Hypocrisy sits well aloft your eyelashes,
green, highlights your envy well,
aren’t you heavy yet,
I would have thought,
all that jealousy is quite hard to digest.
One day, you will ink a thought in my mind,
my conscience might tap gently on my fingertips,
and I will write you once more.
Try, until then,
to know that no one,
and no thing,
belong to anyone,
even the words you so tenderly bathed yourself in,
I don’t have a love that is poetically long and enduring.
I have billions of microseconds of explosive and volatile
love that births without warning and dies leaving a trail
Each breath in, a new love,
each exhale, a new death.
Otherwise known as muses.
I’m yet to find a muse that will own the entirety of me.
Devotion whilst noble and grand is uninspiring.
I love you,
a hundred times a day,
and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Forces the prose
Something about a muse that’s silent that grants you passage into your deeper realms.
She wore thick framed glasses and her colour was conviction,
Assured of herself, black, poised, my affliction,
She taps me gently on my fingertips wakes me for inscription,
She knows me well, feeds my addiction.
Wears her prose in balanced meter, long pauses of silence,
At times white noise, piercing violence,
Enamoured with adornments of the highest order, black diamonds,
She knows how to wake me and be my guidance.
Only a lover would know her and how she allures,
She’s divorce material, an obsession with no cure,
She’s the last person my wife would ever conjure,
Her name is The Night, black majestic grandeur.
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.
She ignited my pen
It wasn’t just a normal pen any more
It was a fire breathing
Now all I can write about
is her flame
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.
For me, the ability to write only comes in the stillness of the night.
Thoughts, ideas, musings and pondering pass through me during the day.
A word from him, a look from her, a thought from that person expressed through mere presence, my guard is up and I’m on alert and I take notes but I only find the reaping at night when silence prevails, my belly is empty, life forms are otherwise dead and the stillness allows it all to manifest.
Like a bashful girl summoned from behind a veil, some things deserve their own stage.
You must find that place and realise the worlds most noble sages, scholars, writers, artists, musicians and poets all revelled in solitude.
Some may need alcohol to remove these filters and inhibitions, but it will always be a mask, a psychotropic drug that keeps the demons at bay long enough for you to function. But the best of your work will only come when the body is pure, detoxified of material and of ego and ripe with a fertile soil.