As that fire within you builds, they can break your bones
but not bend your will.
Fighting.
You drop ideals which once seemed so heavy and true,
when you realise those ideals weren’t developing you.
Timing.
It can’t be right or wrong, for time is only time
and if something is right it shall always remain right.
Right?
If only all things were as simple as time,
would our existence be easier with a simpler life?
Silence.
I ask this question, I hear no answers,
there’s nothing.
Just silence.
My fundamental understanding of life is that everything that you love will eventually hurt you. You have 2 options, love nothing or embrace the suffering that love brings.
If nothing else this provides hope. Hope is knowing that life is a garden of daisies and thorns, but picking without fear anyway. That feeling of joy you feel as the baby opposite you smiles at you on the train, because you know that canvas is blank and if nothing else that canvas still has hope.
I’ve been figuring why it is that hope is important and I’ve come to only one conclusion. Hope is what allows us to wake up everyday, regardless of yesteryears troubles and tribulations. Regardless of where thought may take me, to the depths of complete nihilism or Eden better yet, hope is what allows me to strive, despite the fact that I know little of what awaits me.
In a way it’s exciting, the fear, the wonder and the chase for all that which is beautiful. I guess my life is still ultimately a mission of wonder, but it’s a sequence of hope, hope for and endless supply of better tomorrows.
I mostly remember you for the winter days,
The streets would freeze as you lit my soul,
If the heart could speak then I’d let you know.
You got me through the winter days.
The snow falls, the wind blows and
Our streets are filled with muddied slush.
Even when I was alone on my way to school,
I’d hear your voice say, ‘don’t run’.
Don’t worry, I were always sure to walk,
Even when you left,
I never felt alone, I felt your step
and for all those journeys in my mind we would talk.
I mostly remember you for my winter days,
But I love you for the days I don’t remember.
That Tuesday morning, you remember right?
September 5th, 1995.
The day you became my goddess and you gave me life.
The day I stole your heart and you gave me mine,
you gave me the most precious gift… time.
Yet I must live without you every single day.
Reminiscing of the early years,
loving you for the latter.
Missing you hereafter,
But mostly…
mostly, I remember you for the winter days.
They say art reflects time, I wonder if I die would my art reflect mine?
If my art reflects pain can my art reflect life?
When my times gone, can my art outlive it’s frame?
will my song soar and ring again?
Supported by pain. A Zimmer frame.
To support and carry what should also be in the grave.
If when it’s done only this remains, then I say let it be.
As I face what’s ahead of me, I just let it be. For if my art is any tale, it’s my own, and until it is retold it’s incomplete.
Ar
She saw life as an ocean,
a sea of pain.
1000 emotions yet all she felt was pain.
Drown in that sorrow, pain is abyss,
And all time is borrowed.
If so, endless hurt is the consequence of such loaned treasure, but like all things good, it can not last forever.
For her life was an ocean, a sea of pain; she wondered ‘if I drown in sorrow, in my sea of pain, will this abyss cease and set me free again’
It can happen in an instant,
One moment you’re cruising,
The next your sinking.
Those final moments can be so fitting;
life and death, forever besides never,
if deaths eternal then what is living?
I remember the way they saw me,
If only they knew I could see them now,
I flutter in and out of consciousness as they scream and shout.
‘Fight it… fight it’
But I’m done fighting,
I’m fully resigned to leaving now.
They don’t love me really, not even now.
They worry for their loss as they forget about mine.
I’ll be gone forever but they’ll forget that in time.
They should have loved me while I was here;
Before the pink left my lips and my dreams disappeared,
before time took my mind, before age took my frame,
back when we had more time, more memories to make.
They never loved me while I was here.
But as I’m leaving they love me again?
Funny how things change.
I still wonder sometimes, I wonder what my vision will grant.
If my scope is large and I cast my net wide,
If my dreams remain, if my heart stays clean
and my conscience stays clear? there are no bounds to what I can be.
And that’s all from you,
Empathy and understanding that’s all from you.
I became a man of principles and that’s all from you.
Because you gave me love, which made me love,
so, ultimately that’s on you too.
I learnt this all from you,
You are my inspiration, my queen,
the one who I write both for and about,
Everything is for you,
My life, my hope, my curtain call.
She had the sort of stare that pierced,
a look that sent all gaze and attention in her direction.
She was the sort of lady that they erased from history,
yet the strength of her tune still blossomed and grew.
Blessed with power and grace,
Intelligence and beauty, but a delicate heart;
The type that breaks,
yet is somehow still filled with love in that state.
She had the type of spirit that defeats death,
we star-crossed lovers defied such fate;
till death do us part,
but even in death our bond couldn’t break.
So I don’t say rest in peace, I say wait…
In peace till I join someday.
What if in the end there’s nothing?
If when all is said and done, more was said than done.
If in the end its just empty and cold,
alone, no resurrection or second coming.
We were sold the ideal of happy ever after,
But what is ever?
Is it the 3 scores plus 10 that the bible promised?
Or a seat at the table where God is?
Is it the promise of an eternal heaven,
The perfect utopian paradise?
In that case is life the parasite
That sucks until this endless ending?
Forever,
A concept that not one of us has seen
But so many believe.
What if we confused what forever could really be.
What if in the end we are left with memories.
If in the end our forever is what’s in our hearts?
If in the end it doesn’t matter what happens in the end?
For death is inevitable, it truly is;
but in the end, memories remain long after we depart.
Perfectionist… I have never quite understood the term, I mean ultimately aren’t we all perfectionist? Id like to think its something etched into the human psyche which shackles us to perfect expectations… but what if it isn’t?
There was a period in my life where I could write for days. I’d find myself reading all sorts of knowledgeable and engaging content, content which would spark this burning desire for me to write. Fluid thought and new creative ideas and worldviews seemed to find me and subsequently I’d find a pen. In a way writing is the ultimate reflection of the writer. During a time when I thought I fully understood the world, at least as it pertains to me, my writing was assured, I believed whole heartedly in my words. Ultimately, when my mind is stable my writing is also stable.
Over the past 2 months I have been writing and re-drafting with no real ambition to publish any of the works I have written. It isn’t that I no longer have the ability to write, its more to do with what reflection I am reflecting onto my writing. As I said writing is a reflection of the writer; currently as a writer, or better yet as a person, I am at a crossroads where I have suddenly begun to realise that I indeed know very little. The less assured I feel about this world, our society, our practices and ideas, the more I feel myself being hung by the imperfections that once seemed so perfect to me.
