we all have a home
some, just can’t hear it’s call
just can’t feel it’s hold
my home strangles me with the rope of poetry
noose as tight as the rhymes it loops in the mind of me
in between the sides of me
back and forth grinding down the meat of me
taking out my feet from me
swept up and into the fingers of trees
blown and breast fed to the eastern seas
my home is inside of me
it’s always been
i was just too full of shit to see
not that he’s gone and taken that part of me
the veil that whilst kept me blind
also kept me warm
now naked and exposed in entirety
we bathe in the waterholes of confusion
assuming all our worth is contained in a few lines
whilst others hold us up to status of blasphemous measure
and we commit the devils original crime
it wasn’t Adam and Eve that sinned first
it wasn’t that they were tempted by fruit and devil coerced
but when the devil refused to obey, said he is better than them
twas, vanity, arrogance, self worth, all his curse
alas our poetry falls in sentence and verse
and we act, we pretend to be humble and reserved
but it’s recognition of the things we have buried inside
that remains our destruction, unquenchable thirst
i’m still learning how to remove my self
It’s hard to see what is happening to someone when you’re focusing on yourself.
Whilst your self importance is being exalted, did it occur that they were trying to remove their own self worth and be lighter before they return to earth?
-lure, the other half
to list what lures a woman
is too daunting a task.
simplifying and stereotyping
is reserved for ignorants,
who know not a thing of her fibre.
of my most distilled experience,
a woman seeks endurance.
an ability to bare with her growth,
under all conditions she travels through,
inner and outer.
offer poise in turmoil
something to hold on to in hurricanes
to be a roof when it rains way too hard for any soul to bare
poetry when none of her words are there
a whisper in a nest of care
spoon when crawling up into despair
as subtle as a stroke of her hair
so much more than what what we assume
buys all temporary glitter, glam and flair
even to be a stern glare
when off track and unaware
a vent when there is no air
women aren’t a puzzle
they just want a man
to loyally be theirs
There’s a whole ocean of emotions I’m being deprived of.
Not even my toes are allowed to be dipped into it.
What is this ban that won’t let me feel what others feel yet I can write what others cant.
They can weep and show emotion.
They grow pale and withdrawn.
But I continue on like nothing happened.
Perhaps I’ve lived so introverted for far too long and a display of emotion is the last thing I am capable of to the outside world.
Maybe the clutter of my own mess is too weighty to allow me to see past myself, past my state.
Maybe this is punishment for my awakened ego asking such self important questions, as it’s obvious, I, I’m, me, my… always referencing me.
But I digress, there it is again, even my digression has an I, even explaining that has a my.
Maybe there are no tears because all of this has to stop being about me, but rather him.
We’re vain aren’t we.
Someone else dies,
and it’s always about our hurt,
our feelings, our state,
not realising there’s little time,
left to banish ego,
before we meet our fate.
it takes a disconnect
to assume i’m impressed with praise
only causes me bloat
when your natural habitat is inside
when your profession has been internal dialogue for so long
it becomes quite easy to weed out insincere language
words, prattled to make a clamour of noise
that does anything but receive the intended party well
say something of worth
or don’t say anything at all
to fill in the gaps of civil exchange
is like throwing away the ripe fruit
to only eat the bitter seed
it nauseates me
you’ve got a fight ahead of you
if you think eyelashes
and the sway of your hips
are enough to lure a man
not asking at all through your physicality
but through your being
If you did lure, he’s a boy, not a man and you’re a girl, not a woman.