Submitted to OpenLinkNight with dVersePoets on Tuesday 4th December.
Bags of time sag endlessly over the mind’s eye.
They cloud every aspect of a day, and they still try
To eat into the insects infested in the lesson, lunch, tea break and sleep.
Muggy, grey clouded aura.
Smiling politely, nodding silently,
Recoiling towards a blissful clam,
Sleep and darkness, away from the dazzling aches of the day.
Self-infliction of self reveals a true identity: a true picture?
Or a matisse inspired manipulation, accentuating fault and shadowing praise,
Cross-hatching your peceived confidence.
It has been a month since I last posted on here. Yes, you’re thinking, “Thank you Martyn for stating the obvious.” Well, today I was trying to rationalise why I have not been able to mould any new pieces. The answer: time. Looking back over my earlier pieces, I thought over this particular piece and my inspiration came flooding back. Why should time be allowed to stop us from anything? Why should we just happily ponder over how little time there is? Get up and do something about it. So I have.
Time is leaving us back at the starting blocks, just like that kid we all knew; the one who was never really great at anything, but tried so hard to just be something for a day, someone for a second.
How often do chances come our way: the ones we know will make or break us; define our recent history and shape something so fundamental, like your confidence to even walk out the front door, or pick up your pen and scrawl the words you cannot say.
Sometimes you know, that feeling won’t ever leave you. A fundamental feeling to live in everyone’s shadow; the background in your favourite picture. Often, it can be rooted in the most mundane feelings of happiness, but why? Happiness in silence; contentment in isolation.