life

Little Dear 

It’s not you, it is everything.
It’s the past, it’s the future,
it’s the moments in between.

It’s the invisible weight bearing down.
The fake smiles to hide the hurt. 
The battles that can never be won. 

Round and round, the restless feeling 
where you’re constantly trying.
Battling, flailing, fighting, surviving. 

What is there left to give? 
What is left inside of me? 
What is left of me?

Be strong, little dear, for you have so much more to see. 

Advertisements

Empty

Slightly burnt, with crusts a little too thick. 

The last of the butter, evenly spread.

A little sweeter, perhaps? Too bland otherwise. 

Is there anything left in the cupboard? 

Jam, marmite, lemoncurd?

Maybe the marmite. 

Some will hate but others will love. 

They’ll say the taste is too strong. 

Lingers. 

They’ll have their opinions. They’ll say. 

But still they will take, despite their talk. 

And when there’s nothing left, they’ll move onto the next,

leaving nothing but a few crumbs and an empty shelf. 

What lies behind?

A turn of a head,
for just a split second.
There’s that look. Held.
So steady and sure.
Strong, yet seemingly pure. 

Not a flutter, nor a falter.
Piercing, enchanting,
understanding, judging?
What lies behind?
Is it something kind? 

Your stomach starts to churn,
so very nearly knotted.
A tiny slice of doubt. Niggling.
And so you look elsewhere,
anywhere but there.

The fleeting moment flown.
Long lost before it started.
And so you sit and wonder,
what did they see?
And once again, off you flee.

Just Another Day - Poem

Just another day

Drip, drip,
you sit and watch.
Drip, drip,
the same old noise.
Drip, drip,
just another day.

Fix it, they say.
Fix it, they plead.
Fix it, they scream.
You stop,
and stare.

Drip, drip,
it’s back again.
Drip, drip,
glass-eyed and numb.
Drip, drip,
just another day.

Do something, they say.
Anything, they hope.
Fix it, they scream.
You stop,
and smile.

Drip, drip,
you rise and fall.
Drip, drip,
You laugh, you scream.
Drip, drip,
just another day.

Quote: Robert M. Pirsig – Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance 

“The world has no existence whatsoever outside the human imagination. It’s all a ghost, and in antiquity was so recognized as a ghost, the whole blessed world we live in. It’s run by ghosts. We see what we see because these ghosts show it to us, ghosts of Moses and Christ and the Buddha, and Plato, and Descartes, and Rousseau and Jefferson and Lincoln, on and on and on. Isaac Newton is a very good ghost. One of the best. Your common sense is nothing more than the voices of thousands and thousands of these ghosts from the past. Ghosts and more ghosts. Ghosts trying to find their place among the living.”