Something that has become lost on my brothers


Of what use do I have for a love that I cannot hurt with,
a love that leaves no scars.

How do I leave road maps back to you?
Knots in a rope,
a leaf trail,
footprints that return me into your soul.

I’m not deceived by a love that is sanitised and unwilling to scold,
smooth mountains never make much for climbing.

There’s nothing that excites me,
in a complicated face,
neither am I aroused,
by the curves and voluptuousness,
that makes a mockery of men.

I’d much rather the plainness of a woman,
who goes by unnoticed,
yet harbours a universe inside,
an outside wreck perhaps,
an inside wonder.

W.E.

 

raise your sons

 

We’re hypocrites,
teaching our children to be humble,
and with the same breath,
showing them how to be attached to things,
this anxiety that we’ve left in our wills,
shall be inherited by them as boulders,
if we don’t quite simply,
practise what we preach,
and release the world from our grasp,
so that it can unshackle us from it slavery.

W.E.

writers block – 4

 

If you need to win the conversation,
you’ve lost the art of communication.

Most people talk at,
instead of to people,
over,
instead of into,
through piercing arrows,
instead of soothing aloe,
and they wonder,
why they are not heard.

And it is no different for a writer,
how can anyone receive your words,
if all you want to do is be read,
if you don’t want to run your fingers through the mind of a reader.

W.E.

Tongue tied guilt

When my lips don’t know how to dance with my tongue,
when my teeth are chattering to an orchestral clamour,
it means there is begging in my mouth,
the echo from with in,
urging, urging, urging,
purging for for a litany of words to be written.

I can do that with my hands,
like building a home,
fixing a car,
fighting a human,
I can imagine things,
manifest them through my limbs with relative ease,
I can write you your own deepest thoughts,
but this mouth meat,
is the gateway to everything that is wrong in the world,
and so I’ll leave it guarded and keep it tied like the rabid dog it is.

Why are these hands so capable though,
and silence such an easy scapegoat,
why is my tongue guilty by default,
with no fair trial at all,
and yet my hands are unshackled and free to do as they please.

It feels as though I’ve bought into it all,
that keeping your mouth shut is so rewardable,
and keeping your hands busy, also rewardable,
a convenience for mediocrity,
insurance for government and society.

Meanwhile, this heart aches to speak out,
they’ve cut my tongue into obedient pieces,
a relationship with God,
slave-hood cloaked as humility,
a closet poet,
a fixer of things only around his immediate circle.

W.E.

CREDIT: Image by Hiroharu Matsumoto

 

dear grief – 25

There it is again,
floating familiarity,
unworthiness and loneliness,
those ever loyal friends.

There’s always the guarantee of silence;
underneath my eyelids,
hearing your sweaty palms ache for a touch,
the ongoing march of my heart,
the lies my mind conjures,
and especially when they all meet,
and truth acts like the reconciliatory scimitar,
and quells all the hurt.

W.E.

introversion – fifty seven

Who would of thought,
they could make a commodity,
out of introversion,
quiet folk lucratively gaining traction,
learning how to hone their art,
monetise themselves,
until they’re just as loud as extroverts.

Awkwardly unsocial,
conveniently clickable,
viral, marketable,
shyness and meekness,
now acceptable.

Everywhere I look it seems that there is no stone they will leave unturned with their data mining. No small corner of anyone’s world that they won’t bring up to the surface, magnify, amplify and like a multi-level-marketing ploy, spread it around like a fad until they have milked the life out of it.

Fuck I feel so out of place and more obscure than ever.

W.E.