trapped in non-life

head in noose

wishing someone could tighten the knot

melting my feet from beneath

 

alone in dilemma

an over-thinking hell

i seek solace under random lorry wheels

 

caught in a block

seeking release from within

i instead feel lost and without

 

age has caught up

i have the tears of a frown

etched on my disappointed face

 

no eyes turn my way

avoiding glance, discovery:

i’m just a forgotten yesterday

my emptying out

inktuition emptying out

 

no more clinging on to the person I was –

in a clothed, hidden, impersonal place,

out of step and out of touch,

yet blessed within ignorant bliss –

I’ve shed the very skin I was in.

becoming conscious is a contract

you sign with your knowing side,

but if you knew what lay in advance,

you’d rip it up, run away and hide.

having pledged my soul this journey

to become more present, more true

I know there’s no return to shore

just the endless ocean to endure.

how I’d love to bring back my false self,

let her dance and laugh with such ease

to shine against the surface of life

and see reflected the mask she believed.

hollow it was, but what’s left in its place

is a sense of being completely alone,

robbed of charm, of all defence,

my ragged heart is, reluctantly, free to roam.

my life raft that no longer floats

inktuition life raft

 

I looked to without, instead of within,

the buoyancy aid that no longer swims

 

an external holding that was

just an illusion

a made-up craft, a

fake sense of inclusion.

 

So why hold on so long to an aid

that clearly no longer served me?

 

Was fear of drowning

the option that made

me feel I should adapt

and, probably, pervert

my core value?

 

Or was it the fear of feeling adrift

in a dark ocean of lonely:

that swaying sense of sad, of swirl,

afraid to let what is, unfurl.

 

(pic courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net/fantasista)

the garden of self-doubt

Shade

The only metaphor that works, right now,

is a plant in a corner of the garden

that’s always known its inner-most colour,

kept secret, to adapt and fit in.

 

This plant isn’t stretching to reach the sun.

It’s been content with its lot on the lawn,

accepting that others will burst and bloom

while it keeps to itself, forlorn.

 

Imagine this plant could transplant its space

to a patch that was easily lit,

giving a chance to grow like the rest.

But it flinches, retreats as though hit.

 

Why would a plant not take a chance to grow?

‘Cos it’s forgotten it really can?

Or has its true nature been buried beneath

those decades of soul-sucking soil?

 

Sun

What if the gardener was calling time

on the plants that had real worthwhile?

What if there was a ruthless deadline,

on the blooms with a chance of life?

 

What would our shady plant have to say

about the finite ­– the limit of time?

Would it continue to rot in the safety of shade,

or risk the scrutiny of sun?

 

Given a push, it will feel the sense

to die, to shift, or move out.

What’s no longer left is the chance to risk

the outcome of years of self-doubt.

 

So, time to make a shift towards

a sun that could no longer steal.

Trust the gardener of this gorgeous space

where the thorns could ultimately heal?

being left without warning

Tell me when you want it to end.

Don’t just gift me, compliment me,

and say I was brilliant, while it lasted.

Then leave.

 

I need a beginning,

middle,

end.

 

I trusted you, felt we had a connection,

built part of my diary around you.

To deprive me of my wind-down time

feels cruel, unfair.

 

And honesty was your core value,

so why not square up to me

when endings are why you came

to help you find your answer.

 

Leave me without a proper ending

and I hold the unprocessed story:

wondering about your (and my)

happily ever after.

a boundary and a butterfly

you mess me about, afraid to commit,

and I let you get away with it.

 

I’m scared that if I pin you down

you’ll punish me by flying away.

 

So do I let you flit among my flowers,

skim the best of my summer blooms,

 

while deep in my roots I feel unrest

as I’m sapped of what keeps me whole?

 

Or do I insist you choose a stem to sit on

that won’t always bend to your whim,

 

and risk losing your custom for good –

though at least I won’t be short-changed?

Reasons to stay, urges to go

Reasons

Walk in, chat, feel welcomed and held.

I’m rated by bosses, part of the meld.

Means a lot to belong, when everything else

could be me, alone, days become dense.

 

Urges

It’s regular work, though boring old admin

that takes me away from what I’ve been yearning.

Bored. Hate it. Feel something else is calling.

I can teach, write, blog, and be free.

 

Reasons

Fear of unknown is what keeps me here

and a deep-down blankie of safety.

If I leave, what’ll become of my time:

squandered, wasted, wishing-well drowned?

 

Urges

I can meet new people, be open to new things

Be alert and fit, not a slave to alarm rings.

 

Reasons

Can’t trust myself to follow my dream.

End up bereft, broke, regretting my tears.

 

Urges

Run out of urges. Can’t remember the pull

to be free of misery, detached from the dull.

 

Reasons

Perhaps there’s a part of me that isn’t done yet.

Maybe a lesson to learn, an unspun pirouette?