inside the speechless poet

…it feels as if the words have muddled in my brain and even though i can see them there on the metaphorical pages of my electronic devices they are bent and the beginnings of some are the endings of none and words extend over other words and others are shortened as if sucked into themselves and they’re slipping through my fingers and i miss them in my brain as my neurones keep firing but the circuit seems to be missing a piece where the left side of my brain must be damaged for my right hand isn’t working and the centre of my consciousness doesn’t seem to be connecting with my core and the depths of me feel like they’re exploding but in this tight space held hostage by tendons it feels nuclear and the repercussions unknown BOOM and it’s gone off and now i’m trying to gather all the pieces of myself within myself i try to express them or repress them–and i feel i want to move my mouth but it doesn’t seem to be connected to my stomach or any of the other parts of me that are able to feel and i feel i’m running out of breath in this marathon i try to keep up with my emotions but my words always seem to fail whilst my mind can run on the same endless loop like a broken megaphone screeching round the same tune sucked within a vortex of its own black matter turned into a black hole guarded by a meteor shower of self-doubts and getting stuck into saturn’s infinity rings of brokenness and wholeness in this solar system of my art the brightest star is my heart with its twisted valves trying to push oxygenated blood into areas long gone giving me phantom limb syndrome making me miss something that has not yet been mine i’m renouncing the plutos of my life the have been but never really supposed to be there i’m realigning planets and moving myself closer to the SON…

Advertisements

(for the One I love the most)

There is dirt under my nails

There is dry blood on my limbs

There are pieces of my armour falling

There are things I left on the battlefield

But You were the one to save me

I did not fall by the enemy’s sword

You gave me my life as a prize of war

For I have put my trust in You

Seedtime and Harvest


It’s autumn now:

The trees are blooming onto death,

The crops are fully grown,

Some of the fields are already empty.

We’ve planted our seeds,

The luckiest ones also watched them grow;

The harvest is plentiful.

The trees are blooming onto death though-

They bear no fruit,

They shed their leaves for winter.

Autumn makes death look so beautiful!

Is that true?

Or is it the letting go that’s golden?

Golden, copper leaves,

I wish that I could paint these trees.

But I cannot.

I’ll watch them instead as I harvest the field.

We’ve had so much sun this summer,

So much so that the ground missed the rain.

I didn’t.

I love the sun!

I wish it could come back in winter.

Maybe it will, maybe I’ll call that apricity.

I will name the miracle;

I will love the sun;

When it’s out again,

I will plant my seeds

And wait again for harvest-

Wait again for autumn-

Wait again for death and letting go-

To remind me how beautiful the light is.

I will love the seeds as much as I love the harvest.

I will love the harvest no less than the seeds,

And with every sunset, I will watch the leaves

Fall into the ground and become seeds,

Then plants and fruit and trees.

I will love the harvest of the trees that is autumn,

And perhaps this will lead me into spring-

Where days are long and fields are green

And nobody worries yet about the harvest.

Yet, tomorrow I will wake and harvest my small garden.

It’s late autumn now:

I should have harvested before,

But I love too much to watch things grow;

So I will wait another day,

I will not worry about the way

My plants decide to grow;

I will not use them-

Not put them into a metaphor-

But simply watch them grow.

It’s the end of autumn now:

Winter is coming,

Blooming with perspective

And giving birth to spring.

I still watch the trees,

I still love the sunset,

But I’m resting from the harvest.

Gold 💛

You know where the gold is, dear friend? It’s not in the popular songs or the published books; and it’s not in the music studios or the editorial desks. No, the gold is in the rusty chords of your guitar, in the folder in your notes entitled Poems, in the notebook you’ve been journaling in ever since you were young. The gold is in the things not yet shared, not yet spoke, not yet sang out of your being. The gold-the light-is inside of you!

Isaiah 60:1 “Arise, shine, for your light has come, and the glory of the LORD rises upon you.”

About isolation

It becomes very easy, when you isolate yourself, to believe that people won’t understand you, that they couldn’t possibly comprehend what you are feeling.

And perhaps they won’t, you know? Perhaps they won’t be able to entirely understand what’s in your mind or your heart. But, if they are willing to listen, it means they are willing to see; so show them, show the people around you how you feel, how you hurt.

Let yourself be seen!

Light-a poem

My brokenness in parts

Is spread across this mattress,

It is hidden in the corners

Of this empty house and

I am breathing very slowly:

One is in and two is out;

I’m exhaling all the poison

And I’m inhaling the light.

As I sit, curled up in bed,

Time begins its slow progress.

I can hear it in my head,

I can see it in the darkness.

A shining outside the window,

From a rupture in the sky,

Makes the dust sparkle like silver

And it colours me in light.

Past beyond the midnight hour,

I’m now past the aching,

And I open like a flower,

I’m reborn in a new morning.

At the dawn of my tomorrows,

I’ll still bloom even despite

Of the bitterness of sorrow

And I’ll grow into the light.

Create! 


Here’s to the artists and inventors.Here’s to the ones that create. Here’s to the unseen paintings and the unheard songs; to the unread stories and to poetries unknown. Here’s to the ones that make without ever fearing no one will ever see their creation. Here’s to those who are afraid to do so and here’s to them finding the courage to be artists even if no one ever will call them by this name. Here’s to you, dear friend, calling yourself a writer✍🏻, a poet🗣, a painter🎨, a singer🎤, an artist🎭-here’s to all the ones calling the art out of you.

2 A.M. drives

2 AM drives

they were always my favourite.

i don’t know;

i guess it’s just something about the way the city looks at night,

the way everything seems to be full of life

yet it still is sleeping,

silent,

still.
i guess it just seems peaceful.
and i remember that drive,

in those times,

it felt like peace was hard to find;

and so a city that looked peaceful

brought me hope!

the lamps on the streets

illuminating the darkness whispered hope!

and when we got to the top and saw the city with all its wonder lights i understood

that the darkness was beautiful because there was light!