Be

Beheld by the burden of being
Beckoned by the belief of becoming
Perturbating between the boundaries of both
Balanced on the brink of perceived belonging
The past we belated, the present we absented,
The beyond we proceed to with blindness
Packaged and bound in a bow of the self we berate
Or abandoned, trapped in dubious baggage
Blown away by the blatant ablation of our brio
Rebel! Rebel! Against being broken by the obscure
Or being bested by betrayal
Rebuke! Rebuke! Being beaten by the banal

This big blue ball boasts beauty
Believe in your body
Be kind to your brain
Balanced between blood and bones
There’s boundless benevolence imbued
Double that to the beings beyond you

Burst ablaze your beacon
Bang the bells of your obsession
Be the bastion of your belonging
Build yourself better
And be bold
Be you
Be
B

Nine to five

It feels like I’ve aged nine years in the past five
Like I’ve been five different people in the last nine
It feels like it’s been downhill yet I’ve had many victories
I should focus on the highs rather than what it cost to win

It feels like the last nine months went in the blink of an eye,
And in five months the new year will feel like a lie
It feels like a good year but what happened to all of the time?
It’s been only a few tears but it’s easy to forget the smiles

I hope my restless soul learns to see my sixes as nines
I hope my eyes look up to see stars in groups of fives
I hope the good things stand the test of time
I hope the rest are a blip when I look back on my life

The horned one

I reside in the details in-between the lines

Working tirelessly in your idle minds

I may care, I may not

They’d like to think I cry when I’ve lost

If you’re like me and burnt through the eons 

Wins and losses all blend into one

Whether you’re a waltz or a ballroom type 

I’m happy to dance in the pale moon light

Speak of me and I’ll appear in red and gold

I have what you want, just show me your soul

Nothing false will ever float from my throat

Not till the day it snows in my abode

Don’t you listen to the rumours and tropes

Unlike the blue sea, I’ll never sink your boat

I get no sympathy, just misunderstood

But if you sign right here, I’ll make it all good

Other people

They say heaven is other people
The warmth of the many, the love of the few
It’s the faces when your life flashes before you
When memories swim in dopamine views

They say hell is other people
The guilt that we carry, the shame we hold true
The times of agony, losses unrecouped
Like the cold stare of a stranger in a dark room

They say eternity is other people
You only die when the last person thinks of you
In the blurred memories of your face
Or the last quiet call of your name
You live in me, I live through you
We live in our deeds, and how they are viewed
Mercy and grace helps us pull through
Through the light we create, mountains are moved

Torrents

What’s understood don’t need to be said
You don’t understand today, but you will tomorrow
The praying mantis prays to lose its head
At birth, the star is destined to be a black hole
Perhaps the will takes the same form as the ether
To the observer, all the ants follow the line
Perhaps the will takes the form of the words of a liar
To the creator, the behaviour is the design
What’s the future of the ball at the top of the hill?
Where are the strings the hands of time will pull
You don’t understand today, but tomorrow you will
It don’t need to be said, when it’s understood

“Man is condemned to be free. Condemned, because he did not create himself, in other respect is free; because, once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does. The Existentialist does not believe in the power of passion. He will never agree that a sweeping passion is a ravaging torrent which fatally leads a man to certain acts and is therefore an excuse. He thinks that man is responsible for his passion”
Jean Paul Satre

