Blame game

 

Narrow-minded men

bang hollowed-out chests,

like drums draped

in Union Jack symbolism,

A symptom.

Rally round,

let’s play the blame game.

Jump on the merry go round

and we will take potshots

again, and again. Bang. Bang. Bang.

Insecure?

Doesn’t it crawl within, that feeling?

Inadequate. Left behind.

Always wanting more.

 

IT MUST BE SOMEONE ELSES FAULT, RIGHT?

 

Sure. Blame can never

sit at our own doors.

 

Well, here I am to lay it out

like a welcome mat.

The people you fight

are not the ones

holding you back,

and our shame can sit

wherever it pleases.

 

Its more complex than that. But firstly

you need to look in the mirror

and see that what is looking back

is just another human.

Not a god. Not the chosen.

Just another human.

The same as the ones you blame,

another soul along for the ride,

and that the truth... Humanity

is full of so much beauty,

can undo so many lies.

 

The power currently sits with those

who tell you how to think,

how to feel. They tell you that

you have to be angry,

that other people

are taking your rightful place.

 

Well, I'm sorry but no one

owns any part of this space.

We are one human race,

we just happened to land

in the spot we call home

and the tone of your skin

doesn’t make a superior man,

that only comes from the heart within.

 

BUT IT MUST BE THEM, RIGHT?

THEY ARE DIFFERENT. NOT LIKE ME.

 

And this is the

second trick the devil played.

Telling us that difference

is to be seen as something

to be shunned, not something

to which we should run.

It should be seen as wonderful.

Artists and writers,

musicians and playwrights

all saw the light,

but you are blinded

by the lies printed in

sun-emblazoned headlines.

Sleeve of time

 

Now this may be wild,

so, fasten your seat belts,

accept that what you see

may not be reality, as you know it,

and that where this leads could be

a dream fashioned from stardust

and insanity.

 

If you look to your right,

as the carriage glides

a little too high off the tracks,

and your stomach lurches

two stories below,

 

if you look, you'll see

a page becoming

real.

 

A formless ideal

moulding itself

out of the clouds

and the breeze.

 

Wave.

 

That’s me.

The narrator, the creator

of all that you see.

 

For in this world,

I am the magician

of paper,

the word-filled

silent inventor.

 

Worthlessly creating love,

that seeks an owner,

but the heart donor

is occupied by another.

 

She sits, staring the breeze.

The one that planted the seeds

that formed these trees

that all bear fruit

that tastes so sweet.

 

For the real magic lives,

in all the stories that I breath.

Not in the ones that I weave

from the remaining threads of me.

 

But there are others,

I am but a mouth,

and I can barely speak,

for the orchestration of

our cosmic annihilation sits

just feet away from me.

 

The bringer of grapes

laced with poison

to feed the ill,

the master of manipulation,

the coming storm

and the already lost cause.

The one who launched

the moon into orbit,

and the one who

set the sun alight

with just a flicker of anger.

 

And in this place, they see not

what is growing at our feet,

they see only ants.

Whilst I see the beauty inherent

in these two-legged beasts.

But my voice is silenced

by the ones that shout,

my voice is rubbed out

like a chalkboard

 

erased

with the sleeve

of time.

Moving backwards

 

Sit in wait.

Bus late, or never

to arrive,

Community

deprived of a life

outside its confines.

Is this progress?

Are we

moving backwards,

or are we even

moving at all?

It feels

like the station walls

are closing in.

 

The elderly gent,

who sits

on the steel bench

opposite the scribe.

The highlight of his week

escape from

the torment of loneliness,

that clouds his mind,

a quick pint imbibed

and some joyful chat,

now sits alone

in his 1 bed council flat,

drinking himself flat.

 

The late-shift mother,

wants to get home

to kiss her kids goodnight,

they have school tomorrow.

Now walks streetlight-deprived

pavements, each step

cemented in fear.

To reach her destination,

which sits just feet

from a disused bus stop,

Is this progress, or regression,

travelling in the wrong direction.

Safety no longer

a part of the ticket price.

 

Decked in NHS blue,

the young nurse sits

after a 12-hour shift,

eyelids drift towards the moon,

almost in prayer. Saved a life today,

no time to unwind.

She shifts in her seat,

shift in mere hours,

just wants to sleep.

Is this too much to ask? Is this progress?

 

Is this progress?

Passengers

on a journey to nowhere.

Where bus stops lie,

for no buses stop there.