Shame

I utter the word ‘hello,’
And reddened in the face
You look away
Hands in pockets
Lips a tight line
Containing a smirk
That’s for me, only mine

I know not what was said or done
But your embarrassment is palpable
I guess, I must be in the wrong
Later it will come to light
The tone of my voice wasn’t right
Or the way I stood or looked down
Or it was the way words sound
When coming out of my mouth

And the bashfulness on your face
Communicates to everyone
And like a virus it infects them all
Permeates the air
And I become
The cigarette end of jokes

And I, left in the ruins
Become the ash
Greyed and cemented
Into shame

Music is sadness

Music, apparently it has the power to make people feel emotions.
Happy, sad, angry, sentimental etc.

But for me it doesn’t matter if it’s a happy song or a sad song; it all sounds depressing to me.
Music either makes me sad or sentimental but never happy.

The happier the song often, the sadder I become.
Because it’s a sound so cut off from anything I’ve ever felt, it sounds to me like delusion and desperation rather than happy and fun times.
Happy songs seem like tears should always mark their endings.

Because that’s what music is to me, it’s audio wallpaper over changes.
I blame TV and films for this. You know those scenes where two characters say their goodbyes for the last time, and then the music plays as the camera shows one of them walking away, getting further and further away as the credits start to scroll over the screen.

Or the music plays as someone has an epiphany that will be good in the long run, but at that moment it’s tinged with sadness, goodbyes, change.

Music is a vehicle for emotion; it moves it through you, emphasizes feelings you already had but weren’t necessarily aware of.
For me, music is a chariot for my sadness, something I listen to when I need my sadness to have sound.

But otherwise, music is too overwhelming because my feelings even in the silence are already too much.
To put music on for me is like going full throttle, no breaks.
Speeding to the inevitable crash.

A poem about and owl and a cat….

The owl and the Pussy Cat by Edward Lear

Sometimes I struggle reading other peoples poetry because they’re often full of metaphors only known to the writer.


I can write my own metaphors for things till I’m blue in the face, but understanding other peoples metaphors? That’s a struggle and is one of the reasons why I don’t really tend to read poetry books.

But this is a silly poem and no real metaphor, as far as I can tell can be found. It’s just a simple silly, unrealistic poem.

Time gone by

An explosion of thought
Ideas tunnelling
Early birds collecting the words
Beaks snapping
Butterflies smashing
Mammals cracking
A whirlpool of dreams
Steaming from teacups
Of time gone by
All a reflection
In a dinosaurs eye

All of this streamed by
A river
In my minds eye
A flicker
A flash
A kingfisher
A silhouette
A shadow
A stick figure

A wood preserved
In a prism
A lens
Capturing
Natures gems

Upturned umbrellas
Collecting confessions
Handles up toward the sky
In accusation
Of time
gone by




I blame myself.

It’s not secret on this blog that Depression takes me over a lot.

That my depression is a chronic reoccurring nightmare that not only tires me, but the people around me too.

Perhaps last year and still through to this year one major reason for such severe blips lately is the delayed impact of losing my best friend in January 2020 .

Yes she was ‘only a little budgie’ but she wasn’t ‘only a little budgie’ to me.

It didn’t help that I didn’t lose her in the usual way either. I lost her due to my own mistake, and that is something I find very hard to live with.

As it is I’m already a person prone to guilt, never mind a mistake where a little innocent life was ruined, or ended because of a mistake I made in the first place.

I had a dream last night that she came back home and then I lost he all over again, and throughout the whole dream I just kept hearing her calls but yet never finding where the calls were coming from.
And I’ve done that in real life too. I’ve heard calls I thought were her.
I’ve sat in the bathroom brushing my teeth and heard a call that sounded like it was coming from behind the extractor fan grid.
I’ve heard calls when walking out into the corridor from my flat.
I’ve heard calls I thought sounded like her when outside but it was probably just another bird that sounded a bit like her. Or maybe she sounded like them.

I see feathers from different birds that have been either moulted or stripped off from a predator and I always stop in my tracks and look more closely, looking for her blue colour in the feather.
Sometimes I see the blue colour and then I look around and say, ‘Charlie?’ As if the feather is hers and she’s somewhere close by.

But she’s never there. She’s never here.

Sometimes I look down at a feather for a bit too long, in the way of someone trying to get past me while keeping a distance.
I look and look, and look some more till I convince myself I see blue, her blue. And it’s hers.
But it isn’t.

Sometimes I look at the feather, look around and then say aloud, ‘I’m sorry, Charlie.’

It might have been a mistake, but I still blame myself.

It might not have been purposeful, but I still blame myself.

And I don’t know if there will ever come a time I won’t blame myself.

I have a budgie I ended up rescuing, he has learnt some funny phrases. And it makes me laugh.


But I still

Blame

Myself.