Orange juice (poem of mine)

Today was weird
I got drunk off that old orange juice
I shouldn’t have drunk it
The carton was filled with air.
Oh well.
I listened to some Brand New
while sitting on my bed and looking at the view.
I thought of a walk
Tried to fill the spaces in my head
That the orange juice made weird and empty.
Could have been placebo,
But I lost some co-ordination you see.
Or,
I could have just been wanting to get drunk at 10 o clock in the morning
So I could sit on the bed and look at the view
when my head was full of oranges.

The Grey Castle (Original poem of mine)

I woke at the grey castle,
And with each breath
I saw those grey walls
And grey stone
And the grey sky
With the black birds
And the grey green bruise
Those clouds.

A happy and silent sleep
I had
At first
But soon the sky nudges you
To remember the time
To cling to some semblance
Of the hours rolling by
But those grey walls
They kept me locked inside.

The smooth granite
And the black
And the blue
They blend into grey
And silver hue
And the turret
Where the lonely woman cries
You close your eyes
And open them to the grey sky.

You ask and you pray
To leave this grey,
majestic theatre.
And you wish to leave
And speak to someone,
Or something.
But every day
It is a grey dawn,
And a sullen afternoon
That seeps into
This widening pool of grey blue.

Not a beautiful thing (original poem of mine)

I was never a beautiful thing
More,
My own creation,
The limbs and the whims
And the skin.
Nothing that hinted
Nothing to squint at.
I was feeble
And translucent
Like a fog,
That rises to greet you
Before the rain takes over.

There wasn’t much,
I never went from here,
To there.
All of life
Was an understatement,
And a gathering realisation,
Of the steps I had taken,
And the backs I’d broken.

I spoke and I lived
With my withered injustices
An etiolated whisper
On the back of your tongue,
But never resting in your mind.

When anger arose
It never bubbled
Or flowered.
Into effervescent rage,
It was silent destruction,
Corruption
of my senses,
My good faith
remained,
The eruption,
That couldn’t reach the surface.

I’d have given you my heart,
But there is nothing left to be sold
My secrets they let me go, long ago
And my love is rare
As liquid gold.

The Silent Hours (Original poem of mine)

This echoing throat
Of blackness
Where the lone pearl of the moon
Shouts starkly
On the sullen hue
Of the hillside.
The air is dead
And despondent
And the sleeping horizon
Crouches
Like a hundred squinting hunchbacks.

The wind sways you
Like an ugly weed
Strangled,
And standing proud.
The dessicated ground,
Gapes open
For the nightly parade,
A solemn legion
Of breathless shadows,
And scarlet reminders.

The twisted scars
That tunnel beneath
The acrid clouds
Of perfect dusk,
Will suck you in.
As the darkness follows the closing eyelid,
When all is silent,
Sleep will follow.
As hollow as a dream
That left you gasping.

Only a sleep (Original poem of mine)

 

It is not the last number in the sequence
The last drop in the pattern.
Not the be all,
The end all.
The same repetitive conundrums
The raised eyebrows,
The feigned concern
For your fragility
The elbow room.
“He needs his space”
The glassy stare will go excused for now.

A lot of the what’s, the where’s, the how’s
Will always be a why.
It is the last flash of day when the curtains squeeze in the dusk,
The numbing light from the TV at 4 am when you wake
With the cold telling you to stop sleeping,
To wake,
To check the clock,
To wait.
Each click of the second
Reminds me of why.

It is the morning,
The birds brought no comfort today
Window slammed in disgust,
My reflection swimming in the bowl
Recoil,
At the distortion of myself.
Skin that doesn’t hold the life within it very well
Anymore.

When she left,
You thought of the possibilities,
But the knives were blunt anyway.
The thought of release brought no comfort.
Only a sleep,
Just a sleep.