Writers block. You sneaky devil you.

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You sneak around in the shadow of my thoughts-
Tip toeing ever so silently-
With those A grade military boots-
And a shiny axe in hand.
You see my chaos- a flicker of my creativity–
A devious smile you embrace.
Heavy footed-
Squishing my spark-
No words escape.
Webs of vowels-
Attempt to save.
That shiny axe of you-
Beheading-
A–E–I–O–U
You think you are triumphant –
With those muddy boots and rusty axe-
Writers block-
You sneaky devil you.
I will show you triumphant.

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Fading footprints

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Once. Two pairs of foot prints walked side by side-

Strengthing each other through Master times chaos and order.

Worlds could not collapse whilst these footprints walked side by side.

For they felt invincible, strong and unbreakable together.
Master time is unpredictable. 

They awoke to revelation on one unforgettable day.

These footprints that have walked side by side together throughout a lifetime, we’re now being tested.

The set of footprints that were once much stronger than the other, began to fade-

slightly but surely.
Until one day there was only one set of foot prints .

Rescue thee…

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Speak to me my dear-

Open up your soul to me.

Let your emotions reveal them selves.

For I shall try to comfort thee.
Hurt torments your soul-

Burning your aura with jabs of pain.

Let me comfort thee.

I shall surround you with love-

Giving you time to mend.
For you are strong-

Your smile will come through.

Extinguishing the hurt-

That once burnt your soul.
Speak to me my dear- 

I will rescue thee. 

 

Mend 

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It was wonder that intrigued her to him. 

His eyes told a story, very few could hear.

Her ears were open to him, her heart beat with his, reassuring him, of such hope in this world.

Hearts can break, that knowledge she knew. But hearts can mend.  Her conscious whispered. 

To Dearest You,

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To Dearest you,

I could say it wasn’t you, it was me, but that would be a grand old lie.

It is and was you. For all the years we shared together, i felt secure with you in my hand.

I must admit. I didn’t think there was anything out there that was better.

There wasn’t for a very long time….

You and me had a never changing routine. For both day and night.

I would wake and you were always there. Smelling somewhat nice.

In the evenings i would come home and you were always there. Thank you for that. I guess.

You were always affordable, never to far from my price range. And always happy to be by my side at someone elses house.

But then something changed, in the cosmos you could say.

I started wanting less of you. And it didn’t help my friends and family were over you too.

I guess what i’m attempting to pen down is, that, there is someone else now.

They are a bit more pricey and i have to go them, but that’s just part of the chase 😉

I hope you can one day forgive me. This isn’t goodbye forever.

I am sorry dearest instant coffee.

 

Amid this Australian Morning

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Whilst I walk upon the bushlands, twigs and dried leaves crackle beneath my feet, revealing the complex aroma of eucalyptus which prickles my nose amid this Australian morning.

Natures placid sounds caress my ear drums, for it is Mother Natures chorus admitting the stillness heard in each native animals unique tune.

I continue my stroll amid this Australian morning an enlightened old gum tree catches my eye. Etched spots of silver and khaki canvas throughout her trunk. A physical memory of all she the gum has seen.

Kookaburras laugh in synchronised glee, whilst they look across the horizon of everlasting bushlands. Amid this Australian morning.

Seek you

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Shall I seek you out-

In the midst of chaos.

For the darkness that lurks within me-

Also reflects in you.

Are we each others savior-

Or  each others tormentor.

If search for the answer-

To our minds dilemma.

Will the odds be for or against us-

As a whole.

Whilst I sit and ponder-

On the crowded thought.

I draw my breath in-

In hope that a quiet breath-

Will reveal-

Truth.

Of which is ours-

Or not of ours.

For we see the glory in this-

But we also see the pain in this.

Shall we seek each other out-

In the midst of chaos?

Keeping in mind the darkness that lurks-

In us both.

