Lone

Empty house so full of light –
Breathing into every new day;
Open-plan demonstrations in twilight
With me and my bed in the middle.

Empty house take in the air for us –
Circulating freshness in channels;
Bitter fighting in the blind spots
As I try and hide with sound appreciation.

Empty house in the wooded clearing –
New life with every open window;
The yellow flames twinkle to white
With duck feathers all around me.

Empty house with it’s picture presentation –
A testament to well loved oak;
Standing tall as the lone warrior
Sipping in the morning air in waves.

In Memoriam.

Slow Drip

Dripping through the cavities
We see each other; hidden, obscured,
Yet very well aware of the decay.

The picture frame is hanging
Obviously at a slight edge, angled;
Unnerving all observers.

We are literally who people see us;
There are no cracks to cover at all.
The surface is bad enough to explore.

Everyday is a sweat-soaked trauma
Of keeping ourselves together;
We are all in this spiral mess.

The pains are imagined; universal.
Experience is the key to survival;
Understanding what pain actually is.

Laughter Of Language

If there was anything left that I could hold onto
No matter how hard it was to translate;
I would do so in a skip of a heartbeat
Even though it would probably end me.

If only the translation was acceptable enough
That communication was bearable in this mess;
Surprises always trickle around this old corner
And reveal themselves as another boundary.

Laughter is the new normality of communication
When all is escaping into a flurry of voices;
If only the words could be concise to sentence
Swearing that the farewell is a common embrace.

The Storm that Guides

Every-time it storms I feel refreshed
As though the world is somehow connected
To my Understanding of the body
That holds me back so often.

Just thinking makes things happen;
I laugh and the neighbourhood is bright;
Go out for a meal and the pavements
Appreciate the attention – with a snigger.
If I cry, the Earth inhales and spits;
Holding me in a whirlpool, centrally –
Until I am able to leave the room
And start all over again.

Yes, I certainly am connected,
Like a vein of pollution shuddering;
Aiming to contaminate to the heart
Until Arrest; And the pain that follows.
All I receive is the waste product;
The filth of memories past – They weep
When they are presented; emotionless.

Every-time the clouds part; severed –
I am not involved at all in the process.
I crawl under the recess and explain
To myself that I have no control this time.
Sometimes I have to face the weather;
Clearly happy with events – Masking.
Brave face and shaking hands; Firm.

Deep within the void I am already dead.
I died when I couldn’t control the clouds
And hid this from myself with a passion;
As though everything was because of me.

I am a self-centered, crazy bastard.

Bipolar stuggle with Others

If there was someway to have another chance
I would explain the pain that affects my mind
Causing you to see me badly at first glance
Yet without your understanding I am blind.

I am a product of my experience
Of acting a certain way towards people –
At times I may seem like I’m delirious
Though when I’m in my state I really can’t tell.

Is there really anyway to show you this?
To fight through my struggles and glimpse through the sheet?
Bipolar is difficult; you don’t process
With regularity; Midtones with concrete.

You know this, I know this; but it’s not easy
To accept a life knowing my moods don’t stay –
They whisk around and follow me completely;
I wake and see you, so face another day.