Author Archives: Daisy Willows
Memories
If you could see the myriad memories that run across my eyes : you would be driven into a bedlam.Wishing for a forget me sods lot of wild flowers enraged with the promise of eeergh de parfume- dementia.
Naive Rider
Who am I ?
Designated driver left with that old Mad hatter.
The old mercurial adage
Question
Savage
Silence
Slithering
pereptual.
If I don’t write, talk or express myself
My beliefs mean nothing
My mind is a personality of multiples
Forgotten words
The story of my life.
Seems obvious
Desonate or disconnect from past traumatic strife.
Moving on automatic
No sense , inebriated , toxic , sober my God has left the pall bearer in charge of my destination.
Music is my only salvation
No! Just my words are the above without hesitation.
Motivation ?
Print ink on my soul
Cast a shadow
A casket made of ornate gold.
Maybe I’m not the oldest of souls
The palm reader knew when my rings didn’t make it up to my elbows
Oh well…
Fate ? destiny?
What does it matter when life is a choice whether you die or break the glass between the two worlds
It may shatter
I’m into cats.
Does it matter.
I’m a riddle of my own inertia.
Moon Go Viril phase
Though the light may fade.
Dark shades heighten the Euphoric daze
Forgotten words wasted on ill-gotten behaviors.
In that quagmire
Still driven to send out a vigil of hope.
Buried within me.
Buried under a myriad haunted ghost.
What keeps disarming me
Whose charm beckons me to this world?
When I open my eyes
Betrayed by curiosity in gazing outwards.
Look back at the words you have’ written.
Be inspired that you wrote them!
Sweep those sneaky snide comments out through the back door
How dare they Prevent this form of self-expression.
words made up of simple dimples are all we need
Self-respect
He cautiously peers out
perched a top
the Jonnies rotting,
woodlice.
Infected tears confidently descend
To the basement days
when his best foot turned all the bedheads.
Don’t worry.
Don’t over -care
Don’t overthink.
Don’t Glare without an ending for sentence as to what grows out from your mind.
Hauled up in dusty webbed rags of self-doubt.
Can you catch the Shadows doth change according to light.
Mere reflection and perception of how you do intimidate me
shadows can’t exist without a living
body
soul
And mind.
Take the power back.
At least from behind the scenes
Don’t hide from those
Impervious sighs
disproportionate contortions of their own path.
Happy lights-faeries delight.
Blissful smiles stipple out faces.
There can be no ulterior motive.
Unless we retrace for an Agenda?
confused about life twists mysterious Genders.
Tender
Guilt sprouts up-GMO crops
Pesticidal casual all matter starts to hoe out my mind
Crucify my time?
Fraternized with Flowers more sentient than humans taken up by nocturnal spaces
Unevolved sight is having an identity crisis.
Army of words
A halo of benign bravado.
To those monsters of Carpathian.
Here is my audacity & Gumption.
Try
Shout me down.
Mere echoes with no home.
Threaten me or one of my own,
I will stand up and defend my home.
Bats of fear — Clots of blood
Circulate above in a murmuration
So much I want to put down.
Not in the stream of consciousness
No more ashamed of how far down I free-fall into the squid ink mouth of the abyss.
I gripped onto nature’s own boulderous
A safety net of
Silver linings
I have.
I seek out another taste
Choice has always and forever.
-Candor, heart spilling starch tumble dry fresh.
Ominous eyes on stalks can feel the tearing of flesh.
Lobster bisque – feel the pain- rubbing eczema flakes in the mesh.
Motivational mantras praying for imaginative depth.
A leap of faith from a dark quarry, novels unwrap intoxicating pages saturated in meth.
White suits, red suits, black suits – jokester howls in lunatic tongue at his procurement of all laughter.
Voiceless, misunderstood, invisible swan still morbid, unhappily ever after.
Death scents not in lavender bursts, clashes with stale tobacco.
Steven Hawkins robot voice stuck in a stench of staccato.
Future anxiety.
Past Regrets.
Present lives in the moment -startlingly clear.
Blink and the eyes will miss it. Shut off all senses and lose the rest of the steer.
Grace be mine!
Ego ride away on a horse of jaded divine.
Little Mockingjay prepares Dame to release her idealized body preconceptions. Babies speak in benign.
Selfish task force. Love to bind a new union.
Born addicted – a chance encounter for a significant sibling reunion.
Selfish, marred acts of those who seek to atone for sins of Greed.
The world’s a lot smaller, fewer cards.
Time to make new memories in clear waters running with creed.
Tall orders, cats mewling, and choleric baby withdraws from life’s order.
What a sappy mess they make.
Second chances don’t come with a promise.
Each soul has its own border.
The ring of education – judicators, over boil in an over timed pressure cooker.
