Vicious little Worm.

There is a viscous little worm inside his head.

Nipping at his consciousness every waking moment.

He’s more bad tempered that a lion that’s not fed.

On self destruction he is bent.

He is sick of being used

Always wants to help, that’s great.

But just ends up feeling abused

When what he does, no one seems to appreciate.

She gets it in the ear

When he is asked to help

The outcome is something for her to fear

She is sick of the cards she has been dealt.

So what can be done

To rectify the situation

In her life there’s just no fun

It’s a case of gloom saturation.

In the end he pushes everyone away

He needs to feel his worth

That’s really her reason to stay

Of selfconfidence he has a dearth.

One-Liner Wednesday. 10/6/19

This is part of LindaGHill’s #1linerWeds

There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.
Laurell K. Hamilton, Mistral’s Kiss (Merry Gentry, #5)

He is out in the garden.

He is out in the garden with the secateurs again

The flowers are looking nervous and praying for rain.

The airing cupboard is wearing a smile

He’s is busy elsewhere so it has peace for a while.

We need to eat, it must be time for dinner.

No but we have pie and custard, always a winner.

Who is this woman, what is her name

It is my sister I have told you again and again

The gentleman is nice but why is he here

He is my sister’s hubby my dear.

Oh!You are busy, too busy to call?

Yes I’m okay I just cope with it all.

Thing is I am tired and really stressed

I’m at the end of my tether but doing my best.

He is out in the garden with the secateurs again

The flowers are looking nervous and praying for rain.

I am so lonely, with no conversation

I need some company for self-preservation.

*********

I wrote this poem about Altzhimers after a telephone conversation with my sister this morning.

Drowning.

Drowning

Cold

Can’t breath

Lungs bursting

Pain exploding

Out of time and breath

Drowning I sink deeper

Darker ever the light recedes

I am trapped hopelessly in weeds

Held fast I silently breath my last

So sad, there’s nothing to flash before me.

A

Wasted

Pointless life

No one will miss

I leave not a mark

Unseen, unheard, undone

Wasted years lost on cold hearts

No songs for me, I was not free

Unloved, uncared for, useless, wasted

Lost from the beginning I could not see.

Trapped Soul

composing-2391033_1280.jpg

For years it fought against it’s tether

Yet the harder it fought the more it would wither.

It  caused itself so much pain,

Yearning for a freedom it never could gain.

Finally exhausted it decided one day

To no longer try to break away.

It decided that it should be what it should be.

So the soul stopped fighting, relaxed. Immediately it was set free.

mist-at-sunrise.jpg

Top picture from Pixabay, the second is mine .

Healer Willow Twirls

I wrote  this  little  ditty back in  2013. I was in a  bad place  ….it’s  so strange looking  back on  your  early  work. It obvious I  did not like myself very much  then.

Healer willow Twirls

 Whitewalls roll and swirl as willow heals

Will she ever escape from how it is, that others feel.

Lashes, slashes and wheals she hides them all from view

The stairwell whore  throws out swill she knows what to do.

Whitewalls  roll and swirl as willow heals

In the stairwell  the whore swills away her skills.

Wishing things better, never, never makes things so

willow is a healer, but she cannot heal willow

Whitewalls  roll and swirl as willow heals

Ills twirl  and swirl and woes beset the healer

Weeping  softly in the stairwell no one cares how the whore  feels

Sills  and trills the drowning healer willow the whore of the stairwell.

Cry for Help.

Cry For Help.

Help she screamed I cannot cope

No one turned no one spoke

Help he pleaded I am depressed

No one listened or her pain redressed

Help she begged I can’t go on

No one heard above their lala song

Help someone it hurts me so

No one bothered, as she swam against the flow

Help she whispers as ended her life

No one reached out to save her from strife

She said no more, she had died

No one noticed no one cried.

A poem of two sides.

Today it’s a poem of two sides. All I did was change two words for one in the top line and three words in the bottom line. What a difference that made.

A poem of two sides.

I put on my crown of thorn

And vow no more to mourn

The passing of my days

Lost in depression’s maze

New resolutions I will make

To smile and cope

Pretending it’s not fake

Farewell to joy farewell to hope.

***********

Remove my crown of thorn

And vow no more to mourn

The passing of my days

Lost in depression’s maze

New resolutions I will make

To smile and cope

Pretending it’s not fake

Farewell sadness welcome hope.

Bright young Men

We sent them off to war,

These bright young men

We had no knowledge of what they saw,

They came home bright young men no more .

Yes though brave they were no longer whole

Those that survived had no soul.

Many died,the lucky ones, death to them was kind.

Those who returned were faded in body and in mind.

Their loved ones at first relieved

Soon found they had much cause to grieve.

Though there, in body broken,

Their fears left unspoken

Their minds were left behind.

They went out whole, these bright young things.

They returned lost, holding on by gossimar strings

Taplow Court

They went full of pride for God and King

They ran head long into hell

On return they could not relinquish it’s bad spell.

So we had a nation of half men, half ghosts

Fearful, their heads still had them at their posts.

The trenches and the blasts of bombs, the smell of death

Clung to them and bled them dry, the whole in body, the blind of eye

The amputee, it was as if they had never left.

We sent them off to war,

These bright young men

We had no knowledge of what they saw,

They returned bright young men no more.

SONY DSC

Paintings by William Rothenstein.

September Music 12

For the month of September I am going to choose a piece of music or song and write a poem or alternative version. Jane Dougherty is doing a September Stanza here. And Kat Myrman is doing September a poem a day Here.

Today’s piece of music is, The Devil’s Trill by Vannessa Mae.

My interpretation.

Frightened and alone I retreat into my shell

I am afraid that the black is returning. I am descending into hell.

The zip is returning to my mouth slowly but surely closing.

The nothingness, is crawling into my soul leaving it frozen .

The silence is already here it screams above the noise

I go about my everyday wearing a smile not to loosing my poise.

It is easier to give into the waves of black.

Than it is to fight the demons throwing knives at my back.

I see it moving in, closing down the horizon, blurring out all hope

No escape, no appeal the relentlessness. I hold out no hope.

The snipes and the jibes are ever present now

The condemnation and the shame is making my back bow.

Claws and talons scratch at me they leave their bloody marks

On my arms and on my back . I hear it screaming in my head as at me it barks!

“Usless you are useles, lazy and stupid , good for nothing a waste of space.”

It is easier to give in now than to fight as once again I fall from grace.

Lost I reach for the bitter pill

No hope left I hear the Devil’s Trill.

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