Poetry (words)

The spoken words.

I pressed my bottom lip just below yours. I tasted all of your secrets all of your flaws. In a moment of complete intoxication I gave up wishing.

Outside all of this the stars shine, distant moments burning up another place in time. Your fingers through my hair eclipse the breathlessness. In a moment of epiphany I gave up hoping. 

I am tired of validating every word I said, exhausted by the invisible demons in your head. Fighting non existing battles just to lose the thread. In a moment of ecstasy I let go of this. 

Poetry can’t exist without the spoken words. 

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Poetry (words)

Bound


I like the dampness on my skin, bound to the ground on a bed of leaves, by choice alone. I am this landscape, interwoven in memories and dreams. I fear nothing here, my safe place alive with the purest of desires.                  
I am never alone here seconds away from touching you. I have words encased in secrecy , they are yours like the ground you walk on. They thrive here, like the ivy wrapped around my heart.

               

Like your lips on my spine and this freedom I explore. How every light that falls on you captures your flaws, as if it knows I love your flaws. The way your eyes show insecurities that your mouth would never utter. 

You are my fingertips and you drip from my mouth without knowledge. I taste you in every word. 

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Poetry (words)

Yesterday 


Yesterday I walked. I stepped on the remnants of Summer and filled my lungs with the clearest air. I saw colours with clarity. I felt the stagnation leave my soul. It’s in falling apart that we begin to rebuild, not just lives, but from a much deeper level.  

I’m no longer under the illusion that  my contentment lies in the hands of others. Ultimately people do as they please regardless, like the consequences of our actions don’t matter. Change isn’t hard, change is about how much you really want it. 

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Poetry (words)

Grace unfolds 


I watched the gulls swoop and dive, a frenzied harvest on the darkest soil. Grey skies like soft focus on the land. This immeasurable view could fill page after page with wonder. How these slopes entice and embrace, I like the unmapped path, where footprints rather than dictation lead the way. 

Colours staggered like a watercolour left out in the mist, but no less a masterpiece with imperfections intact. My eyes undemanding feast on this, like a silent gift it clings to my mind its grace unfolds with patience. 

I breathe deeply that I might exhale the city from my lungs, but to unleash such a plague in this serenity would puncture my soul, what’s mine remains so. Smoke rises from beyond the hedgerow the charcoal maker’s office. 

Dusk falls quickly now, this clock that we live by for reasons unknown. 

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Poetry (words)

As you were


The last leaves fall, heavy with droplets from the morning rain. Too damp now to ever be skeletal.  The blackbird will find nourishment in their shadows. 
To leave things as we found them, this impossible task. Half open doors  where invitations once warm no longer stand. Thresholds crossed and farewells unspoken. 

This transcends chemistry, it overlooks the peripheral view. A new light is cast where nothing hides in the shadows. 
So this is where I exit. Listen to the absolute bones of this. As you were, undisturbed, taciturn and constantly searching. 

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Poetry (words)

My father’s pen

A pile of letters from a time gone by. From my father’s pen to my mother’s eyes. They smell like books from a favourite shelf, tattered in places not unlike myself. 

The ribbon that gathers them tightly is blue, stained with history’s adornments all of them true. 

I’ll never be closer than where I am now, to this wonderful gift I am tethered somehow. I can see where the ink flowed a little too fast, but time is reflected in all that has passed. 

I know every word on every page, the tear stained blots, the passion, the rage. My fathers pen, my mothers eyes, both still now, but still so alive. 

 

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Poetry (words)

Meat


I am sentient. I eat I sleep I shit. I graze on this land. I am beaten, I am milked, cut and hanged on your orders, by your hands. That’s the irrelevance of who I am. 

What’s the difference between you and me? From where I stand it has nothing to do with intelligence. Admittedly where I stand is encased with a stench of every horror you inflict. 

If I could scream I would be heard on every corner of this planet, if I could fight you’d be crushed underfoot, but I possess neither ability. So I await my fate here at your side with your god given rights. 

If I could  offer you a glass of every chemical you inject, would you drink what you eat on my behalf? This cold chalice of medium rare that spills on every prison I’ve seen. 

Meat? It’s what you’re made of. 

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