Hungry students ready to whore out the possibility they carry the pearl.
Send out for the Hookers booker.
Close these scriptures. War wages paid out in illness.
Mind cavernous in an unresolved mess.
Sales galore – glorified slave stitched clothing for all.
Moral urges to make do with a Makeshift dress.
Recycle on thought- careless whisper – the banana flavored condom went in the wrong bin.
Karmic balance.
Next time buy the toilet freshener with the least amount of Carcinogenic properties within.
The future promise of a surge in over priced goods.
Planning for this new hood smacks of a drugged reality.
Low suspension thoughts, feelings soar through the milky way- lost in an energy of fatality.
Maternally skinny – nourished on a liquid diet, uppers, downers and 7 0f your five a day.
recoil in horror for the day expectant ghoul comes from it’s decided gestational incubation from its hostess.
Who deserves to pay?
A hike up in rent for turning out disabled and bent or, a life staring into the consequences of hitching up an unhemed skirt?
Murderous plot.
Rumors of have not. Denial that life belongs under flowers in stalks covered with dirt.
There is always a choice, Never a right time to get to perfection.
One decision to make. God willing, the next messiah is a fruitful resurrection.
Ghosts floating through the mansion of my mind. It may sound like a great thing to own a mansion as a mind.I can tell you. It is a place that never sees sunshine, there is dust everywhere, the piano remains out of tune. Every room has something magnificent to find.
Dresses in one, jewels in the other, mothers little helpers pills scattered everywhere.There is always a ghost on standby ready to haunt me.
It’s like an old familiar melody.
I find no pleasure in any of these rooms.
There are too many rooms, not enough signs and I am always losing myself in it.Instead of running from my mind. I sit in the creaking rocking chair.
Legs splayed,opening myself up to become possessed by anything .They sit down on my favourite grey chaise longue and puff cigars that smell of lavender and twirl full bodied wine glasses filled with a deep maroon Beaujolais or a chateux neuf de pap.I seem unable to move
. I can’t move. If I could just ask them to leave .One places a daisy chain on my head and tops up my glass of southern comfort. I’m sure I have stopped drinking.
They know this as well as I do.The irony is they are trying to make me live again. Drink if you must- anything to live, they urge….This is their home. How can I cast them out?They drain me, yes it is true, but they have been a part of my life, guarding me when I was still growing in my mothers womb.I let them stay,”SIT DOWN”., I say.
Foreplay remnants stain the sheets on the various four poster beds. There is a new guy in town.Has a bit of a opium habit. He hides away from everyone ,including me.I have become desperate in my misery,I seek him out .He won’t show himself.I beg him to show me how. He can write the directions on a paper……I think he cares. He doesn’t want me to go that far down. I think if I am so far down the dragon’s pit;chasing ,what is a few more inches to the bottom?
Isn’t the bottom or top better than half way neither up or down?I think he hid the ouija board too. He doesn’t want to be summoned because my will will break his……In all honesty I think they all want the best for me.
Oh of course they have their own agenda’s too.They know how down I am but they need to go on outings too. They get bored so I get to be their cruise liner- my eyes are their oval windows ,to peer outof, their mode of transport, that shows them life still carries on even if they can’t be an active part of it.. ..They called me a party pooper today.
Sounds a bit lame.They held a special party pooper party for me.My least favourite party of all times- they all congregated in my drawing room whistling and pulling crackers and the incessant chatter nearly drove me out of the house.Usually, the louder they are the quicker I try to escape – This time they lucked out. They will not help me find Opium boy.I only want to escape with him.I will continue to follow his musky scent until another scent sends my pulse quickening.Another ghost starts to ask:”Why do you want to be dead when your heart still beats?”
“Oh fuck off and cross over – you can live in my mansion of a mind but I will not be questioned – my mind my rules.” I replyIf I had gone would I have lost the scent of Opium boy?Would I have cared?Usually when I chase a boy that needs saving , I get into trouble….
Ghosts
Ghosts floating through the mansion of my mind. It may sound like a great thing to own a mansion as a mind.
I can tell you. It is a place that never sees sunshine, there is dust everywhere, the piano remains out of tune. Every room has something magnificent to find
Dresses in one, jewels in the other, mothers little helpers pills scattered everywhere.
There is always a ghost on standby ready to haunt me.. It’s like an old familiar melody.
I find no pleasure in any of these rooms. There are too many rooms, not enough signs and I am always losing myself in it.
Instead of running from my mind. I sit in the creaking rocking chair. Legs splayed,opening myself up to become possessed by anything .
They sit down on my favourite grey chaise longue and puff cigars that smell of lavender and twirl full bodied wine glasses filled with a deep maroon Beaujolais or a chateux neuf de pap.
I seem unable to move. I can’t move. If I could just ask them to leave .
