life

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. 

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Retreat

Blinded by the stories,
fractured by the past.
Trying.

One false move,
and off you run.
Retreating.

A little bit of you,
you give what’s left.
Gasping.

Too much,
too little.
Silence.

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.” 

Lost 

Lost souls searching for something,
a comforting contentment of another time,
when there were less questions and more smiles,
or so we imagine.

Lost souls searching for answers,
for a moment of peace amongst the bustle,
for some salvation hidden in the scattered dreams,
that once shone so bright.

Lost souls, lost souls.
Where will you go?
Lost souls, lost souls.
Seek until you find.