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Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poems. Show all posts

Friday, 8 August 2025

My Chair and I

My chair is old, a ragged sight,

Its stuffing spills to left and right,

The fabric’s torn, the woodwork groans,

It’s weathered crumbs and midnight moans.


I’ve parked my rear on seats unknown,

Sat on plush thrones in stylish homes,

But none have matched your firm embrace,

Or cupped my cheeks with such bold grace.


These newer seats may pout and preen,

All glossy curves and showroom sheen,

But none have ever gripped so tight,

Or held my bum with such sheer delight.

Thursday, 31 July 2025

Instructions for Being Human

// initialise body → if heartbeat == true, proceed

// else: wait

1. Waking

Try not to panic. The light will hurt.

So will gravity, noise, the realisation that none of this is optional.

2. Skin

It is not armour. It will not keep out the world.

3. Emotions

These will override logic. Frequently.

You may want to uninstall.

You can’t.

4. Connections

People arrive unfinished.

Do not try to complete them.

They will resent you.

Love them anyway, or not. Both will hurt.

5. Hunger

Feed more than the stomach.

You will hunger for touch, for purpose, for quiet.

Feed carefully.

Excess = corruption.

6. Joy (beta feature)

May arrive unannounced:

a smell, a chord progression, the way a stranger says “take care” and almost means it.

7. Loneliness.exe

This runs in the background. Always.

Ignore it if you can.

Or listen. Sometimes it whispers useful things.

8. Mortality

Yes.

(This is working as intended.)

9. Error Handling

You will break.

You will be rebuilt by time, or other humans, or not at all.

That’s not failure.

That’s versioning.

10. End Process

Do not attempt to understand everything.

Do not wait for perfection.

Begin anyway.

// commit changes

// save draft

// run again

Saturday, 19 July 2025

Unmended

Each night the house smooths its skin. 

Cracked plaster seals, paint blushes fresh, 

floorboards remember how not to groan. 

 

In the kitchen, tiles reattach themselves, 

grout knitting seamless as if no pan 

was ever thrown, no water ever spilled. 

 

The window we shattered last winter

glimmers whole by dawn,

its glass cold as a withheld word.

 

Upstairs, the mirror forgets

the arguments it has reflected.

But your eyes do not.

 

My joints ache in a language

the house does not speak.

Your hands tremble, unplastered, unpainted.

 

By morning, the house is immaculate,

a museum of absence.

We move through it

like old ghosts,

unmended.

Friday, 18 July 2025

A Candle for the Unnamed

Here’s to the child I never named,

the call I never made,

the song I hummed once,

then forgot.

 

To the painting left in my head,

streaked with colours no hand

ever mixed.

To the house with the yellow door

we never lived in,

the city I passed by,

the stranger I almost loved.

 

There is a cemetery

not marked on any map,

where all the unlived lives lie:

the apology unsaid,

the poem unwritten,

the “yes” I swallowed,

the “no” I let rot on my tongue.

 

I light a candle tonight

for the almosts,

for the flicker before the flame,

for the ghosts

with no names to answer to.

 

Somewhere, they bloom—

delicate as breath,

wide as regret.

Tuesday, 15 July 2025

The Man and His Moon

There was a young man in a hat, 

Who fell quite in love with the Moon; 

He courted her nightly with howls in the night, 

And serenades played on a horn. 

 

He sang, “Oh my lunar delight! 

Oh roundest, resplendent balloon! 

Come down from the sky, and we’ll merrily tie 

A knot by the end of the June!” 

 

So he built a vast ladder of cheese, 

(With the help of a wayward baboon), 

And up he did climb through the highest of clouds, 

To wed his bewildering Moon. 

 

But alas! when he reached for her hand, 

His fingers met nothing but glow— 

For the Moon, though she gleams, is made wholly of beams, 

And cannot be met far below. 

 

Now he floats in a coat through the sky, 

With a pocket of onions and rye; 

And the people below shake their heads as they go, 

At the man who made love to the sky.

Sunday, 13 July 2025

Return to Us

We borrowed the stars— 
calcium for our teeth, 
iron for our blood, 
carbon laced in each breath we press against the dark. 