One places a daisy chain on my head and tops up my glass of southern comfort. I’m sure I have stopped drinking. They know this as well as I do.
The irony is they are trying to make me live again. Drink if you must- anything to live, they urge….
This is their home. How can I cast them out?
They drain me, yes it is true, but they have been a part of my life, guarding me when I was still growing in my mothers womb.
I let them stay,
“SIT DOWN”., I say
Foreplay remnants stain the sheets on the various four poster beds. There is a new guy in town.
Has a bit of a opium habit. He hides away from everyone ,including me.
I have become desperate in my misery,
I seek him out .He won’t show himself.
I beg him to show me how. He can write the directions on a paper……
I think he cares. He doesn’t want me to go that far down.
I think if I am so far down the dragon’s pit;chasing ,what is a few more inches to the bottom?
Isn’t the bottom or top better than half way neither up or down?
I think he hid the ouija board too. He doesn’t want to be summoned because my will will break his……
In all honesty I think they all want the best for me. Oh of course they have their own agenda’s too.
They know how down I am but they need to go on outings too. They get bored so I get to be their cruise liner- my eyes are their oval windows ,to peer outof, their mode of transport, that shows them life still carries on even if they can’t be an active part of it.. ..
They called me a party pooper today. Sounds a bit lame.
They held a special party pooper party for me.
My least favourite party of all times- they all congregated in my drawing room whistling and pulling crackers and the incessant chatter nearly drove me out of the house.
Usually, the louder they are the quicker I try to escape – This time they lucked out. They will not help me find Opium boy.
I only want to escape with him.
I will continue to follow his musky scent until another scent sends my pulse quickening.
Another ghost starts to ask:
“Why do you want to be dead when your heart still beats?”
“Oh fuck off and cross over – you can live in my mansion of a mind but I will not be questioned – my mind my rules.” I reply
If I had gone would I have lost the scent of Opium boy?
Would I have cared?
Usually when I chase a boy that needs saving , I get into trouble….
He said : shut your mouth
He told me to shut my mouth
A matrix mixed up reality.
No voice could penetrate my words
Duplicity;
Over & over ,
I said too much
Too soon
Googled each mythological Grecian character channel without further a due.
He told me to shout out with his present presence.
I took offense due to my theoretical thoughts
An invasive entity .
Unsettling striking parallel perspex
Perspectives contrast.
Ineffectual dissonance
Cognitively one was watching the movie without subtext
The other summoning books of mythological Gods.
She clubbed the moment
She clubbed all movement to death.
A breathe
Mere words- littered
Pollute the stratosphere
Tube fed turtle dying on his tomb head
What to say ?
Keep my mouth shut!
Recalling an author – Christopher Vogler-heroes journey
A triumph against my early dementia onset.
Failure to visualise a world now mature
Plastic,
Stryophone,
Polyphryne- strewn.
A pavement to display the current concrete buns news .
Two little lives at me for food .
Did I make a mistake when my absorbed self brought nothing but blues
Shame
A sham
Help
Veered too far
This wasn’t premeditated
Merely wanted him to fondle my breasts
Last Friday he said I recoil like a chicken headless
From his touch or his brazen cackle
Touche
Eclat Yves Se laurent
No brush can lighten this intimate blush.
What more can I divulge ?
Not much with
Out
Taking off
All of my clothes.
That’s too much information…
Travel apartheid
The darkest continent claims
Red card racism arrests flight of imaginary motion.
Air control. Trafficking sentient beings.
Venomous vendors plugging PC ( dis) respectful tests
Elevating inflation of people’s final destinations
Lost to incubation .
Ineffectual accusions of discrimation .
A part from hatred , what is the solution?
People are racist – black against a white supremist nation?
Apartheid of resources brought to a halt
Red light district with too many needles to purify our patriotic precious colts.
Threatening ethnic cleansing . A modern day global
HIV
no person can stereotype to one culture – bacteria spreads without copulation.
Endemic.
Pandemic.
A matriaxy of mistakes
Dividing the world to another war philosophy.
Peace stammers to another halt.
( word prompt ‘travel apartheid) Thank you to my good writer frirnd for being my muse just by a small conversation.
Master of my fate?
What makes you anxious? – the cocoon asked .
Immediate response ?
I want to run away .
The cotton wool opportunity of turning into some thing I’ve never been fills me a desire to run.
I’ve always wanted to fly!
Darwinite if it means i can feel fire
In my belly
Leave behind the sycophants of past.
Presented with the discomfort before the freedom installs a stony face
A medusa
Unjustified punishment.
I finally replied: I want to run from your question because the master of my own fate made me question why I didn’t say I’m the master of my destiny
I sat on the toilet waiting for an answer
A tinkle
A brainwave to collide with my why.
Daisy in the willows 