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It was about time that I write you a poem

Some days, I pinch myself, to make sure that you’re real.
And even though it hurts every time, I still have a hard time believing it.

You’re the wish I would have never dared to make.
You’re the piece I thought would always be missing.
You’re the words I had never had.

You’re so much brighter than the darkness they’ve left behind.
And I needed that light.

So thank you.

Thank you for saving me when I didn’t want to be saved.
Thank you for listening to me when I didn’t want to talk.
Thank you for loving me when I didn’t want to be loved.

Keeping you warm at night is the greatest honour of my life.

But I don’t think that thank-yous are enough,
so I want to make you a few promises.

I promise you a life, full of smiles, adventures and embraces.
I promise you a home filled with laughter, love and respect.
I promise you a family, strong, united and queer.

I also promise you that I will make you smile, every day.



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The end of our novelty.

“In spite of all darkness, you have spluttered a light that pierces through my harshness.

We have both shrank under the weight of our glory.

Destined for something, but it wasn’t greatness.”

 

Bolstered progress to bleak process.

We were consistently meticulous to a work that is now fruitless.

 

Our victories..historic? Our beliefs, stoic?

This is some form of mundane madness, but it doesn’t feel tragic.

 

We sought not pleasure in one another,

but only hope, honor and heraldry.

 

Are we the heretics now?

Clinging on to a notion of justice,

but descending into a crescendo of barbarity?

 

I had hoped that our partnership would be immortal,

Enriched with the beauty of both combat and compassion.

 

Together, our hand should have transcended time,

With all pain to be purged, leaving peace as our only fashion.

 

Our marriage of lunar skies and sunburnt trials,

illuminated all that was hidden, all that was strange.

 

Dormant demons now stroll the land,

But we grovel at their mercy,

for it is they who are grand.

 

How did we conceive of greatness, but give birth to Kratos?

Why did I imagine a future that had already been lost?

What did you permit to, that had already been forsaken?

 

We sit on a throne, fit for execution.

The curtains have been drawn, our future has already been written.

Our prophecy drifts hopelessly between truth and imagination.

But the delicacy of my oracle is just a matter of perception.

 

Deceived into believing that we could reform the world.

Our coalition of interests was nothing but a fools gold.

 

Logic is redundant in this land of sinners,

to flight and not fight is to hide among the smoke and mirrors.

 

 

When the conspiracy runs its course and the clock strikes its final hour,

who will crucify our memories?

Lest the precious moments can not be saved.

 

The ‘utopia’ that I walk through, glistens because of you.

In your destruction, in your elegance, in your hope.

It was all in your view.

 

So with our mirage of lost fortunes,

We shall strife through despondent darkness

For the rule of peace does not reside in exhaustion.

 

No nation may bow to us,

but our bond is resilient.

For the density of our union, not a single empire is equivalent.

 

So shall we relinquish our reign?

Make free the pillars of power?

Slither away from our sovereignty?

All that we see now is solitude,

and an empty eternity for us to devour.

 

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Torrid.

Clementine portraits.

Bleach blond horse manes.

An epitaph for our lost leaders?

Or just the gallows? For it is they who are treasonous.

Eco-promises and political paralysis,

Where the strangled successes taste like bitter-sweet molasses.

Will the levee ever break?

Will the swamp ever drain?

Where is our Atlas to hold up our sphere of mistakes?

Or will we simply crumble under the strain?

Chronicling the sieges that our tribes love to wager.

Will the colossal blow give us a silent blissful danger?

Have you ever seen something so serene?

Purged and purified till nothingness is a coherent reality.

A place where beauty and darkness can no longer reside?

It feels so quiet now, like a thick gloopy silence that rings in the ears of a flu ridden child.

The seven deadly sins do not reside here.

Nothing to hope for, nothing to dream of, nothing to fear.

Will this be the fruition of our resistance?

A friction so epic, that the sparks will engulf us whole?

The human life. Ruled by stories. Condemned by nature. Remembered by the few.

They say that free will is the manifestation of the mind.

That oblivion is embedded in to the nucleus of our being.

But where is the freedom from this strife?

The get-out card that gives us liberty and order?

The delicate fingertips of serenity strokes us with their dignity.

But we take pride in our demented cemented cracks.

Where the space is finite and fraught with division.

We are not defined by our struggle, but consumed by it.

The wails are so common now. How do we drown them out?

How do we find peace?

In a land where there is nought.

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On missing

Step by step

You are fading away

Step by step

You are making the way

 

Little by little

I start to forget your face

Little by little

I get used to it

 

Step by step

I thought it will be easy

Step by step

I became a fool

 

Little by little

It is just for our memories now

Little by little

I disintegrate together with all of it

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To Z

Classic in style and classic in taste
Quick to feel but slow to judge
Benevolent as Solomon the Great
She is daughter of never ending river

Kind but warm
Well-behaved but common.
Loving but discrete
Simple but pure

She is looking at me from the above now
But on an equal footing
And even though particles of her violent grace to me were short-lived
They stayed with me until I grew up.