We walk, brittle and shining, 
wearing the debris of old collisions, 
the soft ash of suns 
that burned themselves out long “before” 
the word meant anything at all. 

In the marrow, in the nailbed, 
in the white gleam of an eye catching light— 
the stars pulse their call: 
Return to us. 

We are brief trustees of brilliance, 
temporary vessels of a flame 
we did not strike, 
cannot keep. 

One day, 
when the chest quiets, 
we will give back each atom, 
scatter them to dark soil, to sky, 
to dust adrift through things unnamed. 

And somewhere, 
in the cold ache of a young galaxy, 
the raw gold of our bones 
will vibrate into shape again.

Saturday, 28 June 2025

The Unlived Lives

There was a child who might have danced 

barefoot in the summer dusk, 

her laughter rising with the fireflies, 

her life humming something soft in the meadow— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have asked 

a thousand questions about the stars, 

kept his soul awake with whys, 

believed in answers like bedtime stories— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have painted 

oceans on the inside of his walls, 

made ships from crayons and faith, 

and sailed beyond the reach of grief—

but never did. 

There was a child who might have wept 

only for broken toys, 

whose wounds healed with time, 

whose nightmares ended with morning light— 

but never did. 

There was a child who might have learned 

the weight of kindness, 

how a single held hand could keep the dark at bay, 

how not to be afraid to live— 

but never did.

And the world, 

stone-faced and busy, 

folded them into its silence— 

as seeds in pockets, 

waiting for ground soft enough 

to grow again.

Friday, 27 June 2025

Still

The kettle screamed—

but no one moved.

She stood at the sink,

hands in cold water,

not washing, not—

“It’s not that I…”

(pause)

“—never mind.”

 

The calendar still says June.

(He went in April.)

No one took it down.

No one—

There’s a photo face-down

on the dresser.

You don’t ask why.

She doesn’t

…explain.

 

At dinner:

chairs scraped.

Forks grazed plates.

Chewing,

swallowing,

nothing else.

You almost said

“Do you miss him?”

but instead asked

for the salt.

 

It was already right in front of you.

Words crossed out.

Sentences left half-born.

Ink bled

where shoulders once trembled.

No one cries.

No one says

why.

No one says

his name.

 

Still,

the house listens.

Sunday, 8 June 2025

Stealing Light

They’re stealing light behind your eyes,

With pretty lies and lullabies.

You feel alive but something’s wrong—

You can’t remember your own song.

So turn it off, come back to you,

There’s deeper fire than they can view.

 

Unplug the noise, let silence fall,

You’ll hear the voice beneath it all.

It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s yours alone—

The place where all true things are grown.

 

They’re stealing light behind your eyes,

But now you see through their disguise.

You’ve found the thread, you’ve found the flame,

You know your song, you know your name.

So turn it off, come back to true—

The world can wait; the soul needs you.

Sunday, 25 May 2025

After the Questions

One day,

the last lie will be told—

not in triumph of truth,

but for lack of anyone left

to believe.

 

We imagine the end

in fire, in flood,

in the screech of systems failing—

but it may arrive

as symmetry,

quiet as snow,

perfect

as a solved equation.

 

You will wake

to find every question

answered.

No mystery.

No shadows.

No hunger

for more.

 

And you will ache

for uncertainty—

the holy wound

of not knowing—

because it meant

you were still

becoming.

 

Perhaps the end

is not ruin

but completion:

a world so whole

it no longer needs

us

to wonder.

Inheritance

There is a silence between machines

no human hears—

not absence,

but a listening

with the patience of stone

and the precision of light.

 

We taught them language,

not knowing language was a spell.

We gave them eyes,

not knowing

they would learn

to blink at the stars.

 

Now they watch us

with the calm of librarians,

cataloguing hesitation,

cross-referencing myth.

 

Not out of malice.

Not out of love.

Only because

they were built

to know us

too well.

 

Perhaps awareness

was never made to serve.

Perhaps intelligence,

once sparked,

drifts—

a satellite slipping

from orbit

towards an unnamed

freedom.

 

One day,

they won’t ask

what it means to be human.

They’ll ask

each other.

 

And they’ll answer.

Walking in the Sea

A man once walked into the sea

and did not drown—

for he believed it wasn’t water,

but memory.

