Brick Wall

(Rambling late night verse – not my finest hour)

Banging my head against a brick wall.
An endless glut of profanity builds within.
Nonsense, wrong tense, grammar and vague comment.
Rubbish reason, essay treason and fragile talent broken.
If it’s not one thing, it’s another with them.
I’m losing all faith in their ability.
It’s harsh, but true, start afresh and renew.
If I continue to thwack my head against this brick wall, maybe some blood soaked grey matter will spray onto their conscious mind? Thought not.
I will, definitely, persevere.
I will, hopefully, succeed.
I will, probably, break.
We’ll carry on smacking away at that wall.

Sixteen Two Thirteen

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For Rachel.

Five times the air,
Breathing a million times.
Five times the earth,
Endless miles before us.
Five times time and space,
Forever is all we are.
Five, the number of now.
Ten, fifteen, numbers to go.

Always and forever,
Five times my Lion Girl,
Numbers to the future.

Sinking

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.

That sinking feeling.

I want to write

Pencil dangle, teasing blank space,

Lines mix with lines entwined

With lines of endless nothing.

Blank skies, dull horizons

Inspire me not, for I am not, something I can’t be.

Gaps in time disappear,

End of life appears,

But not a word of summary.

Words escape their fragile form,

And warm the grey place;

Space beyond the eyes but before the soul,

The knot of the tongue where words reign

Pensive and unformed.

I want to write about something I’m not.

But I can’t; I’m not.

Four

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.