The hold

You’re there

in those moments of space 

between the  places where white noise waits  

for silence.

But as the clock turns on

chiming time with a bird, and 

I find it harder to succumb 

to quietness

and feel you slip, between the 

cacophonous  cracks. 

In Sanity

I’m not like them
Are you like me?

I like interesting people

The people that often dislike people

Problematic, to say the least

I like my own company – no pretense

My world, not a stage, nor I
an actress

Not then – not in solitude

Just me.

My head is busy – I like that, it keeps me nimble, save the fidgeting

Tapping, dancing feet

I keep my back straight – happy for folk to talk freely behind it

Improving posture

Weak-kneed at times, I’m double jointed

Bendy and hyper

Mobile heart and soul, northern beats

I’m not like them.
Are you like me?

Perhaps we will feel like them, spending time away from them

together.

The Hypocrite

I search for visions
from eyes; windows to their souls
whilst hoping my own is secreted 
deep within some sacred tomb

I make music. Strum strings, creating melodic vibrations to drown out
the sound of screaming ideas – only to push pedals to embrace them; riding free in the wind
where they tune in with a frequency worth my concentration

I want to be heard – listened to; a voice in veins that reaches the source

Yet I am lost in dreams of
imagination when words drip
from mouths – wasted intentions
for my own heart, whispering before they finally die at my feet

Chorus for Dawn

Did you know
that I adore you?

Whittled skin, now within
the pages

that I write

Did you know
it’s nearly summer?

Time to sin, sink a gin
and maybe

fly a kite

I don’t know what makes a good song
but I have heart, it’s beating

I’ll sing a lullaby

Induced darkness – now you’re
sleeping

and I’m alone, catching stars
and drinking

Colliding thoughts with
waiting

for the sun to rise

Unfruitful Thoughts

I don’t know how to make
lemonade

so I suck them

and become more
bitter by the day

Murdering Altruism

Walking the streets of Boston
good will hunting
he begs for a soul to save.

He’s an addict.

Intravenously feeding
off intrinsic
rewards.

In twilight hours
as the glory fades,
his starvation strikes.

The hunger
for self gratification
relieved
via charity balls and dinners.

He smells it whilst straightening
his tie, sniffing out a crisis
like blood desired.

He runs with resolution,
excited by the promise
of his methadrone.

High.  Drunk on
his own selflessness.
He stands in euphoria.

Murdering altruism.