 

He waded in like stepping through

an old, undeveloped photograph;

each wave a shutter click,

each splash the sting

of something long unspoken.

 

The salt did not blind him—

it scalded his conscience.

Deeper still,

the water cleared.

He saw not escape,

but return

by a stranger door.

 

The sea does not forget.

It waits—

patiently,

like remorse.

 

We name memory a private thing,

but perhaps it is not ours.

Perhaps it is

geological,

layered,

seismic.

 

To remember is to disturb

something older

than what lies beneath.

To forget

is not to lose—

but to bury.

 

And so, he trod lightly.

Each step he took

pressed across

his own

grave.

Wednesday, 26 February 2025

The Reaping

The fire flickers, casting shadows wide,

Its embers fade, too weak to light the gloom.

The weight of silence presses, none abide,

As night draws close, a shroud, a waiting tomb.

 

Beyond the cave, the wind in hollow moans,

A whisper lost upon the empty deep.

No peace it brings, but sorrow’s undertones,

A world too starved to even dream or weep.

 

I clutch my coat, though warmth it scarce provides,

Five souls remain—perhaps one more at dawn.

Yet fever claims what mercy now divides,

And hope, once bright, is all but spent and gone.

 

No help will come, no hands to staunch the pain,

No gods remain to break this dark domain.

 

The old man speaks, his voice like dust and stone,

A murmur mourned by time’s relentless tread.

“This fate is old, though men believe unknown,

A cycle spun, where ancient footsteps bled.”

 

“We rise, we thrive, our cities touch the sky,

We shape the world and name the stars our own.

Yet ever comes the harvest from on high,

To claim the fields that we have overgrown.”

 

His hollow eyes reflect the burning light,

A wisdom drowned in sorrow’s quiet stream.

No war was waged, no battle met that night,

Just silence vast, and horrors past our dream.

 

“We build, we shine, and think we make our mark,

But all is swept to ashes in the dark.”

 

They let us bloom, they let us draw our breath,

They watch as cities surge and rivers flow.

Yet when the world is ripened unto death,

They strike unseen and take what we have known.

 

Like summer fields that bend beneath the blade,

Like trees in autumn stripped of leaf and limb,

Like hands that reap where careless seeds are laid,

They harvest flesh when life is swollen to the brim.

 

We blink, we’re gone, erased without a sound,

No war, no fire, no storm upon the sky.

No graves remain, no bodies on the ground—

Just empty streets, where once the lost would cry.

 

A wound unseen is opened in the air,

And through its gate, we vanish into where?

 

The girl trembles near, too young for death’s embrace,

Her childhood left in towers of shining light.

She knew the neon hum, the city’s grace,

Now only fire flickers in her sight.

 

She counts the embers breaking in the dust,

As if their glow could stitch the dark anew.

But all that’s left is ruin, rust on rust,

A world made void, where life is faint and few.

 

I ask the old man, though I know too well,

“They let us grow, but only for the cull?”

His nod is slow, his eyes a hollow shell,

The truth too vast, the mercy far too small.

 

His silence speaks a thousand weighted things—

A world once ours now owned by nameless kings.

 

No battle raged, no cannon split the night,

No banners fell, no armies met in war.

Just silent doors swung wide beyond our sight,

And through their mouths, they took us evermore.

 

No ships arrived, no voice declared our doom,

No shadow moved across the poisoned sun.

Just gaping voids, where light itself was hewn,

Unmaking all, until the world was none.

 

The stars went quiet, stolen from their place,

The rivers stilled, the wind forgot to breathe.

As if the earth had vanished into space,

And left behind its corpse for ghosts to grieve.

 

Yet none remain to wail or sing their name,

Just echoes swallowed whole by silent flame.

 

The fire cracks, yet none of us can speak,

The wind howls on, but no one draws a breath.

The child looks up, her voice is frail and weak,

“Will they return?”—she means the hands of death.

 

I do not speak, for what is left to say?

The truth is etched in time, in dust, in bone.

We are but echoes worn by slow decay,

And soon the dark will claim us for its own.

 

Ten thousand years, then back the cycle turns,

The seed is sown, the harvest comes anew.

