Art work

 

My art is work,

20-hour days awake

letting worlds form

from little droplets of thought,

splashing across

the canvas of my inner space.

 

In planting every blade of grass,

every seedling 

that will become a tree,

I create something tangible and real.

I water them daily with rains that I spray,

I walk through them plucking fruits

to see how they taste.

 

So, whilst I may not be in a factory

Or breaking my back to make

someone else money, I pour all

the emotion inherent in me, 

into each creative piece.

I forge my forded stories

and I witness the painful death  

of that beauty.

 

I’ve breathed my life into

every forest, every creature

that walks under

that umbrella of green.

I’ve built towns and cities,

and a million inhabitants

going about their lives.

 

I create the riverways,

build the houses beside the motorways

where the people complain of the noise

as the hum begins to drain,

I’ve filled the oceans with life,

and watched their waves every night.

 

So, whilst I may not be rich in money,

I’m rich in my artistry. I may not be

stacking bricks physically, but mentally

I’m cementing a piece of history

in the books I publish frequently.

So please don’t tear my work down

and call it a hobby, or not worthy,

for what I do is art, and we all need

to share more beauty.

Let out a roar

 

This city. This scene.

People say it is dying,

people say that it is boring.

They think it is dark and dreary,

depressing and weary.

They don’t see what we see.

The light flowing through

the cracks in the paved streets.

 

The don’t hear the click of the drumsticks,

counting... One... Two... Three... Four...

 

They don’t hear the first thud, like a heartbeat.

Followed by a thousand more.

 

They don’t feel the striking chords

as they ring through your chest,

the bassline moving your feet in protest.

They don’t hear the heartbeat of the city,

that lives in every street.

They just see an excuse

to pull down the bricks, 

take their ball away

before you get a kick,

put razor blades in your sweets.

 

They throw stones,

because they don’t see

that they live in a glass home.

 

They don’t see the rainbows that flow over head,

just the cross thoughts living in dread.

In fear that happiness could tread their streets

and they will miss it.

 

They say this place is dying a death.

That CPR is useless, that it would be

a waste of energy and breath.

But I say we are thriving

trying to live the dream.

I see unity, a community. Building,

rather that disrupting. Uplifting,

rather than crushing.

By not building walls of disillusion.

When adversity pulls up a chair,

drunkenly swearing

that we are going nowhere,

I look around at the hundreds,

no, thousands that are all rolling their eyes.

The ones that know that it will all explode

when our hearts beat in time.

 

For this place is full of talent,

so many artists, performers,

and an audience that wants more.

We are here,

and as you sit in your pit moaning,

we will be here letting out a roar.

Waves of grief

 

"It can’t be" I yell at the sky

in disbelief, questioning why

as I clamp my hands

over your chest

and press and press and press.

Distress turns to panic,

to tired anguish, to frantic

thoughts rushing.

To crushing skies falling.

I’m counting seconds in hour-long pauses.

 

I press.

 

But nothing.

 

Lights flashing, crowded.

Brain crashing to a blue screen.

I can’t function. I can’t breathe.

 

"Take me" I whisper to the sky above,

"Take me, I used up so much luck,

Take me why won’t you listen?

Take me"

but the sky clouds over

leering like a mortician,

as funeral tears make their procession

to the ground at my feet.

 

I scream. I cry. I crack inside.

I build walls just to smash them.

Down. And I slump. "Ground

please swallow me. Absorb me"

I sink into the hungry slurping void,

The grey stagnant stew of memories.

I fill my mind with realms of nothing,

just empty plots to walk amongst.

Tombstone stories I can’t look upon.

Memories of you in frozen song.

 

And I walk, and hear

something from my childhood,

so long gone.

a faintly remembered song.

And I walk, feeling the melody itching,

the harmonies gripping my feet.

And I walk

ankle deep

in a gloomy swamp.

Feet clodded in gloopy memories.

Like tree branches hanging heavy,

every lifted limb feels like gravity

has been turned up to eleven.

 

and I plod on.

And the murk

now reaches my waist.

I feel every emotion

as it pours its way into my skin.

And I taste the tears

I can’t let escape.

I remember.

 

A flood of images,

A smile. A day.

Some light. Some shade, a laugh,

and tides of stories, crashing in waves.

 

And the squalid hole I’m slumped in,

begins to slowly drain,

and whilst my skin

is still stained in memories,

they no longer pull me down.

They remind me of better days,

tattoos of when you were around.