I am the virus

I am the virus.

I need to be contained.

My venom spreads with every word I say.

I am the virus.

I wish I was contained.

The spikes are taken out of the wheels and I’m definitely not sane.

I am the virus.

You’ll wish I was contained.

I’ll make your every word the last one in this endless game.

I was the virus.

I’m all alone.

Not that I regret your number calling on my phone.

I was the virus.

I followed your decree.

Now your head sits alone on my bare knee.

I am the virus

I am the virus.

I need to be contained.

My venom spreads with every word I say.

I am the virus.

I wish I was contained.

The spikes are taken out of the wheels and I’m definitely not sane.

I am the virus.

You’ll wish I was contained.

I’ll make your every word the last one in this endless game.

I was the virus.

I’m all alone.

Not that I regret your number calling on my phone.

I was the virus.

I followed your decree.

Now your head sits alone on my bare knee.

Vitriol, chamomile for my soul

Sour tasting words expounded,

Sweet saccharine sounds;

A melody of chaffing rhetoric,

Holding you, tightly bound.

Desire

Foraging for the purpose, the point

of our desire. Quenched so quickly,

Yes, the yearning holds more fire.

Such heat! Doesn’t it defeat the purpose,

The target, the goal of consummation? Sweet soul eaten like dessert, no hesitation.

A dire, empty bowl scraped – now inert. Serene is the tongue holding that lingering flavour.

Is it the yearning or consumed desire we savour?

Waking Up

It has been a very long time since I’ve been woken by erratic words racing through my head, waiting to be caught in a net and sorted to make some semblance of order. Last night was one of those nights.

Poem

Sewn

Threads dispersed, tendrils drifting,

Cross stitches holding my heart together

Fragile grips for forever

Like kisses on a broken organ.

Undisclosed attachments to materialistic grips

Patterned designs meant for purpose

But, oh, giving me goose bumps of joy

As I blanket stitch them together.

Expressing my toxic insides

Filtering them with padding

Slip stitch my lips so nothing escapes;

Shh! Here comes the blunt truth…

Nothing can hold back the black and white

No shade. Backstitch that bad stuff,

But the running stitch won’t erase it.

The stark truth prevails like a blind stitch.

Broken Voices

There are voices in the attic

Static sounds of confusion

Scattered murmurs of insecurity.

Voices of misshapen dreams

Lying dormant for so long

Now stirring, writhing whispers.

Attic beams once a safe space

Creaking and moaning uncontrollably

Holding back voices searching for escape.

There are voices in the attic

Bold and ready to be heard

Scratch. Click. Roar!

They are free.

More

Consume my physical receptacle

Pool your passion as you will

Favour the inevitable

As I swallow the bitter pill

Of realising your incompetence

Of being more than a physical presence

Leave me yearning for more substance

In my search for a soulmate’s essence.

From now on

From now on I’m not going to drown in your ugly words

From now on I’m not going to hug my sides because it hurts

From now on I’m not going to wish I could just disappear

From now on I’m going to wear my bruises loud and clear.

From this day forward I will climb back inside my skin

From this day forward I will be proud to be African

From this day forward my British roots won’t fail

From this day forward my Dutch forefathers will smile with pride as I prevail.

From now on I choose my destiny

From now on my skin speaks and says it’s free

From now on whomever I dare to love is okay

From now on till my last remaining day.

My Poetry Book is available from Lulu.

Content – gluedmirror

Further to my post the other day, Gluedmirror found something in my story that triggered his own way to express it – through poetry.

I appreciate how hard this must have been and appreciate the fact that it was his muse for a moment in time.

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Here it is July already Still no path to calmness, still no connection Like a dancing live wire, burning holes in the pavement I remember my mother, laid up in that institution Waiting to die She had liked to write before I met her, and I went to find that girl  And I went to…
— Read on gluedmirror.wordpress.com/2018/07/01/content/