Creator / imaginer: Dabbler in art, literature and sound.
Vibrating ship engines hum gently,
Sleek panels, white and shimmering,
Reflecting bright starfield bursts,
Silently slipping through an interstellar expanse,
Internally cool, all occupants are draped in white,
Large bay windows framed by great white rooms,
Where the last remnants of mankind gaze out,
Into endless black sparkling emptiness,
Wondering where they will arrive next,
This sanitised environment, clean and carefree,
Is home, the earth is but a distant memory.
I refer to alcohol as ‘the poison’,
I’ve always had a problem with it,
The problem being, the freedom it gives me,
A freedom from myself, a release,
Yeah, I know,
And I agree, it is poison,
However, on one of ‘those’ evenings,
I’m clear, lucid, and hyper-focussed,
I can count and clearly see every pore of my skin,
I notice details I wouldn’t normally,
I can write and create things I wouldn’t normally be able to,
I can be another me, the internal me, freely,
Sadly at 51, I’m yet to learn how to achieve the same,
Without the poison.
I can’t communicate well right now,
I feel closed off, irritable, unsocial,
July, the death month, has taken a toll,
The me I was a short while ago seems different,
I can’t explain the change,
I feel numb to the world,
Functioning is difficult, but I’m holding on,
Seeking comfort where I can,
My memory seems to be failing me,
I can’t remember everything,
I feel like my usual workday is suffering,
I don’t feel helpful to my immediate family,
Or as relevant, as I once was,
My numbness removes any self-empathy,
When I close my eyes,
I feel like I’m on my back,
Being lowered down a hole,
As the ground caves in above me,
And I scrape at the sides of my own grave.
I sit alone in the dark, contemplating my fears,
The silence surrounding me is complete,
As the internal fan of the machine I type into hisses,
Warm air fills the room from a heating unit,
Right now, I’m calm, I want for nothing but time and peace,
But it is Sunday at 10pm, and I fear this calm won’t last,
The morning will bring the usual inescapable stresses,
The onslaught of outsiders indifferent to my struggles,
Five days locked into the iron mask of compliance,
I find it more difficult lately to cope within its confines,
For the first time in my life, I feel it constricting,
It takes so much for me now to deliver, there is too much,
There are too many demands, I can feel myself slipping,
I feel like a car whose interior light was left on overnight,
And nobody knows that by morning, I’ll have nothing left,
I feel powerless, all I can do is watch myself fade,
But it takes income to keep that heating unit running,
It takes great toil to keep that machine fan hissing,
The week is a vampire with an insatiable hunger,
And I willingly cast myself into its great maw to survive.
A light for millions has gone out, leaving us in the dark,
Your music helped countless people to carry on,
To get up each day, inspiring us, helping us to cope,
Father figure to those who needed one,
A comfort to those struggling to find some hope,
A soundtrack to lives, a bond we can’t untie,
Even though your passing has left a hole in the sky,
Rest now in peace, while we all mourn,
Thank you for being you, Ozzy Osbourne.
Stressed is desserts spelt backwards,
I don’t find it sweet, I feel:
Pushed,
Restless,
Sleepless,
Sick,
Rushed,
Anxious,
Angry,
Tired,
Over emotional,
Pressure makes diamonds,
Not in a workplace, it increases mistakes,
Causes emotional burnout,
Creates a blur where there should be clarity,
Adding pressure makes no sense,
And no, I won’t put a pin in it and circle back.
When a painting starts to flow,
It is like breathing for the first time,
Every twist and turn of the brush,
Can be filled with memory and feeling,
Recently, I’ve tried to fall in love with colour,
But she doesn’t feel the same way.
Days can pass when I have nothing to say,
No news shared, no great achievements come my way,
The practicalities of life take over and they must be attended,
A down time, when the arts are begrudgingly suspended,
But soon I return with renewed creative zest,
These are the times in life that I love best.
I had a dream,
The image stuck with me,
For weeks now I’ve drawn it,
I close my eyes, and I see it,
I don’t know what it means,
I don’t know what it is,
But it is relevant somehow,
And my mind won’t let it go.
The authentic me lies hidden,
While the palatable me is on display,
A stand-offish, grumpy, prickly personality,
These are shields, masks, an odd armour of sorts,
It’s all fake, a ruse, a folly designed to trick,
The real me is too fragile, the real me I protect,
With tools of manipulation, I deceive to survive,
Not to survive you, but to survive a day as me,
Just enough so that I can get up again tomorrow,
The ruse has become permanent, now a fused mask,
It conceals the real me from all, lately, even myself,
But it is a mask I must continue to wear,
For I loathed me, long before it became fashionable.
Dan Verkys 