These are my words

She’s must be  a fraud. Disconnected to this world

a caricature of a  human.


An imposter  civilian of society – a living entity to her dismay incapacited  to disappear

permanently.

always chased  back in this race -the rush

It’s  marathon pace she detests 

Ravenous

Cream crackered

Loafin about

 

The  First in line to devour   the  despo’s discarded crusts.


Her washed out  hat mirrors

Her bottom lip

waxen

Scrutinizing the clouds wafting by.


Human puppets strung up

Wooden  ideals

Generic.

Stereo types

A

Mother

A woman

A lover

A thinker

A doe-or,

A reason to  carry on the charade?

 


Compelled by the  hypnotic pull pulsating with a love song  serenading  the humanity of  heart.

Gris gris

If you know how to love you know how to live

If you know how to live you know how to love

Momentary

hyperbole

state

Meant –

This

ends badly

A stolen sign

whilst awoken waiting on directions for heaven’s gates

Titillating times

Run out of fuel

Exhausted

words condemned ?

Atoned

Alchemical

Skeletal

soul ( emaciated)

Wasted (fabricated)

Walking into

A fat

 Fated

       E Lated 

                     Disorderly

slum bum

Arrested for

Apathy..

No

A

trophy

Padam

Padam

limited vocabulary…

Dispose these written words

To an insincere society.

Gris gris

A hex

Agon.

Gal

I glee.

The mardi gras lives within

Thanks Ray

Charleton

a breathe wren

Sightless strumpet life (insert your own GIF)

Daring

Demanding hymn for those

A genesis

Singing pslams to the prejudice

Justified :those folk who missed the nearest fire exit.

Ugly nose

He can’t bear to look at me.

I hate your nose – it’s bulbous, broken

by his nemesis circa 2017.

It blows. It’s flat. It stinks. It’s fat.

It’s a face he doesn’t want to know.

If he knew how close I am to snubbing him

It will show up in a bloody knife responsible for cutting off his honker.

Noise pollution-snoring slovenly.

I should be asleep!

3am is a bit late for a distorted nose disfigured by his hatred for gluttony

If he hates this nose

If he detests to look at me with an impoverished plea , why won’t you up and leave me?

I need to change!

Don’t we all. Happiness resides in our very own core.

I love you , do what you need to do. Thank God it’s friday.

I’ve gone off fish -is he interested in this snivelly, snotty news?

No, he’s confused.

What do you want if money was unlimited?

No

No

No

No

No

No

There’s not limit to further your happiness

Depart from those dirty, tinted glasses

Depart from the lady you thought you once knew

You’ve outgrown her dance. Your silence is more than a clue

The confrontational snoring . I want to bludgeon him with out further ado

Who really blew it, God knows! to hell with his slumbered shout – the only form of commication he can muster or do.

The lack of reciprocation.

The lack of effort.

The lack of indecisiveness

Cut ties

Start again .

Change is a fearless beast for many rather than the few.

Guilty as charged.

Perceptive-on my guard.

Make a choice. Don’t sit on the unmade bed. Your freedom is self made. Doubt starts in the mind.

In defence

Mode

He snores.

I’m awake.

Who wins?

Who has the highest score?

Perhaps if I took my sleeping tablets I’d have drifted into my haze

Tonight I’m the monster awake with a the unsightly nose.

Gastly

Despicable.

God only knows why his zen state lie soley with me changing my all.

He snores and snores doesn’t know what he wants. He’s his own boat with a chance to carve out oars.

Right, that’s it I’m going to get the carving knife

I’m going to cut off his nose then we’ll see if we indeed reap what we sew.

What a carry on.

Blow after blow

A mindless hedge untrimmed unkempt. Shut up I’m the one who knows.

A charlie chaplin lost in translation

He mimes in waking moments

Dictates his Hitler speech in the hours of slumber

Separate the whites from the yolk.

I’m out of here. He’s bleeding profusely.

You heard nothing but the snores of a sloth.

