Really?

I’m leaving tomorrow.
Really?
Yeah really.
Really?
Well sort of.
What’s sort of?
Well i am really leaving but it may not be tomorrow.
Why?
I have to.
But I really need you.
Really?
Yes really.
I didn’t know.
Really?
Not to that extent…I need you too.
Really?
Yes really.
Then why are you leaving?
I don’t want to.
Then don’t.
It’s out of my control.
Really?
Really.
But I’ll miss you.
Really?
Of course really.
I like you.
I love you.
Really?
Really.
Really?
Really.
Wow that’s real.
That’s the reality.
I love you too.
Will you come back?
I promise I will.
Really?
Really.
Then I’ll wait right here.
Really?
Realistically I’ll move from this spot.
But you’ll wait?
I’ll really wait.
Doesn’t matter how long?
Not if this is real.
Is it real?
I think so.
Really?
Yes really?
Me too.
Really?
Yes really.
Then let’s do this.

Ink Heart.

It turns out that I have an ink heart.

It turns out that you have an acrylic heart.

Our mediums don’t always mix…

But we do.

 

We create canvases

and long, wordy poems

that comment on a society we judge, love and

discuss together

late into night skies that are filled with stars

that we spray into the sky

from aerosol cans.

 

We hang up photographs

between high rises

that we developed in our own

personal dark room

and kiss whilst we wait

underneath the red light.

 

We splash marks of colour

on grey bricks

in a narrow minded city

that doesn’t believe in

mixed media

unless concealed in it’s underworld

and laugh at the brightness we hold.

 

We fall over one another

and smash the easels

that contain portraits and scapes

of what we really see

because it’s the quickest

route

to each other.

 

You’re covered in ink.

I’m covered in acrylic.

We’re covered in smiles.

 

Without you

my world is just ink

plain, black ink

that tattoos the inner workings of mind

but does not satisfy

the inner workings of my heart.

 

Without you

this ink heart

has lost the quill

that would dip into my being

and free my mind across pages

and unassuming eyes.

 

Without you

the walls of the city are plain

and no longer contain

hidden messages

of our own wired connection

that tell me that the world is ours.

 

I can’t go back to just being ink.

I can’t just be an ink heart.

Not anymore.

Flicker & Stall.

A dried white rose

leans against the

purity of a snow flurried

backdrop

but she can’t see the beauty in it

because

she’s consumed by frozen imagery

(that has nothing to do with the snow)

that she can’t shift from the projector

in front of her eyes.

The images flicker and stall before her

because

they are jarred

by the irregular beat

of an unstable heart

as she watches lovers drift

in and out of blurred

heavy breathing

and warm hands

with cold noses

that are locked in

the ever growing need

as they press into each other so tight

that somehow they’re inseparable.

White sky

White snow

White rose

White light

but

Dark heart.

Visions of cold isolation

with piercing icicles and

breath that curls into dusky light

and loses itself

in memory

consume the mind of the distant lover.

The one that was left behind.

She stares out of windows

and daydreams into nothing

whilst tears form and small

smiles

play on a worried face

depending on the memory that is played before her.

She is lost because he is lost.

She won’t be found till he is found.

Ferocious dark eyes

flash intensity from

across a vacant country and

she knows he is fighting

with the passion that she has come to be

consumed by

and this comforts lost hearts and dried roses.

However nothing can fill

the need to be pressed inseparably against

the form of her other.

She restarts the projector

and the images

flicker

and

stall.

The rose petals crumble to dust.

Imaginary Corners

As of this moment,
you’ve gone into hiding
protected by the shadows
that we made
but I stay out in the open
fighting villains from imaginary corners
as they build walls we must conquer.

We climb the walls
that change and move
in a labyrinth of this country’s making
and
somehow
we both get to the top at the same time.

Then I’m yours
and you are mine
and we are each others
and we can no longer feel the cold.

You believe in romance.
I believe in you.

With great love comes great fear-
I look into the future with terrified eyes
and cling
to your words of assurance
and hope that I can truly trust you the way that I do.

Because
it
will
hurt.

Vocal declarations
that are soft and gentle
create a security
I can’t control
and I follow them
down a rabbit hole of
heart felt statements
and actions.

This morning
this very morning
contained such sadness
such infinite sadness
that it follows me
like a demon
latched onto my pounding
heart.

Yesterday
only yesterday
contained such passion
that it physically hurt
to watch you walk away
down very real
dark corridors.

I miss you
and I can’t control it.
I want you
and I can’t control it.
I need you
and I can’t control it.
I fear you
and I can’t control it.

You believe in romance.
I believe in you.

Indigo

This pen seems resilient to really let the ink flow.

I guess that’s how we are in life too.

Then we meet someone who makes us spill

Our ink out all over the table.

I guess the ink represents trust in this analogy.

 

But what happens when the ink dries

And just leaves an ambiguous stain

Left for psychologists to use on our broken minds?

Asking us

WHAT DO WE SEE?

WHAT DOES IT REPRESENT?

WHAT DOES IT FUCKING SYMBOLISE?

 

Because that’s what happens isn’t it?

We sit in comfortable chairs

In our uncomfortable bodies

And expect someone to listen to the

All consuming sentences, images and memories

That broke us down like rotting

Compost

With the expectations of starting a new.

 

But we resent it.

 

So we talk about it.

 

Then we take the 6 million and 1 happy pills

That choke us

Whilst they get stuck in our throats,

But we cough and chase them down

With golden whiskey

Because society demands it so…

 

So nothing.

 

Numbness and tingling arms

That sit under

Darkness and twinkling stars

Of a supposedly beautiful night sky

Except we’re all in hospital gowns

Glowing clinically white against

An indigo night sheet that

Vaguely remembers dusk.

 

We sit cold and alone

Under our perfectly decorated

Masks of paranoia

That ensure that no one

Ever has to

Fucking

Really know us.

 

We stand in lines for ATM’s, drinks, food, toilets

And laugh as we are happy consumers

With order and morality

That need little else for contentment,

So we open up

Another prescription and forget what

Our real thought process

Ever was.

 

Where the fuck has reality gone?

Where’s the actual self-awareness of

Our own enlightened being?

Where’s the knowledge we crammed into

Our complicated minds?

Where’s the heart that once loved with

The allure of romance?

Where’s the clarity we had when

We still had fresh eyes?

Where’s the friendship that apparently

Knew no bounds?

Where’s the sunset that so clearly

Represented the end?

 

Now it’s just one long fucking second.

Now it’s just us.