A Word's Worth [+...]

Merci. La confusion reste sur la scène, mais il y a une boîte vide dans mon théâtre qui vous attendra.

A Word's Worth

Another combination of words

Or a new set of lyrics

Twisting adjectives to flatter, verbs to hurt

One more noun for what is

Or the next description of what isn’t

The flick of a tongue

The tap of a key

And the flowing, scratching, twirling, stabbing

Exploding lines

Of lead and ink and thoughts

Try, we do in vain, to find a better way

And though actions may speak louder than they

And though a picture may say a thousand

They are my companions, and -

Remember this: the pen is mightier than the sword

So long as one’s wit is sharpened.

Confused

The reading of my heart was your job

Accidentally commissioned to do it, you were relied upon

Every time the numbers changed I got a new sparkle in my eye

And yet suddenly my audience is gone

                    Alone in the spotlight

                    Gazing out at empty seats

                    The plush velvet begins to rot

                    And words start to collapse

Your words still touch me, you know

And I still read your heart, even though it's not my job

And I want to understand the turn of events;

Why the walls of the city fell down.

The Lake Of No Importance

I know it's been a while, but I swore I wouldn't do what I always do and start this without finishing it. So, new post. Huzzah!

Speaking of starting things and never finishing them; I wrote this beginning of something ages ago, and I still have absolutely no idea what to do with it next. Therefore, internet, NOW IS YOUR TIME. I need help...

The rain falls down in sheets of steel on the Lake of No Importance. Thin, grey clouds scurry across the skies, trying to escape as they are replaced with huge, rolling, thunder-bearing versions of themselves. The willow trees creak as they bend to breaking point in the biting wind. And cowering under them is a small boy, violet eyes wide with terror and a dark halo of hair framing a pale, tear-stained face.

I have no more. You get a pickature though. Completely unrelated, of course - just a sketchy self-portrait.

Toxic

So, I finally wrote a new piece that I don't hate and that I managed to finish. This is nothing short of a miracle, so be gentle.

It is about something specific this time, but once again the reader's perception matters more than the writer's. The words should really speak for themselves.

Toxic

The sordid air clings to everything; all-pervading

Swirling, curling, twirling crushed diamond blocks

Streams of red satin and conscience

Laughter and burning eyes

 

We are the life and soul

And the ghost in the corner smiles benevolently

She knows that soon we will touch the sun

And as wings are flicked into a pile of ash,

We fly on

 

With terms of endearment and echoes of youth

One dormant heart now erupts

Tides are turning, and we are suddenly scented

Tainted

 

Eject an apology from a rear window,

And leave for the lamplight-sunrise, far away

Wander across the endless dust to a destination revisited

And finally find, prostrate upon wilting petals,

We linger on

And I Never Understood Really...

No pictures today; I want these words to be concentrated on.

The piece of poetry I am about to present to you is one of my favourite things that I've written. I wrote it a few months ago, I guess, and in a really odd way. I simply put pen to paper and wrote exactly what came out of my mind. This is why I have absolutely no bollocking clue what it's about. But that's good, 'cause it means you can decide for yourselves.

And I never understood really

what time and elegance would bring,

and with it, the soft surrender of darkness

 

My eyes are not yet accustomed to the dim light around them

and so shapes move in colours that don’t try,

and the cool, cut-glass sun streams music onto unsuspecting faces,

upturned and glorious

 

To strive for that day, when man is free –

and woman alike – will come to naught

without the silent tick-tock of the wandering clock,

that sleeps so swiftly

when the neon brights and shining lights are gone

 

The bubbles in the rose-water burst like thoughts and dreams,

and so much else that is fragile and so easily lost,

while machines turn the tide of man

and the warmth of hearts

 

Breathe, for now is when you smile and wonder why

 

The revolutions of every wheel that slaps the backs of innocents

cannot compare to the revolution brewing in the hearts

and minds

and teacups of so many

 

May we one day explode our ugliness,

may we one day throw caution to the wind,

and play with the flames we create

 

May one day the soft beating of the drums warm our souls,

that we make take flight and scratch the stars

 

In their difficult way they gaze their star-gaze, until

with a flick and a kick they spiral away to dance with the gods