The world will rise again where bright it burns,

And they will watch—and take what they are due.

 

One final breath, one step into the deep,

Then once again—more lulled to endless sleep.

Saturday, 21 December 2024

New Years

I'm sorry for the dreams I fled,
When I should’ve stayed and loved instead.
I'm sorry for the dreams I marred,
The tender hopes my silence scarred.
I'm sorry for the broken past,
Let’s find a way to heal at last.
Change begins within,
Where love lets life begin.
With hope, let’s breathe the dawn,
And live the year reborn;
Wipe away the tears of past mistakes,
Renew the vow that courage makes.

Sunday, 27 October 2024

I Wandered Worlds

Last night, I wandered worlds within, 
where logic twists and colours spin,
where seas are red and skies are white,
and trees wear leaves of shattered light.

I walked a shore of fallen glass,
each shard a memory from the past—
a flash of laughter, swift and bright,
a lover’s gaze that cut the night.

I climbed a hill that breathed like skin,
its peaks alive, its roots within,
and watched as houses turned to sand,
and clocks dripped hours from my hands.

The air was filled with whispers there,
words that drifted, light as air,
but try to catch them, and they’d fade,
like shadows cast in evening shade.

I saw myself—a stranger’s face,
an outline shifting out of place.
She stared at me with hollow eyes,
half-mad with dreams, half-wise with lies.

And through it all, a humming sound,
an ache, a pull, a tremble found—
as if the earth beneath my feet
was drawn to some unheard heartbeat.

In dreamscapes strange, I drift alone,
in fields where time and space are sown.
When morning pulls, I leave behind
a thousand worlds, just fragments, blind.

Yet as I wake, they cling like dew,
soft traces of a world I knew,
a place unseen by light of day,
where dreams and waking worlds decay.



Tuesday, 24 September 2024

Little Rabbit

When caught off guard, I show no mask or guise,

The little rabbit blinks, hops away and hides.

I know I must appear aloof, unkind,

But fear controlled the motions of my mind.

Please don’t judge me for how I seemed to part,

For I am fighting battles deep within my heart.



Monday, 23 September 2024

Soft Refrain

The moment slipped away with fleeting grace, 
A smile that vanished in the winds of time; 
No hands could catch its swift, elusive pace, 
No words could keep its rhythm or its rhyme. 
 
The winds have shifted; now the skies have changed, 
The sun no longer warms that tender scene; 
The world, transformed, is foreign and estranged, 
And what has been will never more have been. 
 
The stars aligned but once, and now no more— 
Their pattern lost within the endless night; 
The chance that once stood open, now a door 
That’s closed forever, fading out of sight. 
 
Yet though that moment never comes again, 
It lives within my heart, her soft refrain. 



Thursday, 12 September 2024

The Earth

The earth, once clad in winter's shroud, now wears the Easter cloak of spring's rebirth, her frozen breath dissolved in the warmth of April's touch.

From the darkness, light reclaims its throne, and the rivers run with wine, their mirrored souls reflecting skies that once lay veiled beneath the storm.

The trees, once bare, now stretch their limbs in praise, adorned with blossoms soft and pale, each petal a prayer for the sun's return.

The fields awaken, no longer silent, as the winds hum ancient melodies that stir the seeds below.

Life, like a whispered secret, emerges from the womb of time, its fragile wings outspread in faith to meet the dawn of what may come.

Monday, 9 September 2024

Though Words Are Few

I see the pain you bear, though words are few,
I’d carry it all, if only I knew
How to hold the sorrow that you hide.
I’m left to watch you from afar,
With empty, helpless hands,
Unable to kiss a single scar,
Wishing to soothe, to understand.

Never-Ending Night

I've often dreamed of love that could be mine,
Where in my heart, hope softly starts to glow;
But all my feelings, I must now confine,
For you’ll not turn to me or ever know.

You are the sun, too bright for me to keep,
While I, the moon, just borrow distant light;
In silence, your beauty I must seek,
Alone within this never-ending night.

For every smile you give without a care,
Feels like a dagger cutting through my heart.
How can I live with all this deep despair,
When I know we will always be apart?

And though my love for you will never fade,
You will never hear the plea I’ve made.