Friday, 13 January 2012

Lying on my Death Bed: Still Chasing

As the glistening sunlight broke the seal to my eyelids, memories faded from my obscurity. I had lied, cheated and killed to be where I am. All of the above would be acceptable had I had something to show for myself. I had never lived in the same area for more than 16 months, since leaving home at the age of 15. Brixton, Cosham, Boscombe: none of those will fill your mind with positive thoughts no doubt. I just couldn’t stay grounded, in a literal sense I was always on the run from something or someone.

As my sight started to catch up with my thoughts, I felt unsure as to what I’d achieved by getting here. I was in the depths of Cornwall (some 100 miles off the city). Amongst my failed attempts and my successful triumphs there is always a path, I’m sure my yellow-brick-road which was intentionally planned for Hollywood became a little mis-led.

I wasn’t one for complaints for the challenge of a chase is much more exhilarating. It’s the way to keep alive. Creativity is my way forward, but it brings me only closer to solidarity. I’m currently termed as homeless, it has not always been this way, but I couldn’t keep squatting. The outside held much more promise.

As I re-remember my awakening thoughts I realise that I have mis-guided you, for I have never killed in the physical term. Though I’m sure emotionally will always feel worse, as the recipient carries on living through it. Lying on my death bed, realising I’d challenged myself inexplicably by chasing the silenced desires of my childhood. They’d never been louder than now however, as the chase caught up with the challenge and the sun was becoming the moon.

A contrast of Catastrophe

The stage embraced the presence. The audience received the sight. The lights sucked the life of melancholy but with every step he took, my heart was walking away with him. His best moments filled my eyes with tears, his arising smile, the start of my instant sadness. A contrast of catastrophe! As the music rang, my mind spiralled on a life of its own. I remembered the first chord, the first rhythm, the first composition. I remembered the first drive, the first fan, the first CD. After the firsts, well, life sped up, I became a mimic. It’s hard to be an individual when you’re feeling forgotten. I’m sure he still cared. Gifts were sent regularly, worth more money than my hands ever had grasped before.

Sometimes I understand that I may be perceived as selfish but believe me it’s all wrapped in love. This division of emotion usually gets the better of me, I guess I’m trying to make a point here, that the Beatles got it right. I am proud, don’t fail to believe that, however every now and then I become nostalgic. I’m content for his life though I’d give up almost anything just to have an occasional relationship with my son. A relationship that doesn’t include his rise to fame, success, Hollywood friends or multi-platinum discs! I long for the time when life wasn’t so simple.

Friday, 6 January 2012

Home is What you call it (First draft)

Home is what you call it,
Torture - it is my slave,
I’m growing tired of living,

Each day closer to my grave,
The remarkable and the witty,
They’re a-crossing the seas,

Exploring something extraordinary,
While I’m here on my knees,
Life is downright depressing,

Though your trade is upright oppressing,
Though the spires and spectres will gather their heir,
And the gathering that dilutes will be in your lair,
I may sound sad and lonely,
And the truth I guess is I am,
But I’d rather be the only
Than compress and be a phony,

Diplomacy is not needed,
Unconditionally I love you too,
The lies are spreading through mouths
And the liar hums a tune,

For I’m not really bitter,
I’m just swallowing my tongue,
If we were out this country,
We’d be smiling under this gun.

Life is downright depressing,
And your smile is slightly stressing,
Here the rich and poor gather for everything
And their gathering comes to absolutely nothing,
I know these were elections,
And truly I missed the point,
The point of my interaction,
Was to admit to my confession.

My cosmic ocean is running dry,
Your voice only a memory,
Memories are lonely at best,
Nothing lasts forever, stars also die

Home is what they call it, Home is what you make it.