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Madness

Hi.

My name is Frank.

I think I just met you, right?

But does it matter in the end?

 

I just texted to my wife –

she said I am allowed to fuck you and I should leave you afterwards.

Well, trust was betrayed.

 

So now I am mad.

Deconstructing roses on my way.

Wearing unironed shirts

Claiming damages from You.

House I built for us.

oh, can I play with your hair? Your noodle hair.

My wife allowed me – I have no wife, so..

I went to have a haircut today – pardon me.

I just smashed my head into the door of our house – it is fine – I know the carpenter.

Gap.

 

 

For what and why?

For

nothing.

i will wait you keenly at the station, darling.

 

 

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reecenerdify, Uncategorized

The Courts from Above Ground

Can you hear the Jury grumbling as they take their seats?

The Judge cracks open the session with his bulletined order of events.

 

Like a tombstone of structured emotion, the prosecution states their case with a cackle of arrogance and bitter assumption.

“We are defending “the liberty of love” beckons the defence, but the patronising scoffs of despair and horror are normalised in this world of systematic tabling.

 

But I….feel nice here.

In my pot of soil.

On my patch of mud.

 

Withdrawn from production line patriotism,

And isolated from the sounds of their rules,

their reasons,

their judgements.

 

This pot gives me plenty of space to run,

I can feel its walls, but I can see freedom in the darkness.

And the silence echoes with a special…

“Thump, Thump”. Order! Order!

This striking sound of ‘justice’ deafens my minds(s).

One fails to recuperate such tranquil thoughts with the murmurs of an enlightened mob above them.

 

I do not infringe upon others movements,

The thought of asserting my morality gives me no amusement.

I have not relinquished my citizenship for a hovel of an existence.

But simply rekindled my sovereignty so that I could have independence.

 

I can hear the defendant interrogated and accused of a love based on guilt.

As if the prosecutor understands.. ,

Oh what castle of lies they have all built!

 

You see, in these worlds, grands delusions reign supreme.

Call whatever Witness to the stand.

They will testify to their own hypocrisy.

Offering perceptions born out of the fog and mist.

 

But in my dwelling, I provide no blurred convictions.

The love I hold, is not hollow but honest.

I am not swayed by unrelenting passions.

No bleakness can consume me,

because I have freed myself from my own harsh reality.

 

However, it seems that sentences must be carried out.

Children must be punished.

And yes, we must learn from our mistakes.

People need to have regrets,

and so we must control our own heartbreaks.

 

Though I live for the eternal, I can not forsake my liberty.

For my truth is powerful because it can shift.

It sustains my wriggle room in a life that constricts.

 

So when the jury makes their call, I will cackle in my chair.

For the courts can’t influence me, and their verdict is insincere.

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reecenerdify, The Essex Writers' Circle, Uncategorized

The Delinquent’s Dance

The gathering has begun.

A ceremony of delightful beasts.

The crimson sunshine once elevated our heart.

But now a thick smog suffocates the peace.

 

As the traffic lights flicker from scarlet to amber,

You wait for an end to this awful slumber.

Trench lines of scorched Fords with many charred Hondas,

A blistering inferno awaits us, as the demons cackle with their cameras.

 

The climatic froth simmers towards the surface.

The sewers crust over with such acidic purpose.

This arena has been sealed with our hawkish volition.

A bystanders curse, apathy’s very own admission.

 

The conjoining of the red sea floods this principled vessel,

As they channel the anger inside, a great tunnelling begins to nestle.

Starved of tranquillity, we’ve consumed our grim fairy tale.

Blamed for playing the victim, their path of villainy is destined to fail.

 

As the crescendo alights, a mesh of colors fills the air,

Black Eagles and Rainbows descend above us,

Symbols of past and present, giving us that ferocious flair.

 

To spectate doesn’t simply vindicate.

But with the remnants of reason cowering in the corner,

Our descent to savagery grows ever closer.

 

Gone is the soapbox with openhearted minds.

We have a new audience of a more evasive kind.

Happy to watch the darkness devour us from within,

“Just in time for tea”, we say. Its the 7pm bulletin.

 

Jungle, parliament or rally. Barbarity is omnipresent.

The element of protest has vanished.

Their passion for disruption is anything but pleasant.

 

The guttural sounds of hate boom from this tattered stage.

This war for our minds…was it first fought on the page?

Like puppets on a string, ‘like freaks on a leash’,

We now dance to our own apocalypse, all logic has ceased.

 

Once the tingly tears have cleared the horde,

And the road has been choked of all hope.

Onlookers cry for more blood.

The search for reason has become a joke.

 

This spectacle alienates our heart.

Makes fools of humanity.

So the answer is to be further apart?

Now that is insanity.

 

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