Archive for March, 2010

Narcissistic You, Narcissistic Me

Posted on March 28, 2010. Filed under: Poetry | Tags: , , , , , |

Backup and give me some room.

Leave me alone for a while,
Just don’t go too far.

I need to breathe.
Just let me breathe.

What is it about me that ‘does it’ for you?
Honestly, I want to know.

Do I make you feel good?
As well as I do.
Pander to you and smile on command?

Do I stroke your ego?
As well as I do.
Tell you you’re great and make you feel special?

Is it that perhaps, you want to be like me?
Always asking me how I came to be.
Wanting to know my next move; my every thought.

Is it that you like my uniqueness?
An amazing sight to you, perhaps.
Tell Me!

Why do you want to walk where I walk?
Talk how I talk,
Think the things I think and feel the way I feel?

Why?
When sometimes I don’t want to be me.
Though sometimes. Only sometimes!

Because let’s be honest – I am pretty remarkable.
And don’t I know it!

So now tell me…

© 

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Here’s To You, Reality

Posted on March 16, 2010. Filed under: Poetry | Tags: , , , , , , , , |

Feeling like I need a moment to enjoy just being still.

To take it all in – all that is around me.

To not analyse, or pick apart the things I see.

To not have to put meaning behind it all, but take it for what it is.

Sometimes, I spend time dreaming and missing the beauty of Reality,
It passes by as a whisper in my ear.

I realise, in my dream like state, I may have missed something amazing.

I know I like it here but sometimes and often,
I have to open my eyes.

To force myself to open my eyes.

To see the rose growing from the thorns.
The sun peering through clouds.
A smile through the tears.

Reality can be harsh, it’s meant to be sometimes.

But how beautiful it is to know that I have the freedom to check in or check out whenever I want.

So here’s to you, Reality;
A worthy friend and enemy.
You are bitter-sweet.

Because I know without your crudeness and uncertainty,
They’ll be no need for me to dream.

©  

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LONDON

Posted on March 5, 2010. Filed under: Poetry | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , |

London cries a lot.

Not more so than others, but still, a lot.

The tears aren’t empty though.
They are filled with the pain the streets contain.
The tears of those who walk these streets no longer flow.
Too many tears shed on their part. Much too many.

So London cries for them.

When it’s a day like that, London seems beyond sad.
Moody, perhaps.

But I know, being a shoulder London has cried on.
We know.

If you look harder it’s just London getting ready to start all over again.

The rain-like tears, cleanse and make new what was once dirty and old.

It’s rejuvenation that is taking place.

A rebirth. Born-again.

London is beautiful like this.

But today,
Oh today, on a day like this,
London raises it’s head, stands even taller and smiles.

Music fills the air like a soundtrack to London life.
You feel brazen.
Feel child-like.
Feel naughty.

The hardness is there, it’s still there underneath the skin,
Where the heart thumps it’s angry chorus
And the beat times itself to the beat of those it holds.

But today,
Oh today, on a day like this,
When the sun is out,
London shines.

©

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Life Imitating Art

Posted on March 3, 2010. Filed under: Poetry, Short Stories | Tags: , , , , , , , , , |

 – “Art washes away from the soul the dust of everyday life.”  Pablo Picasso –

Everyday, hundreds came to see the artist at work.

He was phenomenal to watch. He would put his heart and soul into every piece. People stood in awe of his deeply meaningful work. He was extremely focused whilst painting and would not be distracted by the noises around him. The people passing by, the sounds of car horns and traffic, the sounds of children playing in the nearby park.

No, nothing would distract him.

This place was his sanctuary. Yes, it was a pavement in one of the busiest streets in the city, but to the artist, it was peace.

He never answered any questions. Never spoke, never looked up or around.

His paintings were truly personal. And because he never spoke, nobody knew what his works were about. What were his paintings trying to say? What were they about?

Yet to everyone who came across his work, each was touched in a very different way. Some were made happier for seeing a piece of his art. Some of his works made people think about their lives. Some people felt his work had changed their lives, making them feel love again or giving them the ability to dream. His work touched many – directly and indirectly.

This one day in the city was like any other day.

He arrived at his spot on the street. Sat down and began to paint.

Suddenly, he stopped.

Those around him. Stood still. They looked a little concerned for the artist as he seemed to show no sign of movement. One person called out to him, ‘are you ok?’ Another asked, ‘why have you stopped?’

He slowly turned to them, stood up and put down his tools.

They stood perfectly still. Waiting to hear from him, finally.

Looking around at each of them, he said, ‘I’ve stopped because I’m done.’

He picked up his things and walked away.

Turning to each other, they looked confused.

They then began to walk away. Each of them walking into their own lives.

© 

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