prisoners in our own heads
knowing the holes you can fall down
knowing how society works
yet you can’t curb your own anxiety
you can diagnose yourself
give yourself prescriptions
but you can also disregard everything
because that’s what you tend to do
staring down at your mess
like a drunk stares into the galaxy of their vomit
laughing along with it
millions of people lost in their mirrors
convincing themselves they aren’t crazy
not realising how normal they are
pretending everything they say is what they mean
in a darkened building
she is behind a counter
there is a long line of shadows
waiting on her
filling the space with decaying breath
she feels around for a screen
or a till stashed full of money
nothing is switched on
she is helpless
but the shadows refuse to leave
with their yellowing nails
clutching this and that
a lot of time has past
the urgency makes her teeth grind
they only care for themselves
she lies on the floor in desperation
they can not see her there
she knows it is childish
she is tired of being gawked at
despite the feeling that she is in trouble
it is a relief
unusually soft too
a body grabs her
she sits up
sticks her hand out
on to her bedside table
the counter seems to vanish
with the realisation
that her partner is embracing her
in their double bed
far removed from registers
her heart beat slows
she is in her favourite place
it feels like the shadows linger
in an unending cycle
The kids are screaming next door.
I’m sorry, they’re really laughing.
The sound is a bell toll.
They scream when they mean to laugh.
The joy just bursts out of their tiny lungs.
While I laugh when I mean to scream.
Containment being a product of my age.
Are they playing chase or racing down the driveway?
With bare feet or shoes?
I only wonder because…
Little running feet and grow into big running feet.
They take off across the world.
Discarded child shoes half buried in the sand pit.
I see them all the time but I’ve never seen the wearer.
There’s a point when the screaming stops.
Or, more so, shifts.
The kids were screaming next door.
Now I’m not sure.
I’m at my happiest when I’m sleeping
Or sitting in a moving car
Going places without thought
I’m almost 21 years old.
Today I was working in a deli and now smell of ham.
My ultimate goal is to one day publish a novel.
This blog is to encourage myself to generate more writing, particularly poetry.
I would also like the contribution of others. Please tell me what you think. Critical feedback is definitely welcome.
Seriously, this ham smell is intense.
One of my Creative Writing tutors told me that the percentage of writers/artists being depressed is incredible high. I’m beginning to understand why intellectuals and artists are this way.
Since I was young, I always wondered why I was at my happiest getting stuck into a Harry Potter book. But in my youth I was still excited for the future, when I would grow up myself and go on adventures of my own, just like Frodo and Bilbo did. Yet, now I have grown more I lack this enthusiasm for the future. The real world doesn’t have a concise ending. The hero doesn’t win and live happily ever after.
The world isn’t full of evil like described in books. Not pure evil derived from a ‘hell’ or dark magic. People become evil through the way they grow; their environment and influences. There is no such thing as pure evil. People, no matter who they are, are shades of good and bad.
In a way, it is worse than the fictional worlds. You don’t know who the villains are. People aren’t all fighting for freedom or love, money has a stronghold over humanity and it is harming the rest of the world.
The world is random, made of bits of coincidences that have formed into a mutated state of being. It doesn’t follow a narrative structure where everything ends in closure. You can live your whole life and never find that closure.
This is why artists can be the saddest people in the world, because they are constantly trying to escape it. I want to live in the Shire, go to the Green Dragon for a pint and see Gandalf’s fireworks. I don’t want to work for a pile of money that secures me a comfortable position in a nursing home. Reality is too full of disappointments and uncertainties.
This was a great article about Tolkien’s books and what they were to a sub-culture of people in the 60’s and 70’s. I think the books continue to offer this to people. The Shire is a utopia we can never achieve, but can’t help but dream of.
I’m going to New Zealand soon, and hopefully will visit the place where the Peter Jackson filmed The Shire. It will be beautiful and will fuel my imagination, but it will still be me reaching for a different reality.
The best we can do is find happiness.