That noise inside your head?
there is blessing in it,
give it the audience it deserves,
and it will become a symphony.
The four am chase,
with one eye struggling to open,
the other just barely watching what you write,
amazingly, your hands can do what they are meant to do,
and words fall on a page.
Stepping between the ropes
brave face, consumed by fear, clinging on to hope,
stare into his eyes,
and in the third person see yourself about to become,
even more alone than you already are.
Everything between, is automatic,
amazingly, your hands and feet do what they are meant to do,
and you fight with valour,
the outcome is irrelevant, the battle is poetic enough.
Listening to the gurgle of last breaths,
those who know, know,
there are cries, there are hearts turned to the sky,
and then the last breath escapes,
amazingly, amidst the chaos, you know what you are meant to do,
and this once home of a soul, you honour.
This clamour, this clamour,
this buzz, this ringing,
this ruckus of a stage presence,
chews at you,
because you know you have to step up to something when it comes,
there is a task at hand,
and during it,
perhaps this white noise is the silence you need to pull through.
It’s the coma from my self,
it’s the hand over my mouth,
it’s the straight jacket of containment,
it’s the cageless prison,
it’s the psychedelic of awareness,
it’s the ejection seat,
when I am going head first into,
where everything-ness exists,
perchance i land softly in it’s palm.
Excuse me whilst I am there.
Poets operate in a vacuum of extremes.
what we say is personal,
and as poetically written,
as weighty and prosen as it may anchor into you,
it is not universal.
Enjoy the word play,
but dwelling on the utter-ness of words,
will have you ready to tie your noose.