You withered from me
like a change of season.
I grieved and thoughts of you fell
like leaves; soon brushed
tidily away from my life.
Though, I still find traces of you –
little crumb-like memories –
their welcome overstayed.
Not all of them are murderous
as you. Some are nostalgic flames.
Flames I must overthrow
for my own good. Embers of desire
I must put out and put down,
afraid of what would recur
like an unforgiving forest fire.
I wish I could freeze
every memory of you
and shatter each one into nothingness.
Even though I am sure they would thaw
and seep back through my skull.
You’ve been missing from me of late.
A distant memory tells me that you were there, once.
Bright, longing, wanting – then you slipped away
I don’t know why you left me.
Only an anthology of poetry could unriddle
that mystery. I cannot fathom what I did wrong,
if I did anything wrong. . .
I recall your eyes,
so heavy, so light.
So healing to look into.
A dilemma I couldn’t immediately solve.
But when I wanted a solution,
you faded; evaded without resolution.
Perhaps it was me. Too pushy.
Too insistent. Too much blind love
and not enough careful thought.
I love too much or not at all;
that’s where I fall.
Am I sick in the head, criminally insane,
or do you draw your joy from my pain?
My love for you comes in storms.
Short-lived, excessive, then calm.
Until my next dark cloud.
Like a slug
Festering between sweaty sheets
Reaching for water
To revitalise the dead garden in my head.
I receive a glass, a lukewarm well
Of thickened liquid that tastes like old.
My legs struggle out of my sheets,
And I rise. My spine a rusty bike chain,
My head as secure on my neck as
The Leaning Tower.
I rise. And apologise
My unmade bed, my unwashed clothes.
And I forgive.
Over and over and over.
Our lives aren’t Pokémon cards. We need to stop obsessing over one-upping each other as though they are.
For most of us every day is a battle between comparing ourselves to others and not caring at all. In a generation of social-media-overload, the temptation to spend hours scrolling through Instagram finding reasons to be jealous of other people’s prettily filtered lives is ever prevalent.
It’s my belief that all profound art is just as ugly as it is beautiful. Observe any famous piece of art, and I can guarantee there will be something in it that you both hate and love. “Why is she wearing that?”, you might say. “Brown was not a good colour choice. Completely ruins the work.”
I use brown as an example based on the title of this post… Brown is the colour of shit.