Carry the storm
In the event the trigger
is pulled
Pick yourself off
you will not quake
in the aftershock
of this shake up
these moments
Are like riding turbulent seas
they pass
till they’re nothing
these seconds
take up the hours
But these mistakes
Don’t mean
You have to scream
writing
The invader
You spin yarns
Like a spider spins its web
We’re just flies
Tangled in your head
Getting under our skin
Trying to invade our humanity
Because you lost yours to your vanity
Wordle: No justice
Facing the worlds brutality
Standing after the scorn
Donning masks of clarity
So it looks like I’m weathering the storm
But these digs
At my sanity
Have let me see
The need for justice
That cannot be born
In(s)ane enquiries that turn into in(s)ane ramblings
Hello, firstly I’d like to compliment your annual publication received by us tenants. It has the kind of smell I enjoy from reading material. May I ask what paper & ink combination you use for such a scent?
I am fully aware not many people will admit to being page sniffing connoisseurs, and so this question may seem strange, but I figured we all gotta live sometimes, right? Some of my friends go skydiving and boring things like that. I suppose if we could combine sniffing books and other reading material with skydiving maybe I’d give it a go. But I presume when falling from such a height and your face is flapping in the wind that the laws of physics would have it so you couldn’t smell much anyway.
As for the building and the flat I live in I have no major complaints. I guess one issue would be a preference for more soundproofing so that the neighbours can’t hear me maniacally laughing and crying simultaneously. All my neighbours roll their eyes at such occurrences in the knowledge I’ve seen myself in the mirror again, I know they roll their eyes because I keep catching them as they roll under my door. I have since put a draft excluder at my door to prevent them getting under, it seems to do the trick. It’s ironic though as if there were a war I still wouldn’t need a draft excluder because I’d be excluded from the draft because of my mental instability anyway.
Yours faithfully
Matt
P.S Please get back to me about the ink & paper combination.
Sunday Wordle: The village
The village swallowed you whole
And you became strangers
To the tribe you used to know
Even the best friends
As you spat on your hands and shook
A promise of brotherhood
Now everything quakes
In the balance
You thought friendship
Was made in stone
Your pride is hard to swallow
When your undoing was your own
Now you’ve a heart shaped hole
Waiting on the beating
Of another
“I will not,”
What is between the words will and not
is it an empty space
where in time you will soon be caught?
Did you protest enough before tying that knot?
Hanging loosely around your neck
In case you forgot
Was the floor beneath their feet an afterthought?
Ash
Your spirits splash
As ash
Washed away by the rain
After rings of smoke
From your lips
Forget their origins
And the stories
that once radiated
Through your limbs
Have snapped
Broken into orchards of bones
Sunday Wordle: Dave
He’s drunk on the sly
He snatches another bite
Too many fermented apples
Don’t tell his wife, she thinks she’s the only apple of his eyes
She don’t know he’s not fit to fly
She’ll have a fit when she finds out
He’ll have spun ‘er a yarn or two
But that’s just like our Dave
The sheer cheek of ‘im
I love ‘im all the same.
Flies
The flies buzz
In this oppressive heat
Not a care for your defeat
Flying above your head
Caring none for the bleak of your heart
They’re flying in the face of dark
Their buzz as if a laugh
Upon you, lying on your back
Trying to be dead
The flies were a glimmer of hope
It was true, you had begun the end
But even death disappoints
At this hour, my friend
Can a man dare to dream
Sit and listen to
The sound of the pitter patter
That abounds
Like constant white noise
Asserting no significant attention
Just the buzz of human relations
Like the wings of a bee
Humming the language of nations
Industrious working of this socialisation
Working its way through the psyche
Of many generations
While clowns look to the clouds
With wisdom in their jest
And hearts of lions pounding in their chest
Perhaps detained
But noticing every freedom
Has it’s own cage
And seeing that maybe
As caged birds flaps their wings
Can a man surely dare to dream?
