My safe space,
my comfort zone,
is too taboo,
so I have to do it alone.
So long as I keep my hyper masculinity on my sleeves,
like bulging biceps or an inflated chest,
I can keep my emotions buried and hidden,
between this fleshen nest.
Men can’t be both,
we’re either too soft,
or too hard,
or too apart,
fragmented into convenient bits and lots,
able to be filed and sorted into slots,
convenient for comfort,
but let those feelings rot.
Keep them buried,
leave the platform for the meek,
let women herald the stage,
as for men,
leave their emotions only worthy,
for ink on a page.
What’s up with that huh?
Can’t a burly bloke walk the lines of poetic prowess,
whilst like a gorilla, size you up, fisticuffs ready and beat his chest?
we bathe in the waterholes of confusion
assuming all our worth is contained in a few lines
whilst others hold us up to status of blasphemous measure
and we commit the devils original crime
it wasn’t Adam and Eve that sinned first
it wasn’t that they were tempted by fruit and devil coerced
but when the devil refused to obey, said he is better than them
twas, vanity, arrogance, self worth, all his curse
alas our poetry falls in sentence and verse
and we act, we pretend to be humble and reserved
but it’s recognition of the things we have buried inside
that remains our destruction, unquenchable thirst
it’s in the DNA.
it’s not something that can be stopped,
my ancestors have left covenants,
with my forefathers,
all I am to do,
is be the vessel
image from http://renecampbellart.tumblr.com/post/82301544519/the-fabric-of-life-updated-flipped-the-image
Regret swims in your mouth,
swollen in your lips,
ripe, words unsaid,
if only a bite.
I swallowed my tongue long ago.
When I realised the world had no ear for me,
I let it speak in the pits of my belly.
Livid with the anger of loneliness,
It found companionship with my liver,
Teaching it how to fight the fight within.
My gut taught it trust,
Occasionally, my mind would send love letters,
Always a distant relationship.
Eventually my heart heard it’s echo’s
And turned it into etchings.
Still, my tongue lives in me,
On fingertips in poetry.
A sharp pencil is a sign of a blunt imagination
New series of random musings on poets.
Don’t be offended, I’ll probably contradict myself a thousand times with musings battling each other out as they come to me.
These are not absolutes, maybe thought provokers at most.
If you hate me or disagree with anything, by all means please comment and let me know how you feel or share with me your ideas.
Ever evolving, I don’t wish to stay stagnant.
For just one day, throw yourself down,
Into the throngs of sacred poetry,
For just one day, walk with us,
Find your identity,
In it, there is ravishing beauty,
Something for all hearts to see,
A secret, a riddle, a piece,
For you, and me.
Happy Poetry day friends and fellow writers. Let loose, flare you nostrils and grab those quills.