viii. Why

July 15, 2011

I enjoy doodling but I don’t consider myself much of an artist.
However, I like to think that I’m not a bad writer.

With that in mind, I would like to present what follows as a ‘Visual Poem’:

A 'Visual Poem'

Words Unsaid

June 7, 2011

I know you were smitten
while he kept you
and you felt bitten
when he left you
and you turned bitter,
so I help you
with these words,
unsaid but written.

At first,
before you read it,
you wondered why I wrote;
you questioned my motives
and queried what floated my boat
but as you turn the pages
you see the different stages of your life;
you read your every strife
and you realise
that I write
for you.

And as you read my words
you feed them
because what I write,
you’ve seen
and where I’ve imagined,
you’ve been.

This poetry
is what connects you and me.
Without these words
I wouldn’t be inside your heart and in your head;
without these words, unsaid but written,
the memory of me would be dead –
but when I write
I fight to stay alive
and through the words you read
I survive,
I breathe,
I speak.

And though I do not know you,
as I write, I feel you.
With this verse
I immerse you again
in the love that you first knew
when times were good,
before you thought
that he could hurt you;
back when you believed his words were true;
before you knew what love could do –
but now your heart is broken
but with these words,
unspoken but written,
you think you have the token.

And as you read them
they touch you,
they push you
to write too
and when you write
you fight
to keep the light on in the dark
so that your words,
unsaid but written,
may show some other the way
like mine show you today;
might help some other hurting soul
find a way to make themselves whole
like I am showing you.

Because though you’ll never be the same,
you hope that with your art
you can regain
a little part,
at least a grain
of who you were
and maybe start
again;
relight
the flame
inside your heart
and train
yourself to fight
the pain
and play
the game
another round
and with the strength you’ve found
you’re bound
to win this time
and learn to put his crime
behind you;
let someone else find you
and bind you
to their soul
because after all,
that’s your goal –
to be ready to make
the same mistakes again.

ix. Contact

January 12, 2011

He stands in utter shock,
He cannot move; He cannot breath,
His every muscle aches.

A sweat breaks on his face;
His brow is wet with icy beads.
He feels a sudden chill.

He looks down at his hand.
His shaking arm is still stretched out,
His palm still glowing red.

He tries to speak to her,
But cannot whisper, cannot shout –
He cannot say a word.

She lies there on the ground;
She’s crying, curled up at his feet.
She doesn’t say a word.

She stays there on the ground.
She’s shivering despite the heat.
Her lip is swollen red.

And now the tears come,
They run like rivers down his face,
And trickle onto her.

His anger has all gone,
His crippled heart ceases to race,
Now guilt is all he feels.

His blood stops rushing now,
And suddenly he comes around;
New thoughts begin to form.

It’s not just guilt, there’s shame.
He kneels beside her on the ground,
And takes her in his arms.

She doesn’t move away,
He isn’t quite sure why she stays.
Perhaps she is just scared?

She turns to look at him,
To fix him in her puzzled gaze,
And once again he’s cold.

She doesn’t ask him why,
But he can see it in her eyes.
He cannot answer her.

No words would say enough.
All’s left is to apologise,
But still he cannot speak.

He doesn’t say the words,
But she can see it in his tears.
She knows it’s just the once.

He’s never harmed a hair –
Tonight the first in all their years;
She knows they’ll be okay.

She takes him in her arms;
They lie together on the floor,
And hold each other close.