Inkblot memories

 

And I sink through inkblot daydreams,

voids of black seeping over

pristine white paper. Stained pages.

I seem to fall for ages, unable to feel

a memory, or taste a momentary beat

of the heart I heard once in a melody,

just falling deeper into darkness.

All I was...

lost

to the fluid black walls that consume.

 

I've forgotten how to be,

how to breathe, how to smile,

how to mask the part of me that wails.

I've failed to memorise the lines

of my own tale, and now it is sailing

into the expanse,

and I'm a waving figurine.

A mannequin of pieces,

left stranded on an island

in the middle of a deepening sea.

 

And the ground opens up

and I'm sinking even deeper,

the inkblot dreams seep nearer,

like I'm in quicksand

and the fear is

pulling me down quicker.

 

And I wonder

what it is I am scared of?

What is it that terrifies me so?

I've been to rock bottom,

with only my shadow for company,

and a greased ladder to climb,

and instead

I swung from vines,

I dug my fingernails

into the slime,

pulling myself

inch by inch

closer

to the beautiful sunshine.

 

So where does my fear lie?

 

And I stare inside

at all the new connections,

the sizzling thoughts,

no longer overwrought

with self-loathing,

now instead I lay out

smooth oceans flowing gently.

I see the mask in fragments at my feet,

and think that was never me.

And I never memorised my tale

because the lines were

always being written

in the most beautiful

fountain pen handwriting,

so instead of memorising,

memorialising, I was living them.

 

And I taste the air

in big flavoursome lungfuls,

and I look at myself,

skin and bone, home.

And the inkblots

become words

upon the page.

Tea and symphony

 

This unwired brain can feel a little

strange, a kettle turned on. Bubbling.

The way it can look at a page and see

a word,

and in that word

it picks out a seed, planting it

to grow into a tree

whose roots stretch

outward

to construct a world,

and on that world

people are born

like new seedlings

from the soil beneath.

Teabags in a mug of destiny.

 

And yet I can't remember a face.

I can't picture the moment we met,

or the way your name and that face

connect.

Unless you are someone closely tied

to my heart, sugar sweet,

I forget - wiped clean like

a computer terminal switched off at

the end of the day. Terminal reality,

minuscule memory.

Except... I can remember the oddest facts,

dates and times, memories I shouldn't

be able to recollect, diary entries from

decades behind a faded screen. Misted

in hot water steam.

 

It hyperfocuses on the minuscule.

It fades when it's been around people,

but it craves those people, and the attention,

though it hates the eyes...

those eyes that gaze upon me

in ridicule. Milking my pain.

 

It hides in shadows, but dances under starlight.

Under stage light it brightens like a supernova

skyline, and drinks it down.

Yet place it in a group and it sits confused.

Give it room with one and it will talk from

earth to the moon.

 

It's complex, a web of tangled threads

fizzing with electricity, yet missing

some vital chemistry. So it sits idly thinking

about every aspect of a cup of tea, and still

not making one, except in a poem that

goes on repeating for too long.

 

Kettle on...

Teabag in mug...

Sugar (2 maybe 3)

Hot water...

No milk for me...

Drink instantly...

 

Repeat.

heart drawn in coloured pencil

 

And I forged my heart

out of red rusted nails, I toiled over

soldered bolts, greased

in forgotten tales. Blood and oil.

Every part, lovingly restored

internally. To beat. A rhythm

of eternity. A boat. Ready to set sail.

 

I collected scraps, shards of hope,

cut by swords of distrust

into shreds of truth. And I bled for her.

I bled words that could only form

because I’d fallen in love with her.

 

I performed my part in the show,

I showed my heart was not just a token,

but a beacon of hope to lead us on to

greater tomorrows. A performance.

 

And I laid down my path, in faded stars,

leftover sorrows, and burrowed hearts.

 

But then my soul was crushed

beyond repair, I’d lost all hope,

and I no longer cared.

I wasn’t me. Not the me

I see when I turn the camera

back to see, if it was really me

or a mimic wearing my skin like a trophy.

 

I was someone I couldn’t be.

A mask pretending to be happy.

 

Internally nothing but atrophy...

 

But then I met you.

and I saw something magical.

something like a fantasy.

The fantastical, the wonderful,

the dazzling, the universe singing

something that was more than earthly,

more than human,

something that turned me

into someone I wanted

to lean on. To believe in.

A light to beam on.

 

You collected flowers of hope

coloured by pens of love

into poems of truth.

And I wept for you. Happy tears.

Joyful, love-filled oceans.

I slept on word-shaped pillows that could

only form because I’d fallen in love with you.

 

And I performed my part in the show,

I showed my heart was not just a token,

but a beacon of hope to lead us on to

greater tomorrows and I shone brighter

than the sun, then turned the spotlight on to you

to dazzle the room more, because this wasn’t

a performance but life being lived in front of everyone.

 

And you laid down a path, in glitter stars.

of lovestruck tomorrows, and conjoined souls.

 

And I drew my heart in coloured pencils...