You ain’t shit (we ain’t shit)

Big goals, huge targets and all that go getter stuff,
the motivational speaker snake oil,
the performance coach mantras,
all do fuck all if you don’t comprehend the reality and meaning of it all.

The purpose of a larger than life goal is to understand your smallness,
not to mantra dumb shit.

It’s to make humility your staple,
to show you how insignificant you are in the grand scheme of things.

And here we are,
2019 and cunts with a vocabulary that doesn’t extend past their thumbs are telling you that you matter so much.

Well you don’t,
you’re gonna die and rot with the best of them,
because guess what,
as we said,
the world is bigger than you and doesn’t care for your insignificance.

So,
does that mean you become a hopeless despot?
Fuck no!
Have those fuck off big goals but in the right context.

Know your worth doesn’t mean you’re worth alot,
it means know how worthless you are amongst the sea of other worthless beings that will all find their allotted time waiting for them.

Basically,
if you want to live your life from one post and feed to the next,
one update and story to the next,
panting for the next drip feed,
then suck it up and eat the pain that comes with it.

W.E.

By extension by featheredsleep

For half wits who think they can just fart their fantasies on a page and label themselves a writer. I’m fucking thirty eight, been writing since I was eleven years of age and will only consider myself a writer when I’ve written a handful of books that sell a few hundred thousand copies at least. Until then, I’m just a prattler with a pen.
Don’t be a wanker with a pen,  learn something, or better yet read something and indirectly learn how to meter words, sentences, cut out fodder, and write something other than a porn mags regurgitation.

The piece is by a talented lady who’s alias is ‘featheredsleep’ on WordPress. If you like the written word, she’s got tonnes of it. Check her out if you have some time.

By extension – http://wp.me/p5J4qO-Kq

Who sees you?

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I write in darkness,
So you may see me in light.

Alas, no one sees me in plainness of day,
But at night, in full site.
-W.E.

 

She got it fairly right, sort of, not really.

“…. you show everything in your work,
…..but nothing in real life”

I agree, somewhat. I’ve tried, many a time,
but people don’t see me in real life.

They read me though, yes, they read me.
My hand, they see my hand.

“…there’s different ways of seeing”, she said.

Ah yes, and none of those ways work for me

So I’ll stick to writing in darkness.

I’ve purposely hidden in the shadows, never divulging my lust for the written word in person to people I grew up with, yet here I am in a world of strangers, and you have pieces of me that the closest people around me don’t have.

People don’t know what to do when you give them something heavy to hold.
That’s why I choose not to offload it to them, makes life so much easier.

I don’t want anyone in my vicinity to ever look at me in disdain. It happened once and I was mortified at how someone can use a vulnerability against me with such raw spite.
Never again.

-W.E.

Liar Liar Soul on fire.

soul for sale

 

I won’t lie

I’m like everyone else

My soul is for sale

The highest bidder hasn’t even reached half the reserve
-W.E.

 

Who are we kidding? The right person with the right words, with the right mind, with the right touch for all the wrong reasons and you could be sold for a few pennies.

Let’s be brutally honest and stop regurgitating this cliché. We all have that spot, somewhere or something inside of us that if it is found puts down all our defences.

I have experienced it with the most hostile of souls and the most gentle. Everyone has something about them.

The problem is, the navigators of the human soul have become few and far between.

I’m a rebel without a cause in most of my pursuits.

Authority? I stick a big proverbial in their face.
Law? What law?
Sensitivities of humans? Push me and I’ll tear you down in a heartbeat.
You want to get physical? I’ll hit you seven ways before your anger has fettered to your fists as I’m on my toes all the time.

It’s hard to tell my stubborn ego what to do.
But one look from my teachers and I melt.
They bought me and have me shackled, key thrown away rusted chains to my ankles, anchor me to humility in their presence.

They know how to spear my heart from all vain desires with a line of prose or an anecdote of a master sage.

What did they pay for my capture?

A smile.

I love you teachers.

May God sanctify your secrets.

In loving memory of her, who gave me the lantern niche illumed with oils and lit the flame for me to see the way to him.

Him, who carries the torch with love and forbearance, with patience to my folly until the day where my ego can finally be slain a mighty death on the alter of the masters before me.

Nightwriter-2

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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.

-W.E.

