Tuesday 17 April 2012

Does time heal ?

Does time heal ?
When wrong versus wrong.
When guilt subsides other guilt.
When lies cover other lies.

Does time heal ?
When forgiveness always has a less then pure rationale.
When reality hits.
And the edge of human emotion is tampered with.
When nothing and no one is real any more.

Does time heal ?
When the ego refuses.
When pride snatches back sanity.
When the want there is undermined by society.

Does time heal?
When your given an open easy option out.
When your split in two.
When you never forget.

Does time heal?
When you don't want it to.
When you can't save your self.
When you can't heal yourself.
When you can't forgive your self.





People are constantly searching for the truth but the real journey is when truth knocks at your door and says ' Here I am, Accept me or Deny me'. 
The Lies will be dusted off. The truth will shine. And you will no longer be cheated of the clear life that you should have.

I haven't lost much and you will see I have gained so much more then I ever expected.

Dueces

April 12th 2012

Tuesday 21 February 2012

A Pure White Rose.


My gardener 
Your touch, unknown 
Innocent meadow frolics was the under-tone.  

The expressions all hidden with play; 
As a child's youth wiped and lead astray.

Commanding whispers ,
now siren .
Angry warning chants from tree tops; 
to a past me ,
A young me .
A bubbly insecure ,
A Lost me . 

The early discovers of this not so intriguing world; 
Astounded and bewildering .
The thoughts were 
New and interesting, 
Yet this disease is frosted over with 
Bonds of trust .
Hangman-tied up with 
Bonds of blood 
Of loyalty.
Vanilla sugar coated with routine.

A life time later and the score is set. 
The seeds of vile infestation have grown, bountiful in their new living form. 
But no living being knows how this once pure white rose now sources; 
From its roots only black poisonous sustenance it seeps .

From its smell the rose is presently temptuoes. 
Its appearance, none can go past .
Its being, wanted by all. 

It is cut and nothing.It is cut deeper. 

And there bleeds black. 
Black clotted blood, 
That drips slow and sad. 





All that is planted is planted pure. 
The poisoning.
The touch. 
Of that harvested seed, 
Is what we have now. 

Now everything makes sense 

Years and years of suppression 
Of denial 
Of ignorance 
Naivety. 
'Bless you were only a sprout, 
A child,' child' 

All events and emotions for adults 
To play, lose and win at 
Were all things your should have not seen, 
Should have not heard. 
Should have not felt the touch of .

And now the sadness lies with the lost time 
Of youth.
Lost years of confusion and dis-orientation. 
The lost days of hating at all your species.
Lost hours of self justification. 
Through the wrong means, 
Yes that was wrong.
And that was wrong .
And that one. 

And now this being 
Child. 
This Flower, 
Is haunted by the lost minutes 
Of flashbacks. 
The lost seconds of hatefully understanding what was. 
And what shouldn't of been 

Now this white rose is enveloped in the pumping toxic blackening poison within. 
This rose's evil filled thorns are waiting to be cut. 
The stem to be racked off 
Dismembered from the contaminated touch; 
and cut from the grips of this suicidal source that life let's live on,
That is blended with the inner death of innocence 
Bleed out the black.
The numbness. 
The ivy being. 
The touch. 

To bleed out everything that stops this 
Pure 
White 
Rose 
Being 
Pure 
White 
Rose.







Pictures from






Torment.

When we walk in circles empty, 

We walk dying. 


When we drown in our actions and tears, 


we submerge and float helpless. 





When we knock, 


repeatedly knock in to that glass sharded



barb-wired


 hard wall. 

Head forward.


Crashing at full momentum.


Whilst cold clammy palms lay bare



 flat and inflicted on this wall. 

Taking the repelled energy back to the same flesh ripping, 


Skull shattering wall.


Blood dripping from forehead to nose and cheek. 


Pieces of skin, clotted and lucid blood inhaled in with every deep breath when striking 



and stricking injury. 

Again and again.



Exhausted. 

Lips trembling of pain. 


Salty from tears and those Red 


Red drips . 


Condensation from the two.


Mouth breathing in gusts . 





When we forget to feel, 


that feeling of heart, 


Of keeping whole.


And wanting pure and true. 


We become. 


Only the accustomed pain we revel in 


We enjoy, 



we relishes the high 

The sting,



the burn of euphoria . 





When we slaughter ourselves 


The same way, 


Everyday, 


We begin not feel that pain 


The injury,


 of the next approaching stab; 


the shardes of glass and brick and wire that becomes apart of us.


That become us.





When we walk in cycles empty 


We walk dying. 


When we drown in our actions and tears,


We submerge and  float helpless.





When pain becomes us 


And we become pain 






Life becomes torment.

5.16 am Sunday January 2012

Balcony Door.


Trucks.


Birds Chirp.


Haze.


Insomnia.

Monday 9 January 2012

Random#

I thought life would be boring and


less interesting without you seems the opposite.


Kudo's to new friends new breaths of life


 and cheers to letting go.!

Sunday 8 January 2012

The one that got away.

Should I have let you go. . .

In the palm of my hand. 
Darn, all for just the 
Sense and sensibility of the situation. 

Why so rational and logical . . . 
At such an irrational and illogical age, 
That was before . 
The lust, 
I should have trust 
Yet morals were made in haste. 
Previously calming but now puzzling. 

Should I have let go . . . 
In something that came to me. 
That was mine. 

For a small fraction of time. . 
Or for however long I could have wanted it. 
Reminising over something that hardly started, 
That was hardly there 
But was my choice to ignite the hardly there flame . 
And potentially start and stop 
With a gentle blow through 
these 
innocent 
lips, 
And a simple shrug of my hips. 

Innocent actions 
All for the greater good. 
All for future purpose. 
All for bettering both. 

And what's to show for all that, 
Could have been missed, 
Chosen not to be missed? 

Should I have let u go. . 
In the palm of my hand 
Darn, 
Should. I have let go 
In something that came to me 
That was mine. 
Now all there is this 
Parting was such sweet intimate sorrow 
Reminisce.

Bliss .




Picture byAmanda Kitswell : http://th04.deviantart.net/fs70/300W/i/2011/223/3/e/reaching_by_amandakitswell-d4688i3.jpg