The dance of rebirth

 

I have been building layers

unconsciously.

Pilling on defences,

worn in misery.

Slapping on barriers,

creating walls of skin that I feel

uncomfortable wearing.

I let them become weathered in.

Until I could no longer tell

the skin from the masking

membrane skeleton within.

 

But now I grip upon that surface,

and I tear, pulling away layers,

chunks of raw hurt. I take the good

and discard the dirt.

Keeping the lessons, and lessening the

moments of pure despair.

I feel the sting of skin pulling clear,

the ache of so many years...

 

Of neglect.

 

I strip. A piece at a time,

becoming lighter.

Feeling my limbs springing back

like a newborn lamb.

Tightened, by years of strain,

but easing in the warming rain

and the sunshine

that bursts down upon them.

 

On the ground,

so much discarded pain,

so many memories, dissolving fast

in the summer heat.

And in my heart a rhythm,

a song with a rising beat,

and now I can finally move,

I let myself dance.

Enjoying the way

the world feels

under my feet.

Skin suit mannequin

 

There is a photograph of me.

A child, always reaching out

for attention, desperate to be

something, anything, even if that

is just a failure to those around me.

 

I look into his eyes and whilst

the smile lies; I see sadness.

For the person inside

is unsure of the mask

behind which he hides,

but he can’t connect the lines,

the dots too wide apart,

the smile too high.

 

Now, the boy in the photograph

was never starved of affection.

He was loved, but he was a shadow

of who he felt inside, not the person

he should be, for he missed the love

that would have meant the most…

His own.

 

A skin suit on a mannequin.

Someone that couldn’t undress the costume

he had put on previously.

An outsider looking in, observing the scenery.

Wondering if anyone was watching

as he adjusts himself to reality.

 

And the photos keep coming,

appearing through foggy static.

Holidays by the sea, family.

All smiles, but memory speaks

in different tones. He remembers...

Alone. Being alone.

Always something

missing. A seed not yet sown,

a flower yet to grow.

Always a part that is hidden,

a place inside that hasn’t yet

been visited upon. A constant revision

of the portrait. As slowly the child hid away.

 

And he fought back tears,

sought answers he couldn’t

ever hope to find, looked

to others to help see

who was inside, but no one

could unprise the boy

from the false smiles in his eyes.

And he fell to lies, uncaring sneers

wrapped in delicate lines. He believed in love.

When love was away collecting fruit.

 

Until a sprinkling of bad fortune,

mixed with a desire to explore.

He sought through those

photographs once more,

and saw the love, the heart,

the smile underneath the false grin.

The person within the skin mannequin.

 

And now I reach more recent photos.

The man standing proudly

and the fog splitting around him.

Arms raised, mic to lips as if in silent praise,

a kiss whispered to the eaves.

As he speaks with a strength that

he had never known he had,

and the smile that he wears

will not become

faded.

World of music

 

I walk in a world of music,

as I let the soundtrack

continue through my days.

I fade the sounds from outside,

and turn up the songs in my ears.

Forming an orchestra in my head.

 

A symphony of guitars and drums,

soaring vocals and

low down bass line strums.

I feel the flow of

sound move through my limbs.

A single organism, moving to the beat.

A release, but also a hiding place,

a safe space, and a dancefloor

where I’m centre stage.

 

I find that the sound filters

the verbal rivers of anxiety,

The doubt that twitches through me.

The soundless screams of my mental seas.

I let the soundwaves envelop me,

lifting and falling,

drifting buoyantly out to solitude

in a boat made of memories.

 

I blend it all into my thoughts,

until I’m thinking

quicker,

sifting through mind litter

to find some treasure.

 

I couple the meanings

and the moments,

the memories and the

awoken imagination.

To create friction.

A struck match of inspiration.

Flames licking the air,

blending both truth and fiction,

imagined worlds with real stories living there.

My mind swirling it all

into a world through which

we can walk.

Our feet dancing to the beat

I’m loudly playing in here.

And I let the sound drop,

to just a single voice,

 

speaking...