Back, and forward, forward, and back.
I’m pacing, nervously glancing without being seen.
Did her eye catch mine?
Has she seen my trembling fears?
Fears; they’re are fuelling my paranoid state,
Which snatches and snarls at my calm demeanour.
A sight burns through the titanium gleam of a personable character.
Wait, but what of the he:
The holder of the sympathy.
His an ill-tempered yet compassionate being,
Smashing his way through a service in years that’s passing by in a flash.
The bags tell tales of foes and villains, but the eyes live in hope of a sweet reprieve.
Do I sense some kind of impending doom?
Full of misinterpreted, false placed hope,
Hang my reasons on a personal rope.
Another day, dawn.
Sleepless night, yawn.
Tick box, check.
Mark book, tick:
Sign their life away.
Count the number of teens wandering,
Aimless and meandering.
Meeting, done, child, marooned.
Struggle impassioned with glistening rage,
Emotionally stunted reverence of a page.
Beneath the lines lies dark and lurid
Sworn oaths, allocated yet amended; is this just?
And who is the higher power?
And why is their will obnoxiously adhered?
He has a soul which you just trampled
With your one size fits none beliefs
That every one of us must weep
And bow to your majesty, right honourable creeps
The lot of you.
Struggle galvanised by a faded few,
Even you can’t hide the shame
Of all things pure now left as blame
For targeting rubbish within the page
And our embellished, impassioned rage
Becomes our master under your watching eye
Through the guise you once derived
But now greater still for the sycophant
Tracing blood from your serving ants
To prick a wound you’ve hence created.
Praise the needed; where are the needy?
Through the words of prose lies many’a tale,
Of how demons are slayed and how the good fight is faught.
Heroes are deified, for a hundred pages at least
Until the criticism culture strikes.
Villains are vindicated as underdogs; everyone loves an underdog.
Grand narratives, from the pointless, to the trivial line our shelves.
Medieval doctrine to fight for; blood shed over a fabled story.
How come we don’t all seem to follow the same code?
Nobody is following the exact scheme of events, the same conscious of thought;
Stories from an objective view do not exist;
Subjective subjects telling you how great it all is.
I wrote this piece a number of years ago. Now, I think I was trying to comment on how difficult it is to find individuality, or how others seem to dismiss the chance to be individual; we’ll see.
To walk around, drowned by silence, would be so easy;
to just take in the length and breadth of each day would be bliss.
We are wasting away into a grey matter, a precious commodity
for some, others just inherit their own futile excuses, day after day.
And everyone is looking for their own relief; depressed?
Trying to walk out from under the spotlight, to break free
from what we all know as stress. They call it a melodrama.
This change is golden, spirited and bold. A self belief unheard before,
hats off to the plucky ones, although it’s only a silent scream of rebellion.
Pandering to your own apathy, whilst being your own living enemy,
could appeal to some (‘drowned by silence, would be so easy’),
but how often do these days come along? Today? Tomorrow?
This rebellion is a question of pained glances, through the mirrors, into the windows.
Further past the grey matter it goes, into a self involved head-trauma
that aches and suffers against the silence of futile relief. Fun isn’t it.
that precise moment in time fades to a cadence; to nothing
stare at the clouds, through a window, into the dark of night
just for that split second you are lost
a pensive glance into a vacant glare
switching without a care from star to star
and for that split second
nothing matters anymore