Void.

I wonder if I write
random fragments of
poetry and
words,
that something somewhere deep within
the crevesces of my long forgotten mind will
snap
and
click into place, and
the fragments will find a way to fill the
void
and
somehow close the portals and holes of my psyche;
if somehow
she will be banished and my mind will
be my own,
or if it's long gone, taken over... and
where is my mind?
The countdown ticks on
the detonator buried
deep
within my soul, so far as
I can not dig it out, not
even with a long handled coffee spoon
nor a blade sharp as those words.
No acid will burn through the wires that carry
life around my body.
Try as one may.
But maybe, just maybe,
the blast will remain internal.
Reformat and reorder.
Omissions and revisions.
This, perhaps, is the start of
the end.

Haiku To You, Too,

Hands reaching, gripping
hard, onto breaking branches.
Hold on. Don't let go.

Fall. Fall from the tree
onto sharp rock and harsh stone.
Burn in the sun. Gone.

Hand gripping, pulling
hard. Tug a broken body
up from the ground. Hope.

Wrap warm arms around
fractured shoulders. Comfort and
protect from harm. Safe.

Ballerina

The train door opens. A wave of people spew forth like a wave and she is caught. Their sharp suits and sharp tongues pick at the threads of her coat and a small child snaps an apple scented bubble that tickles devilishly at her nose. It's almost time for the home-time bell to clang and she's climbing stairs - little leg muscles straining under her weight, her little feet tapping a song out on the tiled floor. And in an instance she is a music note caught up in the song of the underground. She adds rhythm to the mix of talent, a soundless vibration, a hum in the backdrop only noticeable if it fell short.

And, oh! how it falls. The little ballerina  loses grip of her music box spring and falls with a clatter to the ground - no velvet cushioned boxes are big enough to catch her, not anymore. She grows exponentially with each passing turn of her key and suddenly she is out of sync with the tune and out of time with the world. Her bun-topped head rests soundly on the step and it is only when her hum becomes a clang do people notice the missing beat.

Gasps and loud voices chatter - the song of the underground ceases for a bridge. They place gentle hands on her neck and test her life, caress her with urgent whispers that she rise again and play. They don't know what to do when her rhythm comes back weak and irregular. There is no battery to replace or recharge so they hold her still, reinsert her key and wind her back up to standing. A few test the melody and move forward. She fits back in, a little quieter, and the beat picks up. All that's left is hope they wound her far enough to get home.

Once there, it doesn't matter if the music box slams shut.

A Hundred Words Say More Than a Picture.

Burn

It’s not innocent anymore; can’t be with you, as your mutual respect is continually blackened in lust.

Pain becomes a drug - intolerance leaving the cravings impossible to ignore.

She’s an epitome of hurt. Burn that sickly-sweet desperation onto skin. Feel it; feel the burn. Let her know you can’t live without her when your name reverberates from her lips. Call her lie when she says she doesn’t want you. Feel the burn of her skin on yours as she brushes past to leave.

Stop.

Love her. Just hold her innocently, forget that guilty pleasure - at least for now.

-----------------------------------------

Intense

“I can’t believe you promised you will do that! You’ve always told me love is more important that anything. I believed you.” His words are harsh, the utterances flutter against the fine hairs in your ears.

“Take it back,” he shouts. “You hypocrite, standing there in your designer clothes. Anything between us is off now!” His words light liquid fire in your blood, send bolts of passion through your heart. Tingles of pure intrigue at his selection of lexis tremble gently between your ears. You’re lost, can’t recall his words.

And it’s so un-fucking-believable how intense selective hearing can be.

----------------------------------------

Why, what is this?

A place. 


A refuge for lost words and wandering phrases. For poetry and prose and those not quite fitting of any sort of label. Here, stories will be told, or else, words will present themselves for query and contemplation. Here, there will be only expression, reflection comes later whilst observing the flight of a bird or the passage of a raindrop down a grimy window. Here, 'there will be time, there will be time. For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.' 


Here, time is but your own.