It’s up to me to disappear. The ugly nose is a no show.

Again

My husband slept on the floor again.

My daughter slept out away from home

Again

I stayed upstairs in our kingsize bed

All alone

Again

I’m beginning to detest the word again

Again.

Today

Walked out my front door

First time in 5 days, I turned right for a change of scenery chucking out the rubbish – the highlight of this today

Beneath my feet the concrete was still grey

My demeanour resembled the bland council houses unimaginative choice of decorating on the cheap -resembles a prison … whatever . No , I’m done rhyming today.

What prompts these feathered words typed and on display – a bird not in flight

Wings tinged with blue a sorrowful sight to see no fight

Eyes bright with dew dawn light.

Eyes screetching victoriously: I found the worm special of the day!

How do I say , justify , describe the way my heart swooned the wrong way. I looked up at the sky thankful for the first time in many for it’s consistant rays.

A distraction , a rouse – I knew it was dead . I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t move him onto a more dignified path. I was afraid he’d come back to life.

Circled around him in a hesitantly callous way

How dare he interrupt a quiet walk-the first in almost a week from sunday?

Did I imagine it semi flutter whilst I walked past him with my bin liner full of litter ?

I profess to love watching those with wings -airborn soaring . I’m envious in away. A speculating visual painting adorned with glittered hues , proof that life moves in every way.

I confess I have a phobia of dead birds. Past memories of one I wasn’t able to save in my childhood

Direction moved me to walk the other way from a lifeless soul left to rot on a staircase.

I’m ashamed.

It’s a kind of Magic

Behold, the black witch inside her!
“For one day she will realize her true powers to the full and command her random intents.
And, so the ‘magic’ of her possession will  will cause the chaos to come,all those toxic around her will tumble.

Bruised and scarred
They will all roll away.

The witch inside her will turn in on  herself and become a tiny black , pincered  scorpion. If she is  arrested under a great ultra light she will glow.
Yes, she will  glow fluorecently so, and  appear other worldly and of  exceptional brilliance. That is when she will  decide  sting herself to the death.

The End

Or  not….
maybe   she will  use her power to create ‘real magic’ that sings with a beating heart-one full of  love and acceptance.

This. Is.The. End.
Doors close.

Buckets & spades

Sometimes life seems like all buckets and spades

And pensioners in rain jackets.

Until you look up

Dazzled by a spectrum that makes up your rainbow.

Flying woman

No one knew of the flying woman

No one knew if she would fall

No one knew she hovered above

Watching those who stumbled on the cobbles after painting the town red hoping for a bloody breast to fill their stomache one night more.

Free range chickens -motherless

Hoping that no proud rooster would make an early morning call

For one night peace could be theirs thanks to the flying woman they found spread out

Life is mostly forlorn.

If I told you

If I told you about the sun hiding behind those dense clouds

Would you listen to the birds

No judgement obscuring your heart echoed all kindess reverberating sans sound?

If I told you I’m hopeful your frown would disappear once those beatific rays raise a trumpet of graciousness from the maelstrom without the heartbeat of sound?

No hyperbole would I wish on your demeanour

No drama I wish to demand to demand

Upon you, the courageous.

My loves

My nature -condensates

A lady of the lake I’m bound by multiple men burned my ambitious stakes.

Causing this reality to vaporise

No slumber can awake.

I rise

I rise without the tidal waves of mayan traditions

Perhaps I forsook

I live on a continent my own maker allowed me to sew piece by piece

Grains of sand did my ancestors drown making moulds of bodies with clay.

I wish you to know my character.

I wish you to know my elements like demeter-

a mother never begets her daughter.

Never left to the scriptures of men

Untold

Untaunted

Untainted

Neither ink forsaken

Neither word twisted by those history writers who forsake them.

their integrity .

My nature is conceived

Nor pre ordained by these seasonal flakes

These words are my own.

My love !

Don’t desert all we have accumulated of late.

These are my words part 10