This poet

Is like a simmering pot

Overfilled and left on the flame

Until the water erupts out

As hot and angry words

Burning those who come near

Not out of malignant malice

But because this is his nature;

He is a walking volcano

Burying his nearby Pompeii

In a caustic pyroclastic flow

And weeping over the wake

Covered in dead,  dry ash.

If i can

Remove you from sanguine

To something harsh

To something wildly dark

Does that mean

I can exsanguinate

Those that buzz noisily

Within my precious space?

Does this make me a vampire?

Do i drain you of your life?

Do i want to

Drain you of your life?

Perhaps.

Sending smoke signals on Pinterest

Letters in the aether

Like calls in the dark

Also draw predators

Worth claws and shining teeth

Bright eyes watching

Expectant in the night

For all the anger

Underneath my skin

Contained barely

Keeping me awake

Overwhelming

Frenetic

Fucking awful

What does he say

In what voice does he speak

There is no voice loud enough

There is no voice quiet enough

There is no voice

So he is left mute

While the world

It rages around him

Indifferent.

It got to a point

You know…things peaked

And i had to see a psychiatrist

“I can’t focus

I can’t remember shit

I can’t sit still

I can’t work

School sucked

I mimic people

Relationships…OMG”

He asked –

“How long has this been going on?”

“Like 55 years”

Several sessions later:

“Adult Combined ADHD”

So now I know…

It’s less useful now

Than say 50 years ago

All my coping mechanisms

They’re homemade

Cobbled together from this and that

Here and there

Him and her

Like a peasant knight

And his tin can armour

Like Don Quixote

I must chase windmills

To stay interested

And write poems

Because narrative,

It’s too long…

Come tear a hole

Tear it in the thing you fear

Rip your way through it

And leave the shreds behind you

Scattered across the earth

As a warning

To those who would follow

A promise that you will turn

Fangs bared and claws out

Carving your way to courage

there is a halo
it hangs upon my wall
a wreath of branches
with white berries at the ends
i imagine it hung over a head
some wild nature god
who shed their glory each year
left lying upon the cold earth
for some lucky sojourner –
adopted glory
hope hanging on a nail
as a reminder
that there are mysteries in the world
that there are good things waiting

we work together
building
moving
lifting

c r e a t i n g

we’re at our best
when we feel
new
tired
and
energized

Look

The golden sky becomes bronze

And we are lost in a dream of beauty

Created far and away

By a fiery nightmare

Telling us that death is disguised

Walking among us as desire

Painting the horizon red