I Stand And Lean

The spectator

I feel Old And through that age I feel Alone Yet not lonely More like I've been taken somewhere I never asked to go And left there But still in full view Of everyone

Still sailing

The reef cracked my hull Yet I sail on My hold has begun to fill Yet I sail on The cabin is splintered, destroyed Yet I sail still Strakes fractured Sails are tattered Yet on I go And as I watch the last slow match fall I pray none of the powder is dry

Wait, what?

Little fingers never waited So long To be waited Upon Had to weigh out some Gold, or was it silver That had a lighter weight I can't wait for the answer Now that they're waited They can move faster But that's only after They've waited to have The weight lifted To become weight-less

What’s for dinner?

It bubbles away

Like a pot in the background

Simmering over flame

It’s almost audible.

Tucked away for safe keeping

In the kitchen

Boiling.

The flavours getting stronger

And stronger

Intensifying.

I can feel the heat

Rising

Roaring

It burst out of the pot

Demanding my attention.

I turn

And there’s only the pot,

Quietly bubbling away.

No stones thrown

I can taste the air.

Soil and water,

The light of a star,

Life givers.

The heat radiates inside you

You take my breath away

Make me perspire

But I can’t leave.

I saw hello to all inside

Whispering and caressing

Rewarded with treasures

Shining and bold.

Tunnel vision

The darkness creeps in Again Blood in my mouth Whiskey chaser Cuts on my hand I remember nothing. What happened? I spark the lighter To get some air And push the darkness away. I breath out Just grey All around me grey Different hues through the smoke Depression, sadness, boredom The darkness cowers in the corners Trying to hide The tiniest speck of light Somewhere in the distance.

Death threats

If your gonna take him, take him, If you’re gonna leave him, leave, But please make up your mind, Because I’m starting to find, That I can’t take these fucking death threats anymore.

Questions of waiting

I find myself In a waiting room The real life Purgatory Realised With seats And nonsensical material With which to 'entertain' And pass the time. I'm Not free And not Accepted, Imprisoned, perhaps, But Just there. Between a boy And a beast Perhaps they symbolise me Perhaps that's why I find myself between And not beside. When they call my name Will we all rise? Or will they be left behind?

#notastalker

I follow you You don't know it But You hold the weight of my life In your unknowing I want you to know, And yet, To know would be the end. So I stay myself And I follow You

Awaiting questions

Still waiting. The entertainment Has long since dried up The beast The man The boy We sit We wait Always we wait Forever so it seems. We wait. No ticket No number Just the cold, hard, plastic Of our chairs And the bright, fluorescence, hanging overhead. In walks another Dressed brightly With a smile painted upon his face Does he represent another side? Or is this one wholly separate? The jester sits In front of the three: The boy The man The beast. He sits And he asks