This poem, if it was a film, would be prefaced, ‘based on true events.’
He is a druggie,
A bag of pot-
With six hours a day
To sit and smoke.
He drinks as well,
Ten beers a night-
This red-eyed goof
Of a bloke.
And one day he
Turns to me, with
Gawking mouth
he spoke-
Anna, my dear,
It must be said.
You drink too much
Of that Diet Coke.
I came home
to sharp green heads
peeping from the
dirty allotment of Time-
where I sank my sorrow
to rest.
Unattended fields
yield no crop-
but there is no mistaking
the colour that
betrays the brown
of my
abandoned mud.
My loss I cannot reap,
yet cannot leave to die!
I want it so badly
to revert into the ground
before that’s where I lie.
In my dreams we kiss and love
And in my nightmares
I wake up.
In my thoughts you’re close and near
But beside my aching flesh
You are not here.
Will there be a day when
This torment ends
In my whimpering soul,
Or am I now
But half of a whole?
This is just a silly lovesick poem along with the product of my attending life-drawing classes!
I was your rabbit in a hat,
A tumbling joy, enigma.
Smiles for the camera.
I was sawn in half.
Snapped by a wand,
Bound to a box
In a lover’s con.
I was your stack of cards,
towering
unto a crowd
That couldn’t help
But knock it down.
(This is a poem that attempts to capture the stages of a false and controlling relationship)
Equally false is my snazzy new blue wig!
An aborted tongue,
A silent cry
To hear but never heard.
Those who never lived
Cannot really die,
But whimpers still
An infant on your mind
Though 10 years
Have lived
And gone by.
An effigy
Mocks the empty frame
Cursing the walls,
Turned foul in your brain.
Can it ever be the same
Burdened by a fever with a face
Of a child that has no name?
I have learned a great many of things during my year as an Art student, not least of which being how to ‘pull-off’ the splodges of paint that stubbornly stick to locks of my hair and refuse to be washed out. Here is a small collection of work that didn’t fall victim to my follicles.
There will always be another Spring,
– and it has hit me-
With buds on blossoming hold
Like the stories you build,
There is always more to be told.
And with each turnover we forget the last
For the petals look as fresh
Without mind of Springs gone past.
Call me your flower,
Your daisy, your rose,
Like all the others
Who will come and go
And I’ll call myself your lover,
As far as our story will fold;
(Even the freshest of springs turn old)
Yet I wont weep for the flowers that wither
For there will always be another.