Conversations

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What if we had those conversations

even if only in our imaginations

dissertations

between each other that might unite our nations?

Palpations

of societies trivialisations

touching probing, questioning,  discussing agreeing, disagreeing but opening up the discoursation

an invitation

to awakening from hibernation

to unhinge our inclinations

to egotism and trepidation

to one another

to humanisation

of the other.

We talk over, through and past one another, it’s time to talk TO each other.

-W.E.

She’s damaged goods.

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She’s the ship wreck on the shore that everyone loved to look at, dwell in her confines, and listen to her stories even though she didn’t say a word. They all thought she made the shoreline ugly, rust, decayed wood and wails of the wind that bore her sorrows but no one dared remove her.

She was a reminder of how fortunate they were and also how boring they were. They couldn’t bear to be the spectacle of ogle like she could. She took it with a throw of her white sail, and a flicker of mascara, sly smiling bow but her plank was there, solid and anticipating her next traitor.

What presents itself as damaged goods is often the most passionate and generous. They may not offer material, but they can sail you on a sea of impossible storms, loves crashing waves, the oceans darkest bottoms and wash up after the storm, another piece wrecked off them, but still mesmerising.

The problem is with cowards who don’t want to salt their faces and tan their hearts.

-W.E.

The Narcissist

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She wanted him so dearly, at his request, she dived into his heart of sorrows.
Infatuated by his accomplishment to win her heart, he failed to realise she was drowning there.

He jumped into the darkness that engulfed her but being so narcissistic, he could not see her.
He marvelled at his own sorrows and killed them both.
-W.E.

What do I see in a woman

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They ask me what I see in a woman

 
It’s neither hair colour, eye colour, width or length,
But perhaps a set of warm eyes draped in turmoiled strength.

It’s neither skin colour, cheekbones or curves and bends,
But perhaps the sweet fragrance her soul sends.

It’s neither attitude, anger, poise or wit,
But perhaps her relentlessness tenacious grit.

I don’t want a woman to prize my collection,
Neither do I want her to pander my affection,
As mentioned already I don’t care for her complexion,
She just has to be everything except perfection.

I want her hurt, her suffering, her troubles and woes.
I want her nightmares and dreams and tantrum throws.

I want her sadness, pain all bottled inside,
I want her incessant demand to never confide.

I want her unsureness and indecisiveness too,
I want her constant and perpetual blues.

I want her doubt and desperation all in one,
I want her forgetfulness when she decides to run.

I want her ‘I love yous, I hate yous’ mixed together,
I want her lost loves that she holds forever.

She can keep them all, I’ll never deprive her,
Because it means something’s alive inside of her.

And if that’s what keeps her going, allows her to tick
Perhaps if I’m tock, it will do the trick.

She’ll love me back despite my myriad of flaws
She’ll know I’ll kill for her even with my claws.

Perhaps if she’s fire, brimstone, volcanic eruption
It’s ok, I’ll be water, anti-sulphur, and earth for consumption.

If she’s rage and hurricane and tornado for days,
I’ll be calm, the butterfly and the blade of grass that sways.

If she cries, is sorrowful, wishes for death
I’ll be her eyes, joy and a new breath.

I simply do not care for your boxes and ticks, I’m far too developed to be confined by the limits of societal suggestions on beauty and love.

I’ve found the flutter of my heart in the braces of a teen girl in my own teens, too bashful to do anything but exchange smiles with her for years on end catching the same train. She had Pocahontas hair, night eyed with a penetrating stare; no one looked at her but me.

I’ve found excitement and thrill in the uncaring coldness of a light haired, blue eyed Caucasian beauty. She kept me chasing for more without a hint of returning any affection.

I’ve found obsession and devotion in the almond eyes and autumn hair of a girl that was never ever socially and culturally acceptable, slim, celebrity looks and a juxtaposed nature of cold to warm, all was well until she lost my trust.

And now, my heart resides elsewhere to it all without denying the previous influence with gratitude. She’s given me all of the above and more. Re-read it if you must, I’m not exaggerating, all of it. But she’s been my pillar for thirteen years more. She’s endured with me through the thick of it and that’s why when I get to the thin of it, she’ll enjoy all the spoils of war. Even my crown she so delicately has woven with the tapestry of selflessness I will plate in Gold and put in on her head.
For now, she remains in the shadows but soon you’ll all know her.

-W.E.