Nights Grief

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Nights Grief

It’s nights like this that get to you. Striking you down beneath the midnight blanket. As you lie awake. Thoughts. Memories of that one person whom lit your world with happiness, love and care (Mum) is no longer dancing beside you, but now above you upon the clouds in life’s song.

Since you can no longer sit side by side, talking to one another about everything. There is no more present moment between the both of you where you can exchange a hug, a kiss upon the cheek. Or the simple exchange of ‘I love you,’ Its all now just scenes automatically set on rewind and playback. For that is the only way to feel anything close to sharing the present moment with them.

As you toss and turn attempting to get a nights sleep. The conclusion hits you. You wont see them. Hear them. Feel them again until you dance together again upon the clouds.  Shock. Anger. Denial. Sadness fills you. Tears struggle to escape your eyes. For already so many have been shed. You want to scream in frustration. But don’t. For the world is sleeping. So you keep in.

Over time people you are close to their true colours  reveal themselves. They slowly cut conversations shorter and shorter with you, until you no longer hear a word from them. They think you don’t notice their silence. But you do. You begin to think your grief is a disease to which people fear to go near you or talk to you. Because the reality is to unbearable for them. They would rather keep in their bubbles, sew their  mouths shut, than ask you how you are. Oh well you’ve come accustomed to it. Grief is a lonely, isolating journey.

You find solace in the only way you know how, reflecting with watery eyes on all the photographs that tell so many  stories of what you shared with the one you lost and love. You continue to rewind and playback all that was with them over and over and over again until you finally get some sleep and hope that you just might reunite with them in your dreams. Even if it’s only for a short time.

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My Mistress.

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‘You  must write’ my mistress beckons.
Yes i must. I must delve deep into my soul. Face the emotions that I have feared to acquiant myself with.

This voice. My mistress. Has softly spoken  to me for some time.
Acknowledging my journey called grief.

But alas my mistresses patience has worn ever so thin.

‘Write. Write!’ She howls in my head.

Her tone reflecting ripples  of neglect- unlove-shame of my debility  to face grief and write.

Write I must. To tame the mistress in my head.

A Grumps Umbrella

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When winter comes about, I see tones of black and white, for a variety of reasons such as the mute sky, the dreary weather, and the naked trees and the stand out reason being  that every bloody person seems just as miserable as me.  But at this moment most of the other misery guts have umbrellas, sheltering them from the winters piss, and of course for the fool I am I’ve left my black and white striped umbrella on the 740 tram. As I walk through the town each drop of rain that lands on me seems to be mocking me.

Ahead of me a sign reads; Cup full of Rustic an indication that hipsters are taking over the world.  In revolt to this hipster revolution I nonchalantly walk into the café and steal one of their newspapers.  Comfortably I walk back outside.

‘Excuse me, Sir,’ one of the hipsters yells out to me on the street.

‘You can’t take our paper,’ she said.

I wave her off, and continue my walk home. Winter what I can say it brings out the prick in me. That’s a lie. I’m a prick all the time.

I makeshift the paper into a rain hat, fashionable. No. Protection from the rain. Somewhat.   Beside me a tram pulls up, and an infestation of people roll off.  All of them focused on their journey home, the occasional person bumps into me and one little brat knocks me thus causing me to drop my make shift rain hat, which of course lands in a puddle.  The child looks at me. I stare down at her, I let out a little grunt. She begins to cry. I walk on.

Bobbing up and down in the crowd ahead, I see a familiar looking black and white stripped umbrella. Curiosity takes a hold of me and I follow after the umbrella. Certain that its mine.

The traffic light turns red, giving me the chance to be next to the stranger with this particular umbrella.  On the wooden handle etched in is the name Don. This brings me to conclusion that it’s my umbrella. A perfectly timed strong wind pushes past everyone, which cause the man’s grip to loosen on my umbrella. With one quick yank I take the umbrella which is rightfully mine.  Before the man can do anything I hope on 280 tram. The doors close, and the tram begins to move.  Feeling accomplished I wave goodbye to the dumbfounded fella who once had my umbrella.