Melancholy Sea Wading

Swarmed  by blankets

Drowning in pillows

I swam in a sea of sleep

Tossing and turning

Reaching for something

Flailing and failing

For someone.

Something.

A solid anchor

Asleep beside me.

 

 

He’s been missing for so long

Here in one instance

Gone in the next

It was just the comfort

Something to hold onto

Did it matter if he was the wrong one?

Distance spanned between us

And I realised all was lost

I dropped it into the abyss

Forever gone.

 

Insomnia takes its place

Because the truth is

I don’t like sleeping alone.

 

The aquarium of thoughts

That like fish flitter and delve

Unwelcome are most

Which like piranhas

Expel their unwanted truths

In subconscious bouts

Inescapable

Irrepressible

And yet utterly true.

 

Fallen Stars

We are all fallen stars

One by one dangling on an iridescent thread

Somewhere far away

Where time slows down

And our lives slowly drift away

We are all fallen stars

Waiting to fall

Waiting for the gravitational pull

To tear us apart

Some of us will be up there forever

Slowly burning

A ball of fire

Tensed up and fixed into a foetal position

Until one day we spring apart

We shoot off

A myriad of colourful explosions

Into the nothingness

And embrace the moon

Like the old friend it truly is

Exceeding all limitations.

 

-E

 

Picture Source: Pilar Zeta on Tumblr

 

Self

Transient states

Erratic, dismal, hyper and then

Like a pen trailing off

All is calm, all is still.

Growing up

Your heart tearing

Emotions overspilling

Like clumsy wine sloshing over the side.

Finding self

Is like finding a needle in a haystackscatterbrain-kate-powell

There may be plenty of fish in the sea

But how do you point out the one

That is you, in a school made up of a million

Individuals

Each swimming

Breathing, being, talking

Chattering all at once.

What am I?

What is self?

One hive mind

Expected to accommodate for

The cookie cutter clean look

Pictured in the magazines.

I am a flurry of ideas, self-doubts, what ifs

But also of adrenaline, charisma and daydreaming.

My self is not a slot easily categorised

I feel how I feel

And are what I am.

Me.

 

Artwork: Kate Powell https://uk.pinterest.com/moonwolf1/artist-kate-powell/

 

 

Domino Effect

Standing tall and proud

Those shadowy figures

That surround

There outlines blur

Their faces hidden

And yet they stand

High up in the background.

They told you they would be there

When the sun was shining

When the birds were gliding

When the flowers were blooming.

Then you stumbled

And like a hundred dominoes

They all fell down

Now there’s only one of you standing

But one’s all you need

Why rely on a house of cards

Unstable, unreliable

When you can favour who you are?

 

-E xxx

Wollaton Hall

Wollaton Hall, Nottingham

The mist from the river

Settles above

Like a hovering, silver web

Protecting the inhabitants of the lake

A force field engulfing the grounds.

 

The leaves

Like crushed velvet

Are scattered like confetti

With buds of new life

Hidden beneath.

 

The air is cold and crisp

But in a refreshing

Slap-you-awake sense of being.

 

I sit on a wrought iron bench

My eyes slightly glazed

Taking in the morning beauty

Of the old Tudor house.

 

Crowned with crows

Hiding a dark, desperate secret

Buried in the past

Never to be rediscovered.

 

-E xxx

Photo Credit: tiikka at https://www.flickr.com/photos/36599408@N02/3376557384 (although I altered the colour saturation to make it black and white)

 

Spring

Written on a foggy morning whilst walking the grounds at Wollaton Hall, Nottingham.

The old winter falls away

Like a scarf

And coat

Being abandoned upon arriving home

After,

Long

Endless

Days.

The days are now milder

With surprising spurts of sun

And hints of colour

Pinks, yellows, green

Coyly peeking out

Like a teenage girl stealing a look

At her crush

From behind a curtain of hair

It strives

To lift the weight

Of the deadening copse of branches

And deceased decomposing leaves.

Mornings seem lighter

Evenings too

Longer days

For lingering possibilities

Spring is a brew.

-E