flowers

flowers

Imagine if you passed a blind man
One who wasn’t blind from birth
You’d ask him what he missed most
He’d say the colourful things that look to the sky from the earth

Oh you’d hear the longing in his voice
The yearning for the day
Where he’d once again see all the colours
Beautiful in or out the suns golden rays

The clusters of flowers in the fields
The mix of all the colours
Yet it still looks very precisely grown
All the colours mix, oh the wonders

He’d continue and say
How can this be?
These big, small, colourful flowers
All come from one tiny little seed

Then wonders of wonders, with many miracles
The seed bursts and starts to grow
The he sits back with a sad, sad smile
And say this I can see no more oh no

So when you next see a flower
You should appreciate you can see
All g-ds wonders, all the colours
When you see the blind man, say I’m happy to be me!

midnight

Midnight

For B.A

The colour of midnight
the waning light
dark colours everything
dark and black

a witch and the evil one
slither from their hideouts
content to plunder the world
while the innocent, and the not so slumber.

Stars wink, the moon wanes and waxes
night after night
day after day
nothing changes.

The waxy blackness
a blurring of the edges
it feels surreal out here, doesn't it?
Like only you are real.

The noises
gone
the lights
gone.
The crowds
gone.
And you?
Why aren't you gone?

What business have you here my little one
the coward of the day
the bully by night.
Only when no one can see you
when all is shaded in black
are you content to let that harsh side win
your internal combat

because who can see or identify you?
Who can see your shame?
That you're reduced to a lowly bastard
with only the night to claim

night is your company
he understands the blackness, the emptiness within you
but doesn't care
quite content to let you
corrupt yourself and the others around you


and you want to change
from the black, the hidden
to the grey, secure in the crowd
but hey, you've spent too long out here
you think the black claims you
can't release you

you barely struggle, what's the point?
If you're already here why
make the effort to try climb back up?
But you know in the blackness of your soul
the white pure chip left
crying for the light.

It's that annoying voice you always hear
at the annoying times when you're going to do bad
why? It pleads, begs, cajoles
to the deaf ear you present to yourself.

But you end up listening, you have to listen to
the tinny little whine, and it creates an impact it does
but now you just have to act.

But who'll believe you when you say you want to change?
They'll say it's just another joke
will only see the black façade you present to the world
and not the inner conscience you have
the one you hid for too long

so despair first, then anger then hopelessness
when no one understands
then as you remain solitary
longing for help, some company
you reflect on what your life had been
how the midnighters understood you
how the black had warmly wrapped you in its cocoon

and the good intentions fade away

you try to ignore the voice
its cries and tears
but it has moved you once too many
you can't go back to what you've been

stuck
big time.
Belonging nowhere
suicide seems like the only option
but what of your parents?
The cousins that love you?
Then you understand your inner voice
try look for help

but none seems forthcoming.

You beg
nothing.
You plead
no response.
A loner, always a loner
with no one who understands you
no one who cares.

Be strong
don't give up
you're mistaken if you think your alone
there's a whole world out there
with people who love you,
people who care.

Just be sincere
sit them down
tell them your intentions
your hopes
your fears

its the only way that works

get rid of the dead blackness
turn it in to light
or Gray.
Be real
show them the inside you
let the tinny voice grow loud and rule.
Find the place in the shade or light that you fit
never look back
never miss the days that are gone
never remorse the lost time, the damage done

now is now
here is here
you are here and now
love who you are
and you'll find peace within.

red

RED

Red is the danger of someone
unknown approaching, tendrils
all-red creeping about him, enfolding
all he touches with a sick red aroma.

Red is the colour of blood blooming
between fingers, pulsing under
soft flimsy skin, straining persistently
to supply the bodies needs.

Red is the colour of a siren, a
sign showing someone wants to be
noticed. Someone who's got nothing
left of themselves to lose.

Red is the colour of my anger,
that the world is unjust, unfair and
untrue. Red is a sheen that covers my eyes
obliterating all the sense that is there.

Red is the colour of falsehood, of the
lies that squirm and squeeze in to
people, making them feel good but
leaves them feeling empty and bad.

The world is covered in red
red things, always moving, always
killing. Red destroys all.

But red is also the colour of life
shining, the red flowers that cover
the fields, the red ribbons in pigtails.

Red is the colour of the sunset
the fiery setting showing an end
of one day, yet also the beginning
of another, red is the colour of change.

school from the other side

School from the other side

We go to school to learn
yet they stuff our heads with
nonsense. And then they test us on
all they've taught, material which hasn't
stayed in my head.

We have files and notes and
handouts and papers, yet after
the test we don't need it any more and all
is forgotten and we have wasted our
lives learning nothing.

Out brains need to be active so
Fine, I can learn useful and interesting
Things like names of plants and
Animals and things that interest me
And not the teacher,

Material that tests the memory, that
Testify to the great events of nature
Will instil in us a love for the
World we live in, and will teach
Us how to love each other.

Yet we still sit here and try to
Remain at our desks, listen to the
Teacher make a fool of herself as
She explains a concept she doesn't
Truly understand.

I could be broadening my mind
In the library, in the real outside
World. But I have to stay here
Like hundreds before me and the
Hundreds after me, bored out my mind.

And I can hear her prattling
On and on, she doesn't realize no one
Is listening and I wish
Myself to be elsewhere, anywhere
Even if the fiery pits of hell,

Because instead of being
Broadened and taught
Knowledge of ancient years I
Only feel my mind becoming
Hazier and emptier


and I write this in the
lesson not because I think
I’m a budding poet and not
because I want to be one but it's a
distraction that distracts me well.

In just a few long minutes
the school day will be over, finally
but it follows and torments me
with a school invented torture named
homework.

So theoretically school is never over.

white

White

White is the colour of truce
White is the colour of peace
White is the colour of a brides dress
White is not the colour of war

White is the colour of a dove
White is the colour of fate
White is the colour of Sunday shoes
White is not the colour of hate

White is the colour of snow
White is the colour of a white board
White is the colour of candy floss
White is not the colour of fraud

White is the colour of holiness
White is the colour of pure
White is the colour of grandmothers’ hair
White is not the colour of bitterness

White is the opposite of black
White is the opposite of bad
White is the opposite if all consuming hatred
White is the colour of pure.

painfull realizations

Painful realization

Meaningless conversations
Which grown ups voluntarily put themselves through
A whole night spent in vain
Talking about important things,
For example the weather.

And they sit and nod and laugh
An ironic party, all dressed in finery
With their curls and their red scathing lips
And the ties and the suits, and it all means
Nothing.

On and on it drags on
And the room buzzes
With the noise of high pitched shrill fake sounding laughs
While the baritone voices emit various bored sounding grunts
And I sit there dead bored.

How can a roomful of adults
Spend three hours of their time
Conducting small conversation?
There aren’t enough topics in the world
To cover the night.

I feel an intimate pull
My bed beckoning me from my room
As the hour turns late
And the salads are still on the table
And I’m not excused.

Adult invented torture
As they manipulate themselves in to believing
That they are having a good time, wanted this evening
But when did they consult me about this
Why do I have to suffer for their deeds?

And then I start to hyperventilate
To sweat with the daunting understanding
That sooner or later this will be me
Chattering and nattering, while my place today
Will be filled my kids

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 17.07.2012

Alle Rechte vorbehalten