In times long forgotten he saw himself beyond his years, with puny peers throughout, he would proudly proclaim “It’s lonely at the top”.
The illusions turned delusions, shattered dreams and ugly fangs, reality biting through the armoured mask, persona grande scarred and died.
The sliding on slippery slopes, the tumble down the rocky roads, the fall from grace a swift affair, leaving crumbs that no one followed.
every now and then it would be nice
leaving the house in the morning without locking the door.
every now and then it would be nice
coming home at night
and not switch on the lights.
every now and then it would be nice
to share a meal, a few drinks
and a laugh.
every now and then it would be nice
with a hug and a soothing voice
saying “it’s going to be alright”.
A madness fuelled
by solitude,
a Queen of Spades
in silence,
a heart of gold
a living soul,
perished by divination.
The realisation that
work fucked me up
is as unbearable as
the truth that there is
nothing else.
I said “Hey Gorgeous”
but nothing sticks on
Teflon shoulders
I said “Hey Gorgeous”
but high heels walked
away lonely
I said “Hey Gorgeous”
wanting you to understand
it was only my third time
I said “Hey…”
turning around
regretting
I say less
these days but you’re
still gorgeous
A new day is
dawning, your
silent comfort
interrupted by
green faces’ stare
from beyond the
tree line,
whispers of
librarians burning
their bras in a
desert mirage,
fishnet stockings
fluttering in a
tree nearby,
today will be
a good day for
tart
I entered Lennox House
With a Blistered mind
Swimming a sea of Confusion
Surfing on waves of Insanity
Drowning as the Sharks
Locked the Door
I don’t put pen to paper
expecting miracles.
I put my pen to paper
to spend my precious ink.
I only write to rewrite
to not having to write again.
I only stop to write
when I run out of inl
It’s 2.02 a.m. on Tuesday and
I should really be asleep
dreaming of tomorrows
unlikely as they seem
they’re shared by you freely
though unknowingly by most
through the great cosmic soup
that binds us
makes us One
The pain of the passing, undoubted, no warning as if mortal man of lesser knowing gave up the life freely. Shaking, trembling as only the last day of summer can. The tale of bitter ale, quenching the thirst of life, from barren lands up mountains and mounds. A sun is setting over desert and dust, an empty chair topples and dies.
