Hiding inside my story line
Under the skin I live in
The bones
That keep it together
An unmade bed
with rumpled sheets
Dreaming in 3 D
The mask of many faces
Can boil your blood
Kiss your heart
Draw you into the breath
Of chaos
Move right in
Ponder these words
On the page
And dress my naked Metaphor
Tradition reigns supreme,
where people fail to question custom.
They are like a boat without oars,
tossed about by stormy seas.
Most are too fearful to admit
they are living a lie
dictated by an archaic system –
tricked into believing freedom,
is the ability to attend the malls.
Shop ’til you drop is the protocol!
A walking contradiction,
and not to mention,
oozing with pseudo-knowledge,
gained from hours spent perusing useless forums,
(making themselves easy pickings for authority).
My, how they’ve lost their desire,
for authenticity and creative, inner fire.
Spare me your half truths
Whole lies by trying
To cleanse it away
With rhetoric
spare me from your
Fever blister
Sensitive and painful
As it passes along
From your lips
To those falling victim
To your kiss
Spare me the bookshelves
Of guilty pleasures
That continue to exist
Inside the sanctuary City
Of denial
Disconnect me
Pull the extension chord
From the wall and
Spare me
A helmet fresh quay
trap the can humming;
the escape of trout
route the canopy boat –
salute the alpaca!
Everyday I smile,
The smile which cures the sick,
Even in their sick bed.
That unfading smile,
As sweet as chocolate.
Day in- day out I smile.
This smile which keeps me alive.
Even in difficult times, I put on that same smile.
No one knows the secret behind my smile.
But I will tell you,
It’s my medicine.
It keeps me healthy all the time.
I love my sweet smile.
My mum gave me a pot which was much dear to me as gold.
I used it for cooking.
At times I poured water into it which gave a cool taste to quench my thirst.
People saw it as my identity.
Since I used it for my daily routine.
One evening, I approached it,
And saw jewelry of all kinds.
From whence did they come.
I gleamed at them carefully.
They were real and natural as gold.
I gave some to others,
Because sharing is caring.
People loved me for my old pot.
If she wasn’t there
he’d sit in his look-a-like
leather chair
a silver flute becomes a tin whistle
just waiting
his face looks like a rubber mask
casting a strange impression
drooping eyes
a blink away from slumber
hearing black wings flapping
too tired to get up and see
he’d rather drink a dream’s vintage wine
his eyes are closed
but he’s not sleeping
a feature attraction playing
on the back of his lids
there he is a pin-skinny lad
I see him smiling
his loving mother
and true grit dad
a short stunted laugh
channels scanning the past
his wife and kids
fading from the picture
seeing things
he should not have done
death and taxes
the reel of life
caught red-handed
in black and white