See here this reclamation A simple lie; a completed circle That I dare not see In this state, is arbitrary Wash my hands in the bathroom Look down look down … Continue reading Dysmorphic
Tag: poetry
Guidance Needed
Every so often, we come across people who seem strange to us, yet so familiar. And these people leave a great impact on our lives.
Twits In Hits
I really like hats
Just not when they’re worn by twats
I used to love beer
Til “craft” made it daft, now I usually just steer clear
I really liked bicycles…when I was eight
Now they tend to grate
Especially on footpaths
That turn into death traps
When cyclist don’t slow down, instead they just mow you down
And if you do manage to turn around
It’s always too late to stop your toes from getting pounded into the ground
Arseholes
I still like beards though
Because they make a man look like a teddy bear
With his little fuzzy hair
Walking and talking like he hasn’t got a care
It’s not fair
I wish I could grow a beard
But I suppose that would look weird
But I really do like hats
(I just f*cking hate twats)
A Goodbye, Of Sorts
It’s a funny feeling, indeed
To miss that which you never had
To wave it goodbye and wish it well for the future
It is funnier, even, to have created the fallacy of an unwanted truth
To have twisted and coiled my way up in a story
One that none had ever wanted to hear, not least myself
Though, I made it mine, in spite of desire
I delved into a sacred place as though I had a right to be there
I abused myself as though I had no right to care
I held tight and fast to the notion of it
It being a love, of sorts
It being the one thing truly lost to me
Yet craved, selfishly
Abusing it until the coil twisted back on itself and all that was left was me
All that ever was there was me, truthfully
For that moment I wondered
I pondered on it
It being that love, of sorts
I poked my head out to play and danced with it a while
Toyed with it
Delighted in it
But never in it, you see
In itself, it is lost to me
I cannot connect with that which is not there
But I can create
I rejoice in the weaving of the story of it
Believing it to be true
Believing it to be me
A heart that beats a regular rhythm
Where others may come and step to the drum
They see the me of my design
We dance and we sing
We feel a lifelong knowing despite there being nothing to know
The untruth engulfs for a while, at least
Til the slap of the coil reminds of me
Just me
How funny, indeed
