A delay is a delay, But a delay is not an end. An end is an end, But an end is not a delay. A delay can progress, An end is complete, The mind can progress, And life is complete. It's time to stop the delay, Allow the mind to progress. It's time to end the struggle, Allow my life to feel complete. It's time to fix the delay, It's time to be fixed.
My Darling,
Please don't hate me,
Blame my mind, not me,
I want life, please,
My emotions don't understand.
My Love,
Don't listen to the past,
I know I nearly broke the promise,
But not this time.
I won't break the skin.
My Darling,
As empty as I feel,
I won't, I couldn't, I can't,
No matter how much,
I want to see you again.
My Love,
It dances in my mind,
Now and again. But no!
Not a blade, or a pill,
Not a jump, or a rope.
My Darling,
I won't leave here early,
I'll let you collect me,
When my time is right,
To return to your arms.
My Love,
But I want to so badly,
Please don't hate me,
It's just a desire,
I'll fend it off.
My Darling,
I won't do it,
I'll keep the promise,
I'll wait.
Don't hate me.
If only I understood, Then I could understand, That which ought to be known. If only.
It was meant to be breakfast, To kill the hangover, fix us up. Then the happy slap came, A worry, concern, conversed, Inquired, checked, asked, He told me you were low, Images of the ground rising, Swallowing you whole, Appeared in my mind. Common, but surprising. I know the feeling all too well. The freight train hit. Your pain, in all its mental manifestations, Dreams, longing for more, For a physical affliction. An emptiness formed inside me, Guilt encapsulated me, held me, That moment, I heard enough, The detonator had been pulled, You are too important, Too vital to this world.
It had to be said, No more lies, or stories, No more running away. It just had to be said. Or it never would, The explosion would have killed, Crucified, murdered, burned, The last aspects of ourselves. It had to be said, No more pretending, No more faking everything, It had to be said. Or we'd never know. If we'd have been free, To fell, to love, to cherish, Anything ever again. It had to be said, No more secrets, No more twisting the truth, It had to be said. Or I would have been dragged. Pulled away from me, The remnants left behind, contorted and burned. It had to be said, No more sleepless nights, No more pointless arguments, It had to be said. Or I will be the guilty party. I will be the one who lied, I'd have been the one who hurt, Who burned everything in your eyes. It had to be said, No more silence, or quiet, No more deceit. It. Had. To. Be. Said. Or I'd be someone I can't be. I'd want what I can't have, I'd love what isn't mine, But not what is. It had to be said, No more tears, They'll dry, No more hating, hurting. It had to be said.
Baby steps, What a contorted phrase, A strange way of putting things, It's twisted, messed up, Weird. Why when you take things slowly Do you take baby steps? Babies don't walk, They have nowhere to go, Everything is brought to them, Everything is handed, gifted, given. When you take baby steps, It's never just handed to you. It's never just gifted. It's never just given. What a stupid phrase.
Sat on another train, Going to a go between station, A place I've no meaning to visit, Yet my hand is forced. My ticket dictates the destination, I pay the fare once, To sit upon two trains, And wait between a Fifth or sixth of an hour. This dead time, I detest, I must pay the luxury of it. Sat inside the metal box, I pass through the wind tunnel, Sometimes it is painted, With leaves and berries, Other times with red bricks. Either way, the noise: inescapable. The engines growl without clarity, A murmured noise only the tracks, With heir incomprehensible gabble, Can claim to understand. The two communicate loudly, Exchanging indifferent noises. One can only assume That they are battling vocally. There is nothing melodic about trains, Their speed far too varied, By the time the metronome Is able to match its tempo, The engine slurs to legato. Should one ride by an open window, You'll hear the violins of the rail orchestra, Screaming in protest. Much like an athletes muscles, Right after vigorous training. Unpleasant to say the least. To try and sit still - impossible, One is thrown like a rag doll. To and fro, as though a puppet. I often wonder if that's why, Does this franchise see us as puppets? Is that why ticket prices yo-yo? To pull our wallet strings, And make us dig into our pockets? Timetables are manipulated, To prevent us demanding refunds, Which their policies deny anyway. They cram us in like sardines, Airtight seals, it preserves our freshness. If one reserves a seat today, They have paid for the luxury, That exclusive chance, To engage in an altercation. The man in your seat, He also paid his fare, He too deserves a seat. The journey of hours and more, Dictates he should be seated For at least six sevenths of it. But you paid for that argument, Fooled into believing your set is guaranteed.
Walking, slowly, softly, quietly. Alone, at peace, content. I, myself, me. Feel, acknowledge, notice, sense. A, just once, solitary, Pull, tug, drag. Dark, cruel, painful. And, especially, definitely, Not, isn't, can't be. Safe, clear, true.
The water is rising, It was at my ankles, I could cope, even at my knees, I could cope. Now it's by my neck. The temperature, not hot, Not cold, not neither. It's the grasp. Firm. The push. Heavy. I can't cope. Not this high, Not when I can't breathe, Not when I can't shout, I can't call out. The paralysis starts. At first it's just numb. It feels weird to move. But I can do it. It increases, debilitates, holds back. First my head won't lift, Then my legs curl up. Then Freeze. My core feels empty. My arms wrap around me, Embraced and unmoved. I can't move, my will has gone. My eyes shut, still. The hatred boils, At no-one outside, Directed only inside, Every word I say, wrong, Every breath, too loud, Every tear, pathetic, Every ounce of pain, deserved. No happiness owed, Just hatred to the self.
Every word is venom, Nothing Pleasant, Just a hiss, a seething, Everything good decays, Your presence burns it alive, Rips the flesh from every piece of bone, Taking any aspect of soul, Only a carcass left. The vile nature, The putrid lies, All inhabit you to the very core, boiling and bubbling away. A cadaver before you, yet, Nothing but a laugh, a smile, Are you proud? Is it really just pride? Are you so demented, twisted, disturbed, hateful? In fact, I know, You embody everything that holds spite within its name, not because it embodies you, No, you embrace it. You welcome it. You encourage it to be. You sit so smugly, Killing everything that lays there, mutilating everything sweet, Until the sour you place within it burns like acid on the skin. Well, F*CK YOU! You can burn this world, Take it with your venom, Slow its beating heart, To match the stand still of your own. If you have a heart. The callous words your tongue tries to meld into the calling of the trees and the cold wind, Shows your inhumanity.
The Poet Armistead 