I’m not one for intimacy with just anyone,
But lately sorrow and I have found company in each others arms.
There she is, at three AM, a mistress when the world thinks your sleeping.
Fishnets luring, long legged in stilettos,
All she does is stroke your hair,
‘Let them point, let them stare’,
She comforts you quite aware,
Of all the eyes of scorn unaware,
Of your mourn,
Black mascara dripping, dark cape of despair.
Sorrow is a morsel too hard to chew, too jagged to swallow,
Mastication, the gatekeeper reluctant to stop it from entering.
It’s a blunt knife bludgeoning away at callused carotids,
Neck too loaded with the burden of looking up,
That ease swings your way.
It’s a war of the heart,
Poetry at one end of the battle field,
And vices at the other,
And taking pleasure in both,
Until you have neither.
My sorrow yearns for tomorrow,
It thinks time will make it amnesic of today,
And yesterday, and the day before,
It fools me into sleeping,
Expecting a different outcome,
But there it is,
re-energised in full display,
Ready to drown you another day.
It’s the anchor that floats for the fuck of it,
Like the ball and chain of the mast-less ship,
That carries me, this vessel of in-confidence,
Of fragile unknowing, vulnerability,
Ready to be taken whichever which way the seas sway.
If you thought for a moment I display an air of confidence,
Flee now before you get wallowed into the sty I’m stewing in,
You have no idea what my daily routine consists of.
From the moment I wake, the lack of filter is not something to herald,
Seeing too much, feeling too much, thinking too much,
It eats at the very fabric of your make up,
Forcing you to analyse the most trivial of matters,
The simplest of actions and makes you question yourself
On everything. Every niggling detail.
How did I wake up, how did I sleep in the first place?
Where am I, is this still a dream, why is my heart beating harder?
Why is it slower, why is my mouth parched, did I miss the prayer?
Is my intention there, quick make ablution prepare your sorry state.
Will you pray from your heart, or are you mechanical today?
Re-do your ablution, you weren’t mindful. Re-do your prayer you were still sinful.
Did you turn your soul to God, or are you a pretender, prattling, preaching to the paupers, pandering to the princes, poet, perturbed and pawned to the pied piper of spiritual poverty, poetic justice for your pretentiousness!
Ah but we haven’t even hit five thirty AM,
There’s still more sorrow, more introspection,
More introverts reflection, indecision, hyperventilation,
Intellectual masturbation, procrastinations of deliberations,
No alterations, day in and day out,
But to you my presentation,
Appears fine, well and without need for alteration,
It’s society sanctioned,
Tick of approval for civilisations consummation.
I’m palatable with this mask of normalisation,
It’s a colour of sanity acceptable to our denominations.
The sermons of demonising our sorrow into the fancies of,
Psychologist nominations, into diagnostic manuals of arbitration,
Unfiltered, unchecked, unscientific aberrations,
Ignorant humans with no intent of humanisation.
As separated from humanity, as divided as nations,
And by our own hands have succumbed to these separatist sterilisations.
Sorrow is awareness with no filter,
Open season on your mind shooting itself,
War of soul vs heart vs ego vs mind vs self vs spirit,
And no motherfucker wins it,
But sorrow sits and grins at it.
The art is by Andreas Poupoutsis and is called, the Hidden Identities by Andreas Poupoutsis, available here: