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.
I choke on the morgue
That coils my heart.
Tightened by the bloody strings
Of veins, turned red, in the dark.
So I am beat.
‘If you are a nettle, then I am stung.’
These are undoubtedly the sweetest and most profound words that have ever been spoken to me. Although perhaps formed in an air of jest, I believe they tell and acutely accept the very nature of what it is to, and be in, love.
To love is to accept that humans have the capacity to inflict pain and are, in so many other ways, flawed.
It also encapsulates how love isn’t a bed of ever blooming flowers. It is, by definition, the extremity that incorporates the entire spectrum of feelings and emotions. Love can indeed sting but it can also blossom. It can grow in the quiet corners of our mind until it becomes impossible to ignore- releasing its unruly consequences- much like the spurs of nettles.
