0
0 0 0

Brother

It's been two years since I've seen
your beautiful faces
So many birthdays passed,
so many milestones reached,
brother, I heard you brought
your first child into the world,
and brother, I hear she's
beautiful- the spitting image
of her mother.
You're the only person who
understands why I 
ran out the door that Christmas
and never came home, but brother,
I need you to promise me you'll
remind our sisters of all
the love we shared before things
went wrong.
I can no longer live knowing
they blame me for leaving
them behind.
I should have stayed to protect them,
I know that now, 
but brother, we both know it's far too late.
I hope someday they grow up
and realize that it was a decision I had
to make,
I hope they see that I have spent
everyday since dreaming of the day
when I can finally see them once again
and save them from the abuse I left
between the walls of
our small suburban home
And brother, I need you to promise me one thing.
Promise you won't let them forget me.
Please, don't let them forget me.
I need them, brother. 
I'll never let go.

0
0 0 0

Maybe Someday

There are nights when I sit up
wondering if things will always end this way.
I’ve spent years in the beds of men
who didn’t deserve my body
and never cared for my mind
or the thoughts that ran through it
as their fingers ran through my hair
and I refuse to waste another day
being treated like a falling star when
I was born to burn like the sun.
I am more than a temporary fix for
your lonely days,
I am more than the heart, bleeding
on my sleeve.
I am the clouds in a stormy sky
and goddamn it, someday
this rain will clear up and the darkness
raging through me will evaporate
into the most beautiful rainbow
your sorry eyes have ever seen.
Maybe someday someone will come
along who doesn’t dull
the color radiating through my
veins.
Maybe someday someone will come
along who knows what love
means.
Maybe someday.

0
1 0 1

And when you look back
On everything in your life
Will you remember
When I was a child
That I trusted you?
Will you remember
That I loved you?
Will you finally admit
That you made a grave mistake?
Will you feel remorse?
Or will you deny
The things you have done
With your dying breath?

0
0 0 0

One Chance

In a city of seven million, what were the chances that you and I would meet again?


It was a question I found myself asking on the night bus home. I even tried doing the calculations to soothe my head- but would it be as simple as 1:7 million? Or would it be double, or half? And what about all the other factors to be taken into account? I’m no mathematician, but the outlook wasn’t good.


I had been working some kind of introductions evening at the Museum of London that night, pouring champagne for pre-drunk and overexcited young lawyers (or something along those lines) whose firm were so kindly throwing them a welcome party to celebrate the life of alternating hard work and hedonism that surely lay ahead. Luckily, I was on the “early” shift, so at 12 I promptly put down my bottle of Moët, signed out and left my poor colleagues to deal with the dirty entrails of the night.


A cool rain was falling when I got outside, mixing with the city smog and dusting the streetlamps gold. I walked a little way until I found an overhanging roof offering just enough space to light the cigarette I had been gasping for all evening. The smoke rose slowly through the drizzle to the grey, cloudy sky, as if it were going home.


The circle line ran until 12.30, so I took one of the last trains eastbound from Barbican. The carriage was empty but for one navy-suited man who sat staring at a single page of the Evening Standard until I got off at Embankment. Only the lost and lonely wander between midnight and 4am. The sleepers are already sleeping, the drinkers still drinking. The few of us that remain aren’t headed anywhere.


I certainly wasn’t in any hurry to get home; only desperate to be free.


I came out of the station and past Charing Cross to find that I had just missed a bus, and the next wouldn’t arrive for at least 40 minutes. But it was of no bother to me: like I say, time moves differently during these strange hours.


There was an all-night cafe around the corner from the bus stop, where I often found myself after long shifts, so I entered the familiar womb of fluorescent lighting and paid for a cup of tea and somewhere slightly warmer to sit, along the front window. Outside, the rain continued to fall, drumming a pleasing plush-plush rhythm into the pavement.


In a matter of hours the cafe would be flooded with drunken revellers (and a couple of heartbroken sods) ordering chips and talking loudly about their love for life. (I knew, for I had been one of those people myself.) For now, though, it was almost silent: only the hum of the dormant deep-fat frier, the dull beat of the rain outside, an occasional crackle from the overhead lighting, and somewhere - at the back of my head - a metallic, percussive sound. I looked around, recognising worn-out faces of those coming off or about to start night shifts, either half-asleep or half-alive.


