SeaOfThoughts

These street lights won't last forever. This reflection won't last forever. These trees won't last forever. This window won't last forever. These words won't last. This sound won't last. Language won't last. I won't. you won't. live. .

I have been in a state of decline. My mind framed, opened and caged. Perceiving every possible corner. Seeing shadows instead of visions. Chained to empty spaces. Obsessed with progress – Though hypocrisy shows my stasis. Move me. Beyond imagery. Imaginary lines. Lie beneath me. I don’t belong here. I want to know something aside from knowing I know nothing. Show me walls – and I will see a canvas. Show me walls – and I will see restrictions. Show me walls – and I will see freedom.                Ironies are use

They talk amongst themselves. They seem almost comfortable in their own skin - In suits and skirts - looking forward to tropical vacations and office affairs. Lovers need to make a living I suppose. I can almost see their bank accounts written on their face. She smiles: she has a few dollars. He frowns: he has not a dime. They rush: they want a raise. Walking quickly deserves a promotion these days. Security is needed in these parts. On this floor. We need to protect what we hold so very dear: Cubicles and computer screens with useful information promoting equality to the equally discriminated against designated groups and sexes. Yes.......w

Faces seem further – voices are blurred together forming a foreign language – undecipherable – unlearnt – They are further from me – rising, rising – quiet at the command of the man seated and recorded to be replayed for later eyes and ears. Listen, Listen. Focus is needed. Rest. Breaks are given to put restless minds at ease. – Attention spans are tested – Half drowned in the words of authors – Half stress stricken with words like “dates and deadlines” – Low mumbles take form. – I have no desire to be listened to – remain silent – they care not for silence, only for

From where I stand, the low trembling of a marching people is heard. Forget any quest for purpose on city streets – cobblestones and cement a canvas for scattered bodies – each having their own narrative, combined in an Anthology of progression. A Peaceful Protest. Your broken politics cannot mend the wrinkles forced unto loose-leaf – it can merely contemplate the damage done and act according to convention. We have our limits. We have let the Ages rot on thin lines of ignorance; written by the blood-stained hands of the victor – Perceptions and perspectives held irrelevant, then formed into paperback and hardco

It will be months before the veil is lifted.   Ships set sail in early mornings. Pages written in the process. Looking deeper. Finding fragments. crumbled papyrus. Blinds may be blinding – for the seekers Who wish to see distant horizons Through half frozen window-sills, Still hoping for time to decay. Buried under sand, words become artifacts – half-sustained. Finding uncertainty is a terrible thought. Positions force the blood to flow, through the legs. Stay calm. down the arm. Breathe. epiphanies come quick. Panic. The spine holds.   Exotic words with Latin origins, Written neatly for

We are the literary leftovers. We are the inspired unable to inspire. We turn corners with our heads down, looking at the same earth You buried us within. We see the sights as subtle glimpses of an ideal world. We inhale our muse, exhale imagination on thin lines nobody understands. Our purpose is paper thin a poet once wrote, then he died from starvation.   We are the unpublished, unpolished, unsung heroes of underachievement. We storm the streets with swords and pens, with words at our disposal – a quiet defence. We cannot stand the sound of our own voices, so we are the voiceless interpreters – the blank pages

Love-loss leaping boundaries beyond the human condition, Repeat words, like rhetoric, without repeating the word repetition. Strangle-hold holding on for the last ounce of breath, Breathing life into the living wherever there is death. Custom-made democracy tailored to fit luxury, Growing crops of dust without planting any seeds. There is a primitive progression forming in the hearts of men, Reaching further in the back of minds, and not looking ahead. We lay awake thinking on these nights. They find purpose behind bullets and bent swords, The children are sick of crying, the sick are crying because they’re poor. There is ro

You pull on me with silver threads, Hands tied from behind, With silk stains on my chest. These are no chains, yet I’m a prisoner. Isolated for committing no crime, Submerged in ice, frozen thinking, Tortured until I free the mind. Turning to dust is a dream I once had, So I imagine jumping off rooftops, To land on linen sheets where you once wore silk. We maintain the warmth, concealing it within layers of flesh, With heated leather cushions and blankets of wool. We cover every inch, of every limb, While the barriers we created start swallowing us whole. I force materials out of my mind until pieces of cloth close in on