Resorting to poetry, I can barely breath,
having captured an hour, to move less gently.
For this one I warmed down, but feel shaky legged,
insecure heartbeat, ice-cream pain, intense.
A talk about dogs, some nearly hit cars,
colder, but brighter, and still not too hard.
Building it slowly, but too fast for me,
phone slapping comfort, keeping a beat.
A rhythm, de-synced to ventricles furred,
ripping the filth that from torpor it learnt.
Inaction made steady, can easily seduce,
that part of me wanting, to without effort produce,
all that I hope for, with no courage put in.
A teacher once told me, I lacked self-discipline,
I still hate him.
I am squashed between two worlds
and though grown from my roots,
trying to maintain some clemency.
Hoping to think and not offend;
I was raised too cautious,
but in awe of heroes;
I fought inside my mind:
I did not step on grass.
I did not talk in class.
I did not sleep around.
I held back most I felt.
Understanding is the rarest thing,
a ghost amongst ideas.
And when the call was sounded
and as usual I had no heart,
but on hearing violent voices and
displays of casual threat,
the petty digs and schadenfreude,
provoked a hidden rage.
Speaking a little louder,
at risk of unknown change
then in a moment critical,
To share an open feeling
of honest lost belief,
where no one is a victor,
but everyone is heard.
Better loud than silent
I suppose, or else I’m wrong,
to roar my thoughts ferocious,
as I retreat in to my cage.
I don’t agree with all I love,
but love those who don’t agree.
If my mother taught me anything,
it was how to be contrary.