The self worth lie

Like all things arbitrary,
plucked from randomness,
the end,
never adds up.

The common denominator though,
is you,
and if you want to remove yourself from algorithms,
reduce as much as you can to naught.

Your self worth comes from
un-worth,
zero value,
not from adding mundane and dying things,
it makes zero mathematical sense to add perishing things to your life,
expecting to live.

Arbitrating the arbitrary,
philosophical meandering,
sophisticated prattling,
underlying the arrogance to admit,
You’re nothing!

We’re a perishing thing,
with delusions of being an ever abundant spring.
W.E.
#poetry

match made in-between lines

There’s quite a lot of wordsmiths,
an art, just like a blacksmith,
you can beat into you.

But only the hands burnt in bellows,
charred face and eyes jaundice yellow,
liver blackened by the anger,
the hurt, the love that still mellows,
will be able to raise your hairs on end,
speak of beauty and sorrow,
play out lines,
like an aged cello.

W.E.

hear no, see no, feel all

It owns you.

Play pretend until your last breath,
but you’ll forever be it’s slave.

One sin, two sins, three sins four,
soon, you won’t feel,
you’ll just want more.

Five sins, six sins, seven then eight,
try to pay it off,
it will be too late.

Nine sins, ten sins, and on it goes,
before you can pay it off,
you’ll be someone you don’t know.

It bites, it gnaws,
it’s the cracking jaw,
it reminds you with every chew,
of the reality of you.

The bite that can’t be digested,
purity gone,
by your own hand molested.

W.E.

I’m amazed (and laugh inside) when people take the wrong things they do so lightly, not in mock or jeer, but in pity for the ignorance of what they will inevitably be indebted to. That stuff doesn’t just go away. Try as you may to pretend your conscience is switched off and it doesn’t bother you, deep within, it haunts and chips away at you until it manifests in other ailments.

Sometimes it takes time, but it lurks and waits for the opportune moment to collect and when it comes knocking, there’ll be nothing you can do but admit your folly, your arrogance and ignorance.

Sin is glorified, like one can raise their head in pride for the shit they do, for the hurt they cause and parade themselves as being honest, bludgeoning the word, the meaning, bastardising it and uprooting it from it’s intended purpose.
‘At least I’m honest’, they mantra like being filthy, being vile and being loaded with immorality is pardoned by a simple admittance. Shame? What shame? Shame is ridiculed to the derelict corner of uncool. It’s cool to be a piece of shit these days and wear that like a badge of honour.
You may hear no evil, you may see no evil, as you’ve shifted the metrics of measuring evil, but you’ll feel it all, eventually every last bit of it.

W.E.

dear grief – 11

Reluctance,
is a spoon of regret,
mixed with the broth of fear,
and a dash of ego.

The medicine,
bitter as it may be,
has a limited time,
an appropriate window.

Late,
is not better than never,
it’s a lie to comfort you,
that you took way too long,
to overcome your self.

And now,
you have no one to grieve,
but your lowly self.

W.E.

-love letters

I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.

Articulated, be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence, with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance. They are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.

No, instead, his love is a finger swipe away.

-W.E.

Cure for the sane

I’ve seen you at the edge of normality,
and how bored you look,
staring with trepidness,
this hyper fear,
to get near,
to the crazy insolubles,
to the protected valuables.

Did you ever think,
this fog of confusion,
this veil of seclusion,
is our choice default?

We purposely paint ourselves odd,
to be left alone by your hyper-sanity.

And you know too well
the cure for sanity,
is our insanity.

W.E.

anticipation

anticipation

Anticipation,
is an arid tongue,
hope, far flung,
poetry, unsung,
waiting, knowing,
it’s not going to come.

It’s the beating of a skin-torn drum,
hearing the murmur of your hearts hum,
for odes that wont ever be sung,
you know, you just have to succumb.

Be content without, with only, some,
putting your hand in the same hole,
knowing you’re going to be stung,
leaving surety, to the whims of the young.

Don’t despair they say,
but I’m choking on impatient lungs,
it’s no wonder people end it early,
when anticipation feels like,
waiting to become undone.

W.E.