Nothing to know about grief

The thing about losing something

is that there is nothing to know.

It's an emotion that takes hold of you

pushes you around like a bully that doesn't let up.

You put up with it, let it bleed you dry,

cry yourself to sleep until it loses its strength.

And then you can push it under you, into your heart

Occasionally it will bubble up, making you vomit emotions.

Eventually, it will become a part of you

reminding you how capable you are of love

and how love never really leaves you.

Talking to myself

I prefer talking to myself rather than talking about other people.

It's nice to see others doing well, but the rest of someone's life is none of my business.

Gossip is the home of people who do too little and criticise too much.

That little green-eyed monster

filled with venomous envy

 leave it in its own poison.

It's best to avoid talking about others.

I converse with myself, pen and paper or fingers and keyboard

a tête-à-tête with lense and aperture or paint and brush.

An opinion expressed to the full is the most fulfilling 

element to life, 

completing thoughts that steadily tick over in the mind

these are the things that interest me.

Deceptively Delicate

Poetry is deceptively delicate

it's a whisper which gradually becomes a scream

a dream turning into a nightmare

which stays with you all-day

a compliment transformed into an insult

subtle niceties and manners on the

surface while being sarcastic and real below.

It is the truth, leaking out

of the heart despite itself.

The beat of a constant drum

below the flourishes of what we

create for ourselves.

Subversive, not submissive

honest razor-sharp observation

its words are strength,

they can be deadly.

Thank the muse for bringing the light

of poetry, into a tenebrous world.

Connection

We only have these moments

tiny connections

to hold onto

as life slips through our fingers.

My poetry

My poetry is a constant whisper in my ear

a dark, haunting and persistent dream

my inner voice leaking out of my head

a constant weeping emotion

which is eerie, untamed and real

it is always uncomfortable

to share as the words come from an awkward place

yet they feel beautiful just the same

They are like little deformities

which express a deep insecurity

unpleasing to the eye

yet satisfying for the soul.

I coax them out of me like untamed wild animals

I watch as they slowly show me their savage power

I am always in awe of the epicness of human emotion

And how it can consume itself.

Autumn of my life

The tired gardens of Autumn are beginning to slumber, dry out and wither.

The smell of rotting fruit is somewhat enticing like burnt cake, pungent and warm

everything is left to rot, too late to ripen and even to be picked or eaten.

Rotten stink bugs rub themselves with us, our clothes buzzing in their attempts

to flee and fly away.

I grab one inside my fist and throw it making it fly even if it doesn’t want to,

 it leaves behind its perfume on my palm

a strange incense smell that many think is disgusting

The odour reminds me of these short gloomy days with intermittent bursts of sunshine

and the inevitable promise of the encroaching winter

that bring moments of deathly silence.

Strangely these are my favourite days

to reflect and create upon.

Inspiration

You can reinvent yourself

endless times in life

so don’t be so precious

about failing,

just get up and reset.

_________________________________________

Don’t accept what others think

as the truth of who you are

you are your own creation.

_________________________________________

Today I ate, drank and lived

without sharing online

and I felt truly alive.

___________________________________________

Delicate Impossibilities

I've never been able to let go of my delicate impossibilities

the airheaded dreamer holds onto what if  moments

what would have happened along another path

with different people by my side

or even by myself.

I delight myself in remembering the gentle caresses

standing too close or too long with someone

regretting not leaning over and kissing

or not following someone to the train station

losing touch, moving on while holding on to a first love

never forgetting shared intimacies and always desiring more.

There is one fleeting moment which constantly

haunts me, a man I loved when he was but a boy

I worry perhaps he was my soul mate

he was a reflection of myself, and I have always loved him

I still have his perfume, I smell the odour of our youth

my innocence.

I wish him all my love

and still, I dream of him.

Did he see himself in me and flee

Perhaps he believed I forgot him

I'm a good actress

I can never forget that piece of me

I found myself with him

and I want to let him know

I will always remember you,

soul mate and love

even if you make yourself invisible

the delicate impossibilities will remain.

The Bearded Lady

The bearded lady shaves off her beard

what a strange sensation

her skin tingles

the upper lip so smooth

she is almost cold

as erotic as a Brazilian wax

feeling naked she strangely misses

her fuzzy covering.

As strangers look at her

she realises no one knows

about her beard

only the subtle lines

of her pale face, dimpled chin

and a strong jawline.

Beneath her mask she is beautiful

but she never acknowledges it

or feels her power

she is always hiding, meekly behind

her overwhelming insecurities

she had left it too late

to be free from her plumage

past her prime, she rubs her

smooth cheeks and wonders who

she might have seduced

in her youth

if she had the courage

to shave before

then she suddenly desires her beard.

The trauma of broken things

I carry my fear like a heavyweight

many kilos of fat

pushing down on my bones

making my movements slow

and wearing down my momentum.

I'll never allow fear to make its

home in me

I hope it moves on

I push it away.

A violent act forced fear into my life

like so many random accidents,

which happen when no one expects

so much bigger than any one person

forcing us to live with

the trauma of broken things.