everyone who’s lost.