Broken men, trying men – two minutes of observation.

The door bell never rings when everyone is home.
So when it interrupted the insistence of percussive rain on colour bond awnings, and grass that was aching, and fruit trees that were singing, the humans in this house, cocooned off from the world raised their antennas.

I walked to the door to be met by the army of curious children that make my progeny. ‘Who is it dad?’ they asked as I reached for the keys to unlock the security screen.

There, was a man in a rain jacket, holding a folder.
My defences went up, my defences are always up but they went up another notch. I braced into fighting stance subtly, I reached into my pocket and clicked the top of a pen so the tip was out, clutched it firmly in one hand so it could be like a shank if needs be. I unlocked the door and opened it. You can’t be too sure in this day and age of scammers and thieves and I was already eyeing the targets I would strike before he could flinch, making sure I was in an advantageous position.

He greeted me and introduced himself. Andrew was his name and he was trying to sell me something. Usually, I am blunt and straight to the point with door to door knockers. But Andrew was different. He reminded me of another Andy I knew, in facial features, complexion, voice and as mentioned, even the name.

I was overcome with a sense of familiarity and my guard came down slightly as my heart softened to his circumstance.

Here was a broken man, a father, a man at his wits ends trying to make a buck and support his family. Was he the owner of the business he was trying to introduce, nah, it didn’t fit, he spoke with too much detachment from it for it to be his. He was definitely a man trying hard. A man busting his balls to provide. He seemed intelligent, just a stroke of bad luck perhaps. Perhaps laid off a job he knew for too long for him to know anything else and had answered a local paper advertisement promising superior commissions and hopes of making thousands of dollars – with full training provided.

He was selling solar power panels, which piqued my interest somewhat whilst at the same time the cautious side of me reminding me to not give too much away and to research before giving my personal information out.

Still, the transaction only interested me from the standpoint of poetic interaction.

I was psychoanalysing him in his every gesture, tone, body language, and sentences, but his heavy shoulders and tired voice were the most appealing to me.

I could smell a days work on him. He was exhausted and it showed in the folder he had opened with notes scribbled on there on scattered pieces of paper, with pamphlets stacked underneath. As he reached for one, I noticed he had a tally sheet in the traditional four straight lines with a stroke across them to mark the fifth. He had about 20 or more of those scribbled down. Was that all today’s work, or was it for the week?

I asked him to give me a contact number. I didn’t want to break him more with rejection, but perhaps leave a little hope that he was achieving some kind of milestone. I’ve tasted the bitterness of rejection, I’ve wallowed in the brokenness of wondering where the next dollar was going to come from to feed my children, to keep the electricity on, to put fuel in my car.

All I hope now is I can look up this company he supposedly represents and they are legitimate, and I can help Andrew make a dollar, or two and not have to worry for at least one week about food, electricity or fuel. To be able to go home and hold his children with conviction.

Worth

At some point you have to admit,
that your shadow is daunting,
that fear eclipses your potential,
stiffens you,
paralysing inaction,
remarkably unremarkable.

I was fifteen,
when I realised,
I had a lifelong journey ahead of me,
of taking what I wanted.

It needn’t be like a tyrant does,
that would be too heavy a guilt to carry,
and I have a vested interest in my longevity,
but meekness could not be the badge I wear.

To carry rage,
to contain wisdom,
to bottle up emotion,
a certain kind of fortress,
tight sealing and safe,
both from and to the world,
needs to be built.
Am I romanticising my development,
or am I staring my subconscious dead in the eyes,
I’d say both.

What are you doing to yourself,
inflexible,
and immobile.
Frozen at the crossroads,
of self doubt and complacency.

This comfort you adorn yourself in,
this robe of lethargy and victim-hood,
has to be removed.

A little discomfort,
a lot of exposure,
to elements that make you shiver and shudder,
wouldn’t go astray.

A healthy appetite of fear and apprehension,
won’t do you harm.

All you need,
are sharp tenacious teeth,
to bite at everything that comes your way.

But you can’t have that,
if like a leech you suck the world around you dry,
if you never give off fragrances of your soul,
oblivious and impartial to anything in return,
limelight, entitlement and praise,
the least of your concern.

W.E.

Millennial privilege 

You won’t get what you want without first offering something to the world.
The idea of default entitlement is ludicrous and shows the futility of your understanding of the world you live in.
I often have to pull myself away from people who are stuck in the rut of holding people or the world hostage, that is literally and figuratively pointing a gun to their head or a knife to their throat forcing them into guilt by holding them to an unestablished standard that they assume is owed to them.
It’s impossible.
You don’t deserve a single thing, not even respect if you cannot demonstrate your worthiness of respect or that thing.
The chronological order is that you must first put out value to receive it.
The world always reciprocates in kind and if you are too shallow to see it, whether literally or philosophically, then at the very least it will fill you with contentment that you have exhausted yourself in courage and nobility to achieve those ends.
W.E.
#respect #millennials

Unlearning yourself 


​Hands up if this is default,

hands up if the guilt of self scrutiny stops you,

none of this bloat and fodder,

no fluff, no bullshit, no other.
Nothing can pull you from you,

without an ounce of arrogance,

or delusion,

still,

seeing yourself in the third person is the anchor,

you have no false allusions.
Reading yourself like a scrupulous editor,

with interest and utter diligence,

with critique and endearment,

trying to cipher significance.
All this noise and chatter,

it feels so right to want to sever my head,

there’s too much squawking,

there’s too much vying,

my souls aching to be read.
W.E.
Picture not mine 

The social con


Write,

with as much fire as you’re willing to live with.
Share,
what makes them pang for more of you.
Drip feed,
the crux of your elixir onto their palate until they taste the metallic feigning of addiction.
Even then,
Keep most of you for later.
This world wants to know everything about you,
and when it does will tell you that you really don’t know yourself,
so it can sell you back to yourself.
W.E.