She turned my head
for a while made me forget
myself
with my smile seemingly
lasting
the cork popping and
bubbles overflowing
the moment of
recollection
a hard truth
re-revelation
I don’t do people very
well
the size of your tits, love
matters little in the grander
scheme of things
they will sag, eventually
no matter how long you
wear that bra
I don’t care really, what would I do
with something I cannot fit
into my hands to hold, anyway
the size of you heart, love
matters more to me
although I cannot measure it
the heart do matter more
what you say,
from heart must come or else
there be no trust; just void
the glance, your eyes must be
reflecting the beat of
the heart; inside
the balance; the rhythm
yours must match mine
though cosine and sinusoid
rarely meet; it would be a
grand feat to end up
as one
me:so I had this idea …
to write a story
but hide it inside
poetry!
not me: huh?
me: OK, sounds a bit daft but it goes something like this
Inside my poetry I will #HIDE parts of the story
and! to find out the really good bits of the story you would have to endure my shitty poetry!
not me: sounds like torture!
me: Well it is not for faint-hearted but I think I will give it a go!
not me: So how would I know which part is poetry (bad normally) and which belong to the story (hopefully better)?
me: I will plant some _clues_ throughout the poems that will lead you on the right path, there might even be links to additional content where you can find further clues. Sounds plausible?
not me: not convinced, let’s see how it pans out
she: I can smell smoke, can you?
he: that’s my neighbour, below, on anti-depressants; poor bloke, it takes some effort to toss himself off
I don’t believe mental health issues
are contagious; per se
although from experience I say
that as anything you come into
contact with; it rubs off on you,
being just a revelation of doubt
or perhaps a contraption to spill
your hidden thoughts; the fear
you carried so long; buried
deep inside, now take flight,
ignites the dry autumn leaves
left in your corners aged,
your fiend – the wolf now
showing his teeth,
you either run or stop
to face the beast
Without doubting myself
excessively; nor prematurely
I can sense the grim reaper
approaching.
Shall I lock the keep
bar all entrances
or invite him in to
the nocturnal feast.
the days of thunder cometh
a stampede across the plane
the broken and resisted
abandoned just the same
they carry forth desire
survival at all cost
though no one told the
leper to bring evidence
to the priests
