Spheres in water

I glide upon the corridor

to the room

where my face impacts the mirror

and I impact my identity

not just of flesh

but personal recognition

that the shapes I look upon

are attached to me.

My eyes revolve

like spheres in water

helplessly unexpressive

for today.

Raindrops that try to swim through oil

floating in futility.

I will feel differently when I eat

and absorb some sunlight

in the summer air.

I will reset, with slightly altered eyes

perhaps.

I will visualise

and attempt to wind

my spiral mind

outwards

for an escape into functionality

long enough to piece together

the very edges of life.

20 June 2010

The overused pen

Can anything I write these days be sane, balanced, rational?

I guess these are not the years for that

so many pages filled

and so much good ink spilled

to purge each obsession from my mind

such horrifically circular thoughts

expressed again, again, again.

Progression only through increasing depth of delusion.

Still I sit here alone in my world

as many do

I am so lucky to be here

so free

and so in love

with this whole universe.

So lucky to have seen

and to know

that which cannot be lost

and has no need of being gained.

I bring it to the centre of my heart

and hope it is enough

to keep

the cage of flesh

from collapse.

So long it has been my burden, my anchor,

my only vehicle of freedom to exist

But now- what?

On the cusp of new or old, familiar, rephrased revelations

perhaps I will be turned free

from that past suffering

and only into tomorrow's ills

will I travel.

Why has it taken so long to escape yesterday?

There are so many forevers in my heart

so many forevers already

leading me towards

such a desperate loneliness

but this is where so many are

I must not resent the visit,

but keep charting this map.

........

Will anything good come of such overuse of the pen tonight?

I plead through time that I was different

that I did not miss you

but as always, I have missed myself.

I reside somewhere, I'm sure,

amongst these half open boxes on the floor.

Years of unanswered questions

overflow

to waterfalls of tears,

upon each revelation

that there is nothing there at all

just the traces of a pen

held by someone who once was scared

and then, upon conquering that fear

made a million plans

for a thousand different futures

none of which were hers

.....

Will I be yours?

I ask the faint trace of your memory

outlined in my heart

And I cannot keep from asking

but hear no answer

no suggestion

It is perhaps

just the same old story

I induce a migraine

as I sit and write too late

And this busy world

refuses to wait

any longer for this Laura

I still wait for it

as I wait for you

I wait for you to find me perhaps

I'm so tired of hiding

but there is no exposing

all this pain to anyone

I miss your smile, I miss the air in your eyes,

I miss something that I can't quite describe.

5/9/2010

The metamorphosis of a tear

A butterfly inside

grows from my heart.

The metamorphosis of a tear that fell

and hibernated there,

cocooned for years

awaiting its release.

Wings beat, confined by ribs

tearing lungs

blood flows.

Weary wings fold back,

like origami bows.

Delicate feet

begin the long ascent

towards the throat.

9-6-2005

As birds sing

Cleansing rain falls down to wash away the cobwebs

Another moment delayed until today

The sky is light and dark and alternating

as are my eyes.

Another antique glass smashed again

to let the rain in

another bubble broken to expose the skin.

The walls are screaming if they could

or is it just a yawn?

As birds sing to bring upon the dawn.

I wake

to try to start to live

where I left off

that year I fell asleep

But the room's half-dark

already

and its curtains always drawn

one-day I will open them

as birds sing, to bring upon the dawn.

13-5-2003

Wax Self

Some solid of myself melted down

collected to malleable pools of wax

some left brittle, dry, fragile

all swirling

'round a central nuclear point

pressurizing

churning

near to exploding

Constant reforming

whilst eroding

Inspiration density

increasing beyond critical mass

Soon

one point

will spread to every point

nowhere will be unreachable

An inverted heart

turned outside-in

all consuming

now reducing

sleep inducing

hollow

quiet

lonely

lost

4-2-2007

Post-apocalyptic bedroom

I write to get it out, a mini mushroom cloud.

Peace surrounds my wrists but there's war in my eyes

it burns when no one sees

and is not easily diffused.

But it doesn't escape, it never attacks.

This post-apocalyptic bedroom sits

and gathers the dust of a life lost

partially reformed

and lost again.

A shanty town of hope

abandoned here.

The soul moved elsewhere that year.

Here lies the carcass of dreams

in the grave of ideas.

It rots, though no one sees, there is a smell.

23-09-2009