Then, you.


The rain had settled like dew across your hair, despite the umbrella chucked under the table, and droplets hung, glistening, on the host of silver bracelets furnishing your bare wrists, which crashed together as you scribbled intently in black ink on a wide sheet of paper.


Thus the symphony of scattered sounds was complete.


I thought about how, were I an entirely different person, I might go over and sit down across from you, ask what you were working on, and see if your eyes shone illuminate gold as I imagined they must. Time would slip by and I’d offer you another coffee and we’d stay, talking, or maybe quiet, until dawn; two strangers finding peace in an unforgiving city.


The fantasy disintegrated as I heard the screech of a chair across the floor. Sketchbook under one arm, canvas bag slung across the other, you walked slowly to the door, paused- as if to measure quite how badly you had damaged the silence- then turned, to look at me.


1
0 0 0

Waiting.

The flapping of dozens of pairs of wings. The hum of passing traffic. The heavy rumble of a train as it passes overhead. 

If you've never heard what a train sounds like from under a bridge, I wouldn't say I'd recommend it. Personally, it seems to resemble rolling thunder, if the thunder were sounding through a megaphone, mere inches from my ear. In my humble opinion, the ruckus is so anxiety inducing, it sends a shiver down my spine every time that I'm forced to hear it and I pray to any god willing to strain its ear through the static, to keep my soul intact.

In the moments before the train rolls by, I can feel it, the sound, building under my feet. In the moments after the train has stopped and the noise has paused, I take a deep breath and hold it. As the train bellows away, wheels screeching against the rails, cars click-clacking back and forth overhead, I exhale and shake it off.  

It's a noise so loud it burrows into skin and radiates through bone. A noise so loud I can taste it. Copper and dry mouth, like cotton stuffed under my lips and pennies stuck between my teeth...

 

I really can't stand waiting for the bus under here.  

1
3 0 3

Lovers

I just came here for a quiet drink,
It’s not my fault I’m the same size and shape 
as a punching bag.

I just came here for a quiet drink, 
it’s not my fault I’m the same size and shape 
as your mother, 
or that you always wanted to 
kiss her,
or that you were always afraid of 
your father. 

I just came here to drink, 
so leave me alone. 

I felt wrong ever since someone told me
it all gets better from here,
and I was taught to be a lover, not a fighter
but I misread and learned to fight with my lovers. 

I just came here for a drink,
I can’t help it I’m the same size and shape
as a football,
and you were kicked around a lot 
in high school,
poor soul. 

You survived so well,
poor soul.
You’ve been through hell, 
poor soul. 
Don’t let them tell you you’re not whole,
poor soul. 
But is this really what you want,
sympathy and lager on tap?
I think it’s time to man up, 
and I’d tell you it all gets better from here
poor soul. 

But I just came here to drink, 
so leave me alone. 

0
2 0 2

expressing welcome

Rusty metal bridge and an angry running stream show life beginning to thaw
The cold bitterness is breaking to saturate the pores of the land and give way to a movement seemingly going forward …. All the while a single ponder
In which the search for influence , a mental stimulant , a convincing factor 
stating that it is okay to be here and to move forward as well.

0
0 0 0

Love Cries

Love was a boy who I saw smile

He cut through my darkness like a ray of sunshine

He illuminate all I thought was lost,

And helped me learn to ignore my demons

 

I couldn't see how he hurt 

He soaked up sadness like a dry sponge,

And darkness consumed him

He was being eaten alive

 

He looks like the love he will never feel

He drinks his own blood from a cup 

Crafted from the lies of those who said they loved him,

But the more he is filled, the greater the void in his soul

 

His eyes that once shone with mystery

Now only prove broken misery

And the once romantic idea of love

Is replaced by the sorrowful sadness

Of a love that would not be loved 

 

0
2 0 2

At yonder poetry

This post is not available to guests, please login or register to view this post.
0
1 0 1

Something made

This post is not available to guests, please login or register to view this post.