I keep going back to the image that you cracked me in two

That you reached into my chest and tore out my heart

It’s pumping red grotesque thing 

and simply squeezed it into your fingernails

and pulled until it was torn in two. 

In this image I fall to my knees one final time

In this image I wear the face of betrayal 

In this image I knew it was coming but -

In this image I ...

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And if I told you the truth,

Would you hate me?

Even more than you already do?

Or would the truth soothe,

Soothe the gaping wound left in you.

Will it dissolve the guilt I feel?

Even though, I'd do it again?

I fear, even if I’d decide to,

To tell you the truth,

I no longer know what it is.

It's been warped into easily digestible tablets,

Washed down with white...

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How long must I flog the dead 

horse before I become it?

I find myself endlessly repeating,

stuck in a loop of unknowingness, 

just to be struck down -

again and again and again.

I watch myself as an outsider

I am an observer of my own life.

Me - not me - Me

takes off my coat and hangs it on the rack

Me - not me - Me

takes off my shoes and puts them on the mat

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I think I left the door open -

At the back of my brain

And you got in there

and stole what’s mine. 

Implanted thoughts of you

in every small Corner and Crevice,

Burrowed your way into my subconscious

Until I could never forget you. 

I think you slammed it on your way out -

One last defiance,

One final fuck you,

Jammed it shut so no 

One could enter again -

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Sometimes it’s easier

To slip back under

Instead of fighting-

To remain afloat. 

The deeper you go,

The harder it is, 

To claw your way-

back up again. 

So you sink

Back into the depths 

Of the sea-

Deeper and deeper.  

And you slowly suffocate

Under the pressure,

You drown-

Your cries, Unheard. 

The only thing left,

A memory,

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I like the image,

of a guitar gently weeping.

I wonder what the guitar has seen,

that made it weep that way.

The endless pubs and bars

open mic nights, and small festivals. 

humans at their lowest, and highest,

those elated, and those depressed,

the never ending introduction to new people,

new, but the same.

Maybe that's why the guitar is gently weeping.

...

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There’s something to be said,

About clouds.

Floating around in the sky,

Far beyond reach.

For there is beauty,

In what we cannot touch,

And only see.

And something novel,

In a thing of dreams. 

Sometimes I wish I could be a cloud,

Be something that is no more than a wisp in the air,

Something of speculation,

Of shape,

And a object of childhood fantasies

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We fight,

Like cats and dogs

In the rain. 

Our yells,

Drowning out 

The storm outside

A hundred,

Million tears,

Held back.

A billion, 

Thoughts unsaid

In fear. 

The world,  

Seems to end

and the storm

Rages on.

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With tight Puppet Strings, it controls me,

It's iron fists strangle all breath from my lungs 

Its ink black tendrils cover my heart and envelope my mind.

There is no escape. 

I drown with no water about,

My tears come in rivers that stream down my face

and my screams, there in no more horrible a sound. 

My heart bears the pain of a thousand knives 

and my body, no...

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What is home?

sometimes I feel I have a foot in each country,

my legs lay witness to the vast unknown of the sea

I visit one, and live in another-

yet I never feel like I truly belong.

In my birthplace, I am asked: 

Where are you from?

And yet, I was born not 20 miles from where we stood.

in the land of my ancestors,

there too I am asked of my origin

So, I am left wit...

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