Behind the door.

I heard a voice the other day,
Coming through the wall.
I heard the voice say,
It's over, no more.

I tried to stand waiting,
With your picture in my hand.
I try to be the man waiting,
The man that can't be moved.

No, light a fire and watch it burn,
Let the bridges turn to ash.
I will walk away and not return.
Strangers, again.

My own pit

I too would like it if I perceived it wrong.
This sort of appearance is unlike you.
My pride and humility,
Constantly at conflict.

What is this charade of civility we play at?
Only to be destroyed brutally by the truth.
You are not wrong,
But my pride will not allow it.

I am my own pit man,
And it's time I let myself out.
My bitterness will hold me in forever.

Be free, be free.
The past is gone, so stop holding on.
To the irrational, to the despicable,
Let go, let go.

Haunted we are, by the shadows of our past.
Darkening our future, changing our paths.
Tinted is everything I see around me,
Haunted I am, by the shadows of my past.

Haunted we are, by the shadows of our past.
Growing ever so long, under the light of the beginning.
Can we ever outrun this shadow, that our future may be free,
Nay, I say, haunted we are still.

Scarred we are, by the memories of our past.
Some of which, we know not of.
Yet these are which, that will dictate our future.
Scarred we are, by the day of yore.

Repeat we will, if we learn not from the past,
Ah yes, that's what they said.
Yet here we are, fumbling without knowing,
Repeat we still do, repeat yet again.

How far will the shadows grow?
How much can we outrun our past?
Or are we shackled,
predestined to walk forever in the shadows of our past?

The Critic

“That is just plain ugly.”

“Can’t you see the lines? It’s amazing. Simplicity at its best.”

“You’re kidding aren’t you? That is just crap. A kid could do better than this. Just because this is in a gallery of masterpieces doesn’t mean it all has to be good. I wonder who’s in charge of this gallery, because this is just crap, and doesn’t deserve to be alongside the greats. I should speak to the owner, and see if he knows anything about art.”

“You two must be from out of town. Yes, this is not very good art. But this was painted by the owner’s son, who died from leukaemia at just three years of age. And to the owner, this one drawing is worth more to him than all the other pieces in this gallery.”

A spider

It just hit me,
That we're complete worlds apart,
I try to reach you,
But the space between us is too great.

I feel like charging in,
But I cannot,
And so I watch on from afar,
Willing you to be safe.

Once a day I look at your face,
The one I keep in my worn-out wallet,
Sometimes more,
Because that's the closest I can get to still being with you.

Do I have to lose you too?

I will let you go,
Not because I don't love you,
But because it's easier for you to hate me,
Than for me to hurt you more.

Home

There they go, tearing down each brick I put up.

When will I find respite, and where?

Will you not pause, and will you not stop?

Until when, when will your resolve end?

Must I be brought to my knees, must my heart give up before all this ends?

There you go, tearing down each brick I put up.

My moat is dry, and I have no defence around you.

I try my best, yet I cannot wall you out.

Until when, when will your temptation end?

My heart, seduced by yours.

Days past and months go by.

What does it feel like to kiss a dying love?

As I hold your hand gently to my heart,

When will this be the last kiss goodbye?

There you go, drifting away.

I knew of this end before it began,

But my foolish hope still clings on,

What it clings on to, I know not of.

Tell me, where does my hope lie?