I have a mistress,her name is sorrow,
shall be our child.
but how will sorrow’s womb be fertile,
if she leaves no room for my whisper,
how will I inherit grief
to carry on my name
if the sporadic nature of her call
is through the most mundane
how will grief grow bones and skin and eyes and fingers
if her bosom sees no sun nor candle
so don’t look at me as a madman, an adulterer, a man of the tavern or temple
just let me be this brittle being
hidden-unseen, having been
an in between, anything but unclean
the loss of a child strikes you mad,
when grief is a metaphor for dad.
People cry in public,
Intimidated by the fear of being seen as unmoved,
I prefer the shadows.
Like all things anchored to me,
You (oh grief) wait in darkness unseen,
And Let them think,
That I’m a heartless son,
‘Perhaps he’s stricken with no soul,
Perhaps he’s so far departed,
But I don’t mind that eyes stare,
That this pain visits me alone,
And leaves not a morsel of me to spare.
Here I am four am darkness,
With pen in hand,
And blotched pages with the ink of my grief,
Perhaps like him,
What do public displays of tears do but comfort the conformists,
I weep in solitude and heal in solitude,
And of my soul am the alchemist.
There’s times…when He listens more.
It’s that time,
I hear Your call,
I know You hear mine.
If you cannot suffer the pain,
You have no business falling in love with an artist.
Through song, writing, paint or any medium,
The pain inflicted is of two types:
If they love you,
It is agonising not to be able to love them back equally
If they hate you,
You will be the subject of ridicule in a masterpiece that destroys you.
Are you longing to be a source of my pain?
Just so your ego can revel in the joy of knowing you were able to extract from me syllables to fashion some prose.
To meter some emotion.
To prattle some words.
I can change my medium like a snake sheds it’s skin.
Akin, to your liking.
So you can hear the words you long to hear,
Just audio on ear.
Be wary, as you’re lost in the marvel of the fashioned words,
That I harbour a hatred towards you.
Whilst you bathe in the romanticism of you,
I drown in the confusion of suicide contemplating this grotesque thing you made me do.
Forcing me to write.
I don’t know how to write letters of begging and wont save you as you struggle with your thoughts and haven’t the skill to put ink to paper.
No, you’ll probably inject ink to skin.
A faded tattoo of my name on your aged skin, your children will ask you about,
That you will cry incessantly every time about and teach your children the idea of contentment from.
You’ll teach them not to scatter bed sheets if you don’t intend to sleep.
You’ll teach them not to rattle the hive if you don’t want to be stung
You’ll teach them not to kick the loyal dog if you don’t want teeth gnawing at your soul for the rest of your life.