What storms do

I tell myself
You’re just a tornado
Passing through
Nothing to be angry at
You’re just doing what storms do
Just step outside when you’re through
The wreckage is only natural
Like water damage from a flood
It’s part of the cycle
Sometimes you’re just a little whirlwind
Other days you’re a cyclone
You don’t care you’re in the zone
You think you’ve got my cover blown
Think you’ve got me dethroned
Uncloaked
But I was never hiding
Nor do I have any power to abdicate
But you keep pointing your finger
Never looking in the mirror

I tell myself
You’re just a tornado
passing through
You’re just doing what storms do….

I hate myself

I disturb me. I’m tired of life and death, I’m tired of me. I’m tired of other people and their baggage, their emotions, their problems, their excuses. I’m tired of what I go through not being worthy of the pain I feel. It makes me feel pathetic, I hate when I see someone with genuine suffering and all I can think is “I have all this pain inside, and my reasons aren’t worthy of the pain I feel. My pain is not worthy yet I feel it because I’m pathetic” I feel like a clown with those endless handkerchiefs, I have endless pain. A deep harrowing hole that can’t be emptied, that can’t be fulfilled. It can’t be either because it’s nothing and it’s everything.

What I really want to do is, cut myself off from the world, allow myself to mourn life and take a painless exit.

 

Blow by blow

Shadows
Under red glow
outside thunder
No one knows
the sordid details
of us in the throes
Bodies colliding
No heroes

under red glow
Shadows moving
But they don’t know
This feeling
Blow by blow
©Silverbackgorillapoetry 2016 June

No picture for this one, you be the judge on what this one is about.

In fact no more pictures for my poetry, the words shall speak for themselves from here. If that means less people pay attention, so fucking be it.

I’ve got my favourite t-shirt on

I’ve got my favourite t-shirt on
Wearing my sunglasses
Leaning against the wall
Listening to that northern drawl
Some of them recognise my face
A little stunned
As I seem to be changing at a fast pace
But then they remember
They haven’t seen me in a while
For a while they thought maybe I’d left
This little place
But now they see me and wonder
Where has he been?
He’s one of them lads from that special facility
Ya can tell something aint right with him
Wonder what it is
They say to their wives and husbands
When they return home with Buster
The conversation soon forgotten
As am I, till they see me again
Just dawdling on by