Unwavering time

Days are too short and years roll by in the blink of an eye

And what’s the retort? Stare your eye in the mirror and lie

It’s hard to deny the eye as a mirror of sorts

And the prickles of time are also endured by clocks

But the truth mirrors the false, minus the faults

At times tedious to spot and tough to report

In clichés lie the unique, life is long, life is short

You’re all that matters in your insignificant world

Things happen for a reason, but meaning is lost

We’re alone together on this pale blue orb

Turning on a line, spinning on the spot

Eternity in an instant, infinity in a dot

Slippery

The wind, a mischievous child tugging at the edges of fabric, leaves and hair, snagged at a woman’s scarf as she navigated the winding path, her eyes fixed on the ground, she heard another set of footsteps, she raised her head to see the figure of a woman approaching her, looking down at her palms. Clouds, a brooding congregation on one side of the horizon, the other side, a calm blue, waiting, serene and unconcerned. The twisted hiking trail led up a hill and kissed the border of these parts of the sky as it touched the horizon. The older woman’s boots crunched against the slippery rocks, their damp surfaces a testament to the season’s chill. She chuckled, a sound that held both worry and anticipation, as she leaned on her walking stick. “It’s slippery this time of year.”
A younger woman, startled, looked up from her phone. “What?”
“The rocks, dear. Slippery.”
“Oh yeah, they be like that.” She tucked her phone back into her pocket and looked at the horizon.
“You know, my son used to say you have to navigate this terrain with your eyes and ears”
Her gaze still distant, she muttered “Just trying to be present, you know?”
“Aren’t we all?” The older woman gestured towards the trail ahead. “So why are you stumbling then?”
The younger woman shrugged, avoiding eye contact.
A gust of wind blew past them and the trees around applauded to its strength
The older woman continued, her voice tinged with both wistfulness and concern. “He usually comes for the holidays, my son. Fascinated by the moss on these rocks, he is. It’s what makes them slick, you know. Growth, just from water and sun.”
“Right.” The younger woman shifted her weight, edging towards the path. “Well, it was nice chatting, ma’am. Gotta get going…”
“He normally makes it for holidays,” the older woman pressed on, her eyes following the curve of the trail. “But this year he says his plate’s full. Worries me sometimes.”
A sigh escaped the younger woman’s lips. “You miss him.”
“Terribly.” The older woman’s fingers tightened around her walking stick. “Been a while, and we have our differences, always have but… “
“People are complicated.” The younger lady abruptly interrupted in a soft timid tone.
(Silence stretches between them, thick with unspoken emotions.)
The younger woman’s voice cracked. “And then you have to deal with all that… baggage, all the bullshit…”
The older woman chuckled, a surprising warmth in her tone. “Language, dear!”
(They share a choked laugh.)
“I’m sure your son loves you very much” the younger woman offered, her voice softer now.
“He’ll come around. Boys do.”
“Do they?” Said the younger lady with a hint of sarcasm in her tone “Are you going to be okay though”
The older woman turned to face her, her gaze direct. “Like I said, they come around eventually, at least for their mothers, but the real question is, are you going to be okay?”
Another gust of wind blew past, this time with a few tiny drops wetting their faces. The younger lady looked to the ground, pulling her jacket closed.
“Yes, I think so” her voice cracking ever so slightly “I think I have to go”
“It’s okay to need a little support you know? May I hug you goodbye?”
“I don’t… Ye…”
Without hesitation, the older lady pulled her in and as she fell into the hug, she sobbed on the way down.
“It’s just so hard, needing people”
The older lady held tighter, her sobbing and short inhales echoed by the pebbles beneath their feet and the trembling of her belly.
“I don’t know if I can”
The older lady released her arms, leaned back and looked in her eyes.
“You can, and you will, I don’t know what you’re going through but I know you can”
“Thank you, I need to hear that” She said as she wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater.
“Would you like to talk about it” asked the older lady as she held her shoulders
She closed her eyes tightly as she wiped her eyes with her other sleeve, she opened them as she exhaled.
“I know I’ve been saying this but I gotta go”
Her phone rang, she pulled it out of her pocket and glanced at it.
“Okay I gotta go for real this time, thanks for that, I didn’t know I needed that”
With her grey hair fluttering in the now more frequent gusts of wind, the older lady smiled, rearranging the wrinkles on her face to lines more suited for comfort or a glass of wine on a summer day.
“Remember, even the rocks find their footing.”
The younger woman smiles tearfully and hurries off down the trail. The older woman watches her go, a gentle sadness in her eyes. She turns back towards the path, taking each step with careful awareness.
“Slippery this time of year.”

8 out of 9 lives

Call me maudlin, my greatest of sins
The bittery past turns into gin
Mix in the syrupy sorrow and juice
A flip of the coin where both sides are twos

I’ve got to tell you dear old chap
In 8 out of 9 lives, this cat
Would fall and land on his back
And follow the light like a laser’s mark

I’d ask for that hand and start with a dance
And waltz to a wreck, the future’s my past
I’d chase my tail till my lungs give out
I’d give in again, surrender my heart

I’ve got to tell you dear old chap
In 8 out of 9 lives, this cat
Would fall and land on his back
And follow the light like a laser’s mark

What can I say, I can’t change these stripes
It wasn’t all sweet, yet a wonderful time
I’d land on my back and smile at my fail
I guess you could say, I’m just chasing my tale

Dust and trickle

How do I do this again?

Oh yeah, one word at a time

Find the stream and gain some momentum

Oh, don’t forget to rhyme

It’s like riding a bike

Oh and breathe, don’t forget to breathe

Dust off the dirt from the blade

Oh how mighty is the pen

Sigh… 

It depends… 

On the sword? On the pen? 

Or perhaps the hand

That decides how much will drip

From the edge or the tip

It only takes one heart to siege an art attack

Takes a strong spine to hold back

It takes one brain to feign a storm

And one crown to adorn

But don’t forget your breath

And don’t forget the rhyme

Don’t forget your checks

And stick between the line

Only if you’d like

Only if it pleases your eyes

Greater > than

The only thing that exists is the instance at hand
Yet we are greater than the sum of the moments we have
If we choose to rise above this fact
We could be greater than the sum of our past
Levitate from the death of minutes, emerge from the ash
We rise to the occasion, some willing, some kicking and screaming
Thrust from the nest, frantically flapping and screeching
Or jump from the crest, feathers fluttering and weaving
Through pockets of air and currents in the sky
Either way fall or fly, or fall with style
Do we call the ones that dream the bold?
Or those who rose to face the day?
Sold their souls to play the game
To hold their nose through tainted air
Till lungs explode to then exhale
Then ride the currents to the sky and fall again
Rinse the slate for groundhog day
Awake again, no scripts displayed
But played it with every step and word they said
A story greater than the sum of the ink that bled
Our silence greater than the words unsaid
Violins greater than the strings that thread
So, my brother, my sister
Stay greater than your worth on paper
Stay greater than the wounds and plaster
Stay greater than the selves we master