With the seasons changing,
I can feel myself
Slowly changing too.
Transforming.
Reconfiguring.
Evolving into something else.
The form will remain
A blended mixture
Of previous seasons.
But that too will fall away
As I become
The next me.
Bully
Have you ever been
Struck silent creatively?
Caught in a time
Where nothing in the world
Seems to fit
Or feel right.
You’re blocked
From creating anything.
It could be any form
Of art.
For me, it is
Visual.
Writing.
World building.
Imagining.
This is where I find myself now.
It affects the mind
In a negative manner.
I have something in the way.
I have a rock
In my stream.
A glitch
In my system.
And it is uncomfortable.
Like a splinter
I cannot pull out.
It’s a mental waiting game.
I must simply sit and wait
For the fog to clear.
My mind knows this too.
Yet it persists
With its oppressive sub-routines.
Its uncompromising,
Unforgiving
Barbs and daggers.
There is no way
I can fill the belly of
The hungry ghost
That is forever wanting.
My mind doesn’t care
That I need time.
That I need healing.
Or understanding.
It is fucking relentless.
Aggressive.
Night and day.
My mind is a bully
Who will not stop pushing
Until it gets what it wants.
Or I break.
In the arms of the sun
The golden morning sun
Brings acquiescence,
As it pours through the trees,
Glistening in windows,
Seeping through cracks
In the curtains.
Breathing a new day’s light
Into the dark, silent places
That night had created.
Colours dance behind
Closed eyes.
As the gentle warmth
Of glorious sunbeams
Dispels the cold, empty
Embrace of sleep.
Seize this personal time.
Embrace this
Peaceful moment.
As the world still slumbers
And the songbirds call,
It is your time alone
To be held
In the arms
Of the golden sun.
Don’t Look Back
Erasure works for me.
I actively remove the past.
I don’t look back.
I can’t dwell.
I can’t cling on
To times past.
It hurts too much.
Looking back provides nothing.
There is no
Mental nourishment.
No dopamine hit.
It is just food
Laced with crushed glass.
Heartache.
Ill feelings.
So I choose
To live for now.
Right now.
Tomorrow is too far away.
The path is clouded,
Potentially filled
With misfortune,
Discontentment,
And death.
The past hurts to consume.
The future is impossible to swallow.
So I feast on the present
And provide my soul
With the nourishment
It needs
Today.
Internal Wiring
Inside of us all lies
A complicated circuit board
Comprising
Of many components,
Created from thoughts
And memories.
Fragments.
Pieces of the past.
Pieces of the present.
Hopes for the future.
All soldered into place.
All feeding the machine
Named self.
This machine
Is unaware.
Ignorant.
It has no interest
In its own inner workings.
It cares not
How
The sausage is made.
Occasionally,
The circuit board
Overheats.
Shorts.
Sparks.
Components are damaged.
And they remain,
Knocked loose,
Laying in place
Like an old tooth
Or a poisoned rat
Dead in your ceiling.
Fermenting.
Rotting.
Stinking up the place.
Over time
This board of memories
Becomes overcrowded.
Components
Begin to
Grow over each other
In certain areas.
Combining.
Stacking.
Cluttering.
Until the board
Can barely function.
Then,
Inexplicably,
Like the spring winds,
They are blown clear.
And the mind is left
Fragmented.
Hazy.
Dusty.
Tired.
A scrapyard of memories.
So we begin again.
Creating new memories.
Repopulating
That tired old board.
And not long after,
The new self rises,
With new ideas.
All grown
From the stagnant waters
Ashes,
Dusty remains,
The detritus,
Of what,
And who,
We once were.
A Quote Cutters Query
Who are you
When
Nobody is watching?
Are you both the knife
And the wound?
A memory
Or a dream?
A museum
Of everything
You’ve ever loved?
When flowers grow
Through your bones
Will you finally
Be beautiful?
My time on Earth
My time on Earth
has been tiring.
In some moments
I’m unaware
if I am living
or an apparition.
I feel more alien
lately
than human.
I spend my time
observing
rather than
interacting
with humanity.
We are not the same.
We are from opposite
solar systems.
Mirror images.
We look the same
but within me
I feel
inherently different.
I don’t always understand
their language
nor their preoccupations
with congenial living.
Or the need
to fill their worlds
with so many
competing sounds.
I process differently.
Irrationally.
Constantly.
Burning a fuel
that I feel
I am running out of.
Fuel to power
the disguise.
To keep the mask
in place.
To blend.
To belong.
Like a chameleon
cold-blooded,
searching
for a place
to warm itself.
Somewhere
I can hide.
Observe.
Recharge.
Exist.
Arrival at the Black Rock
The black soil,
Ice cold to the touch.
With hands plunged within,
The earth pulsates
To a rhythmic heartbeat
That surges through
The senses.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
Closed eyes
Begin to weep
As something ancient
Stirs beneath the surface.
Below,
A cosmic entity
Slumbers.
Above,
The sky is
An inky black starfield.
All sound is muted.
The cold air
Bites at the skin
As the ground continues
Its rhythmic heartbeat.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The rock lives.
The stone breathes.
And this asteroid
Continues its journey
Through endless time,
Across the expanse
Of space.
A relic.
A prison.
A living tomb.
Chaos pain and poor sleep
Focus leaves me this morning.
My mind tumbles.
Falls into turmoil.
I can’t get started.
I spiral.
I will not have this chaos.
Perhaps it has its uses.
Today it does not.
Today
it is interference.
The day is irregular.
Non-typical.
Outside my routine.
Outside my structure.
The crutch I lean upon
to provide balance.
Writing helps.
A moment to stop.
A moment to breathe.
A moment to collect my thoughts
while the medication kicks in.
But the medication feels slow.
Ineffective today.
And everything
is a distraction.
Inside my body.
Outside my body.
Pain.
Sounds.
Environment.
Thoughts.
Everything conspiring.
Everything feeding
the turmoil
I feel within.
A hundred small disturbances
becoming one.
And somewhere beneath them all
I am trying my best to
to find stillness.
Two ways to nowhere
Two ways to nowhere.
That is how my mind works.
One me is organised.
Detailed.
Routine-driven.
Order-loving.
The other me
is chaos.
Anxiety.
Frustration.
Speed.
Speed.
Speed.
The two are
in constant combat.
While a third me
watches on.
Observing.
Waiting.
Exhausted.
The struggle between selves
is relentless.
Neither wins.
Neither learns.
They simply begin again.
Spiralling.
Spiralling.
Until the first me
again begins questioning.
Analysing.
Rechecking.
Resetting the table.
Putting everything
back in order.
Everything where it belongs.
Then,
without warning,
the chaotic me returns.
A swipe.
A blur.
And everything from the table
crashes back
onto the floor.
The cycle continues.