Sleep

My eyes are burning.

I can feel them,

The blood vessels becoming more and more clogged with heat.

A look in the mirror would confirm it,

But the lights are off.

They have been for a while.

Almost two hours.

1 hour 57 minutes.

And still I lie here in a state of peaceful agony.

Sleep refuses to bless me with its cursed visions,

I cannot shut down my thoughts,

Cannot turn down the noises in my mind

For long enough to drift off any more.

Perhaps I am scared.

I was scared last night.

I was lying here and my leg,

Both of my legs,

Were trembling.

Not the kind of shiver you get from a walk on a snowy day,

Not the kind of shudder that passes through you when a warm hand rests on your shoulder,

This was the shake of a frightened beast..

That scared me.

When I finally slept it was deep.

Very deep.

So deep that I forgot who I was,

Where I was,

What I was supposed to be doing..

My mind assigned an identity,

A quest,

A feeling,

A failure..

I broke down.

In a state of unconscious anguish I lay on the floor and sobbed.

I woke up after a few minutes,

My legs still trembling.

What is happening to me?

Space Age Demons

How do you see the world?

Laid out flat like a map,

Is it all so black and white and green and blue?

Some see faces,

Memories of those who were once close

Or those who still are.

Some see places,

Trees and flowers, a grassy meadow,

Buildings which project themselves into the sky.

Some hear music,

Pachelbel's Canon, The Rolling Stones,

Birds fluttering overhead or the lover who sings in the shower.

I know roads.

I know the long, dark strips of tarmac which snake through

Middle America,

The lonesome two-lane highways of days gone by.

I know the massive, crowded motorways which slap themselves

Across whatever they see fit to lay bare,

The landscape around them afforded not even a second glance.

I know the back streets, the dark alleys,

The corners you shouldn't turn and the roads which should never

Be crossed.

I know houses.

I know the cramped, undefined apartment,

The Victorian three-bedroom semi,

The massive three-story suburban,

The cosy little house which I share with friends,

And the one I go to to escape everything else.

I know the places.

The countries and continents.

The cities and houses.

The streets.

The memories.

How many people can plot their lives on a world-wide road map?

Pass me one. Let me take you for a drive.

Retired People and Prisoners

A lot of thought went into these words.

I'm procrastinating,

But not in an entirely unproductive sense.

After all, this whole thing is about identity,

And what bigger part of me to explore

Than the poetry?

What is poetry to me?

I've often answered this question

But never put much thought into it.

Poetry is my nicotine self-company..

I crave company, you see,

I long for companionship

But there are always strings attached,

Always something to worry about.

But with my writing..

When I write,

I've no one to impress,

No one to please (not even myself.)

My poetry is not my baby,

My child as it were,

Which I protect and shelter.

Rather, it is the doll I keep at my side,

The one I can release my feelings to,

The one I can shout at,

The one I can abuse without repercussions.

And my poetry will never judge me,

Never fight back.

Never Known Anyone Like You

I'm sick of you

Sick of the way you abuse me,

Sick of the way you expect me to be OK.

Tired of your double standards,

How you play me against myself

And act like you're the innocent party.

I'm fed up with your treating me like you do

And done with putting up with it.

I thought maybe I could give you

The benefit of the doubt,

But you abuse that like everything else

I ever gave to you.

I've never known anyone like you.

I trusted you initially, like I trust anyone,

But then you betrayed my trust,

As others have done before,

Yet somehow you earned enough back

So that I could be comfortable with you again.

And then, in one deft move,

You threw it all away.

Maybe you didn't understand how trust works

With me,

Most people don't even get a second chance.

Nobody gets a third.

So I hope that it hits you,

What you've done

To yourself as much as me.

You've lost a loyal friend,

And there's almost no chance of getting him back.

You're on your own now.

Have fun.

Fortress [Prison]

I am trapped.

Trapped. Held hostage in a web

Of my own design.

Imprisoned within bars which I

Forged with my thoughts

And built with my actions.

It was here to protect me,

To prevent anything from the outside-

The cruel, confusing outside-

From reaching me.

From interrupting my bliss.

But now inside is a whirl of confusion and pain

And I have locked myself in.

I have the key.

I could escape.

But the fear of what awaits holds me back.

Although it is painful, it is

Familiar. I can take a sort of

Comfort in my surroundings.

But at the same time I do not know

Nor dare to guess

How long I should be able to withstand

The weight of my own conscience..

The unfamiliar terrifies me.

The familiar bears down upon me.

Which way do I turn?

To look inside myself is to plunge

Into the fiery depths of pain and turmoil

Which plague me nightly,

To look beyond and outside these walls

Is to expose myself to a world

Which would not hold back its judgements.

And in this state,

How could I withstand the slings and

Arrows, the glares and

Whispers, the hatred and

Rejection of a world without you?

Faith

Black isn't a colour.

Its the complete lack of colour,

Lack of liveliness

Devoid of any life.

But it isn't the end, either.

Black can be a full stop

Or the start of a chapter.

What will this one be?

Who can tell,

All I can see right now

Is this dull shade

Of nothing.

Do not dispair!

Do not believe for a second

That this is a tunnel

In which there is no light!

There is.

Its everywhere.

This is no tunnel,

'Tis but a shroud.

All I've got to do is find my way out.

Tell Me Where It Hurts

It isn't that I want to avoid you

It's that I don't want to have to

Make contact

With you.

Physical, verbal, even visual really.

It isn't that I find you repulsive,

Quite the opposite.

I cannot see you because of the way your eyes,

Calm and gentle,

Burn straight through me.

I cannot talk to you because your voice,

Soft and soothing,

Slides like a knife across my own throat.

I cannot be around you because your smile,

Warm and genuine,

Is like a thousand shards of glass piercing my tender flesh.

But by far the most painful thing of all

Is the smile I am forced to give you in return.