Sunday, 5 July 2015

Dancing Mad

Feel I am dancing mad for sure
The birds would sing in unison
Where words are gone and feathers undulate
The lone rooster then losts in tune
And if by chance the hens dominate
He gives himself into the disguise
There always is one that draws him in
Even if none of them fall under the spell
So then we act the fool and wait
A weeklong agony, a fistful of despair
O longing bring the birds back their flair!
Give the man a one for heaven's sake
It's not every day joy slips into view
When as slippery as slime it bleeds mocked
Heads will roll and we try again
Three hours worth of fantasy in a world
where make-believe is an empty
endeavour. How can my murder rejoice
to this then?
Week after week after week
Then goodbye, nothing more
How droll! Prithee bring me back
my hopes and fears!
 My tragedies and desires!
Nights spent awake in excitement
Over joy, over hope,
over love, over you.

Saturday, 4 July 2015

Eager for tomorrow -- and after that nothing... over and over again

How long is a week to someone dogged by some unresolved vitality?
Not too long perhaps but the feeling is nevertheless torturous.
To chase the wind and have it easily swept away in an instance,
there is no life ever so lonelier.

It becomes sort of a motif in this routine to wake up only wanting
to go back to bed and hoping not to break free from a more tantalising
fantastical reality wherein my smiles are fully-formed and
in actuality more recognised than here in this very plane we are in,
where there is more of isolation and ignorance than pleasance.
It is simply not right - to chide man for the everyday coincidences of life;
this beauty is far more encompassing than ever thought realised.
It is then to that reality that a man, even if he or she is one step ahead
of every one else, will always remain in this plane of reality unahead;
the illusion of their observed advantaged is neither misplpaced nor mistaken,
it is simply a matter of perspective.

Wednesday, 1 July 2015

This heatwave is making me wave a white flag of surrender, and it may be that you should too

Would it not have been that a good rest is hard to come by
and simply by living felt like walking through a deluge
It would be that I am nothing more but a plankton in it
and that my one wish, unbeknownst by many,
is to fly just as any pig wishes to do so themselves.
To swim is arduous; to fly would be immaculate.
But truth hits harder than when I hit
a random face with a brick: I am but a fry.
One day it will be I will cease to be,
so will the waves that come crashing down
dragging everything and everyone that came before
along with it. It is nigh impossible for me to give
an ounce of care to anything else especially now
that I wrought this in stone. Only my primal instincts
keep me from completely crumbling down and
caving in, with which I am clearly not proud of.
What is a fry to be when out of its element? Where is
its school and where do lost fries find a new one?
How do they acclimate in newer waters?
If other fries have done a way, why couldn't I?
Truly the worst part of it all would be knowing that this fry
cannot be fully be, cannot rise above its station,
cannot put to realisation all its fears and hopes,
cannot even be saddened by the slights directed in its way,
and even savour the moments of misery and depression.
Things we need to grow and strengthen our roots.
An irony for all ages: we only grow when we begin to wilt.
To suffer, to frown, to collapse under the weight of living,
subdued by an albatross, a creature only as good as its ability
of flight; something a fry could not.
Mayhap I would have partaken should there have been a recipe
for madness, and, could be, for depression,
if this is the only manner with which to integrate and acclimate
myself to the normalcy that everyone else save for me
subscribes to.

Search and destroy