Something

Tags

creative, Creative writing, hope, inspiration, Love, lyrics, poems, poetry, verse, writing

Well I was older

Than my days,

Playing out my time

In middle ground,

Living like a monk

Unholy days,

Checking off the hours

A voice without a sound.

 

You gave me something

On that we are agreed,

Gave me something real

And not something I need,

You showed me something

Yeah, opened up my eyes,

Showed me something real

Brighter than the skies.

 

Well I was younger

Than you knew,

Killing every second

Assassin’s eye,

Leaning from the edge

A life askew,

Safety’s middle ground

And comfort’s easy lie.

 

You gave me something

On that we are agreed,

Gave me something real

And not something I need,

You showed me something

Yeah, opened up my eyes,

Showed me something real

Brighter than the skies.

 

Well you were stronger

Than you knew,

Living in each moment

Open eye and heart,

Captured every image

Living in the new,

Never knew your power

A perfect work of Art.

 

You gave me something

On that we are agreed,

Gave me something real

And not something I need,

You showed me something

Yeah, opened up my eyes,

Showed me something real

Brighter than the skies.

Felt the Sky

Tags

age, Aging, creative, Creative writing, Depression, loss, nostalgia, poems, poetry, Reflection, verse, writing

Saw the lines

Drawn in the sand

That marked our time and place,

Heard the words

In silence fall

That gave life to the lie,

Watched the face

From clouds emerge

Reveal its mocking eye,

Felt the sea

Beneath my feet

All futures soon erased,

Saw the veins

Fill up with salt

An atlas of our days,

Heard the sigh

Of ghosts now gone

Their helplessness unchained,

Watched the flow

Spill over dunes

The drowning man restrained,

Felt the sky

Sink to its knees

And blue eyes turn to grey.

Rust Bitten

Tags

Change, Creative writing, poems, poetry, Principles, verse, writing

Staring like twisted iron railings

Rust bitten and chilled,

Stealing kisses from

A washed out Sun

Which hung with fickle deceit,

I held my ground

And principles that tore and cut

Like paper,

And were they worth what they

Were written on?

The view from my

Side of the road,

Once heavy thronged with

Vibrant promise,

Now ringing hollow

The shell of ghosts now gone,

Limping shadows in temperate climes –

The far side of the street,

The one we cursed with vitriol

And swore we’d never walk,

In slippered steps

Your feet now soundless fall,

As I still stare

My silent roar

The tears beneath your eyes.

 

Episodes

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creative, Creative writing, faith, fiction, flash, flash fiction, short stories, stories, Vignette, writing

     It was at that moment that I realised that my life had been no more than a series of episodes: some linked by connections which only presented themselves with hindsight, when events had long since lost their relevance, others disparate, fleeting, scudding past like clouds in the sky; yet more presenting themselves like movie scenes, half-remembered but titleless.

      And it was to these movie scenes that I had clung, as if they would somehow, miraculously and with the wisdom to time, meld themselves into a story that I was able to follow, to understand, even.

     Yet they came and went with the regularity of Japanese trains, each proferring a new horizon, a sense of purpose to which I was a mere distant observer. Landscapes flashed by me, tantalisingly close yet constantly beyond my grasp: I witnessed every imaginable situation, every conceivable outcome, but always, as they sank below my horizon, I was left with nothing more than a hollow sense of detachment; of impotence.

     The camera rolled and then stopped, rolled and then stopped again, as if responding to silent cries of ‘cut!’. And through each scene I played the role of an extra, watching and waiting. Watching and always waiting.

Fell

Tags

creative, Creative writing, Depression, poems, poetry, verse, writing

We fell off

The floor again,

Tumbled down

Through calico lies

And tissue paper truths,

The cobweb futures

Doorways never tried;

Watched the beacons

Breathe their last

And die beneath

Our floorboard heads,

The jewels and dust

Maelstrom in our hearts

That frost our weary eyes;

We fell through

The floor again,

Lost its voice

Beneath the silence

The thunder of our tears,

The rusted chain that

Snaps us as we fall.

Fear of Change

Tags

Change, creative, Creative writing, loss, nostalgia, poems, poetry, verse, writing

What was it

That kept me here –

A hope that this

Would be enough,

Or just a fear of change?

The thought that all

Would, in time, return

To repeat itself

Once more?

That those who left

Would lose themselves

And on their pointed

Memories fall?

Or perhaps the grip

Of ties unwanted

Held me far too tight?

The chance to step

To move apart that

Shook me to the

Naked core –

Or is this place

That I call home

Really all

I need?

‘Glory, boy; glory’

Tags

conflict, creative, Creative writing, death, loss, poems, poetry, war

Caught in the web

Of nationalistic pride

Swept on by the cries

Of ‘Glory, boy; glory’

The lad grows man

Before her eyes

The mother whose wave

Dries tears on her cheek,

Against the backdrop

Of futures left bleak

By ruin and greed

Things he’ll never see

The promise like sunrise

Shines down on him now

As foreign fields beckon

To him and his pals,

And as the day dawns

And bleeds into night

No respite no pity

From the blind and the deaf

He sees in one flourish

The lies he was told

And he cries like a child

As he sinks in his hole.

Remember

Tags

Communication, Creative writing, emotion, loss, Love, lyrics, poems, poetry, verse, writing

I see you in my dreams,

Always in the dark,

The part of me that died

When I was seventeen.

 

The laughter at my side,

The smile upon my face,

The look within your eye

From which I cannot hide.

 

If only I could,

(See through your eyes)

If only I could,

(See from outside)

If only I could,

(Remember)

What took it all

Apart.

 

Lost amongst the trees,

And blinded by the light,

Living in the shadows

Thrown over all we see.

 

The tears we never cried,

The things we could not say,

The faces that we lost

At least I know I tried.

 

If only I could,

(See through your eyes)

If only I could,

(See from outside)

If only I could,

(Remember)

What took it all

Apart.

Against the Tide

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Communication, creative, Creative writing, Depression, emotion, free-form, poems, poetry, thoughts, verse, writing

Brought his thoughts out

Into the light,

Let the rays of gold

Breathe warmth into each

And everyone,

Exhaled and watched

Their woody shells,

Grow their hardened spines

Against the tide

Of other’s eyes,

With steel heart

And stubbled soul

Stood beyond the crowd,

And watched himself as

He slowly sank

Below a malignant

Horizon.

The Interview

Tags

Creative writing, Depression, flash, Prose, short stories, writing

     When they had asked me what he had been like, the man with the knife, all I could say was that I couldn’t really say. He had been, to my mind’s eye, nothing more, or less, than average.

     He had stood at average height; not discernibly taller nor shorter than myself. His hair had been worn short, but neither cropped nor shaven, and his eyes, well I could barely remember the colour of my closest friend’s eyes, so that line of questioning drew a blank.

     What of the colour of the man’s skin? I could confidently say that he was white, but boasted a tanned face; or had that been a more olive complexion? It was difficult to say with any degree of certainty.

     Distinguishing features? He had a knife: a response that solicited a look which could have been annoyance but equally disdain. No, there were none that my sapless mind could recall.

     He had been, the man with the knife, nothing more than average. His accessory had been all that made him stand apart. His unremarkableness reminded me only of myself.

     In fact he might as well have been me.