Forget Truth

I was told "Forget truth, it lack lyricism"
But the truth gushed from the mouth
like fresh water in to the oily sea
Seeped through the sediment
Out of sight, giving life
The effect is phenomenal
Flashes of colour appearing all around
like paint on canvas flicked from the brush
Dark splintering figures bathe their feet in the words
As their dying hands grasp out at the sun and salty air
Sucking it down
Rubbing it in to the pores of their skin
And reviving
Fresh thoughts explode from the groud
As if bright red toad stools
Peppered white
That shoot from the earth
After the skies have opened
How could i forget?
When this unvarnished truth
Doused my arid mind
Turning mirages in to form
Which i can grasp with my eyes
And spew out as ink from a broken pen
Proud of its broken bleeding body.

Moth

Frantically, frantically, flying directless
your life's just too short and you'll die on your own.
At home in the dust, pulled in by the lightbulbs
poor little thing, you've only just grown.

The runt of the pack, you lack all the colours
that butterflies hold in their beautiful arms.
That doesn't matter, there's beauty in everything
even the dead leaves of Autumn hold charm.

So as you flit around in your random selectiveness
no obvious path and your time running out.
Do you have reason in your distracted pursuit?
searching for someone to figure you out.

Your losing the beat to your wings that are slowing
your growing so tired of searching alone.
So take one last look, peer from the windowsill
cherish your last breaths, your times running out.

Now that you've faded and all life has left you
I wont mourn your death but applaud to your days.
I'll look upon you and death will not frighten me
it reaches us all, in all sorts of ways.

"In the forest, there was a crooked tree and a straight tree. Every day, the straight tree would say to the crooked tree, "Look at me...I'm tall, and I'm straight, and I'm handsome. Look at you...you're all crooked and bent over. No one wants to look at you." And they grew up in that forest together. And then one day the loggers came, and they saw the crooked tree and the straight tree, and they said, "Just cut the straight trees and leave the rest." So the loggers turned all the straight trees into lumber and toothpicks and paper. And the crooked tree is still there, growing stronger and stranger every day."

Repetition. Repetition

Morning breaks then enter
all the usual formalities
"Morning, sorry i'm late"
Dust off the day before
and space the hanging cloth
with the precision of fingers.
Meet, greet, smile.
Sometimes i'm happy here, content
purely in the minimal amount of work in the morning
standing around talking.
Mostly it's too much time to think
and all the cotton and wool at my hands
is not enough to insulate a cold thought.
The only thing that changes is the faces
age and race
even some of them are just repeats.

Yesterday

Yesterday the Sun was shining.
To be woken by chirping families
is like being calmly rocked from a dream.
The waves that poured through the blinds
hugged us in a warm beige glow
and I opened my eyes to you.
We ran off into the heat.
The still bare branches bleeding into the sky
like hands grasping at the rays
drinking it in, sucking it down and reviving.
Your face began to blush beautifully
and your elegant pose spurred me forward.
We slowed to walk
as our lungs squeezed out the last of the air
quenching
returning hand in hand to chirping families
and the rug we rested on.
The day remained here until
the cooling Sun retired
and we retreated back to where
the beige glow cradled us.
We cradled eachother.
Yesterday the Sun was shining.

Sleepless

There's never solice in the night
When sleep deprives you of a pillow
Just stale troubled thoughts
Or every day paranoia.

Toothpaste breath begins to fade
And the bedside water sits and warms
The mattresses comfort is replaced
By aches and itch and aggitation.

You lie beside me convulsing, twitching
In an ever restlesses state
Im sure you pretend not to hear my pen scratching the paper
Fighting not to turn and peak.

I wish I had a miniature fishing rod
To sink into your ear as you sleep
To fish out dreams and thoughts
A tool which may prove fatal.

What if I hook a mine and not a mermaid?

Such conjuring thoughts swim away with me
As I lie, stiff and wide awake
Stiff being the operative word I would prefer
If chance would have that I could woo a sleeper.