self

Oceans Four

Forgo, Not Forgotten

I ponder how people see others 
In their reflections peering back
vibrating in frenzied pools.
Perceptions of themselves not
forgot. Forgo forgotten shores,
hands of circles in circles spiralling 
compulsions of self as self defined?
Can they see themselves in the hubris
of humanity?

Understanding another comes
in stillness of self, knowing circles
and patterns definitions as perceived.
Hand in hand – around
and around.                                    ~IW~

This writing thing and stuff

1170 posts pending. 263 drafts.
What do?
Many a word there to find a place for.

 

It is this category thing screwing with me isn’t it?
I cannot recall why I put ALL my fucking posts as pending, though I think it was to try become vaguely more organised in it. That was the original intention of creating a blog over three (four?) years back, to have a place to put the poems and subconscious babble in some sort of coherent album type thing.

Now it is done, I don’t know if I should ‘undone’ it, or republish shit, or move along and let them be.

Though, one thing I DO know is blogging changed me and my relationship with people and the world, more than I imagined it could.
(for better hopefully, though in moments creating misery swinging oft toward elation…ffs. 😉 )

Another three years then?

Another thing –

I started posting some of the poetry on Instagram (It is fun a little, Kinda) :

 

Yes I realise I cropped it like a novice Instagrammer – that would be because I am one.

IW

 

The Nothing, My Everything

I was not strong enough. I could not be what you called me to be.
I am sorry, but also not.
When there is nothing I am happy in a kind of way that does not tear apart my soul and mind.
When there is nothing I can do all the world demands of me to meet the needs of those given to me to care for, as is expected in the way dictated.
When there is nothing I can hide away from the screaming in my head telling me the world is sick to the core and I MUST do my part in healing it. Healing me, them, us.
When there is nothing, I can be nothing, and in that nothing I am exactly that – a being.
Nothing.
Being everything I have to be and nothing of what I cried out for to be for me, for them, for you.
My voice falls silent and I leave the speaking to those who have life left in their bones to grasp hold of truth and live it, curse it, throw it into the abyss of writhing bodies falling over each other in search of gratification and satisfaction within themselves – searching nowhere in nothing for the answer of who they are. They are nothing, like me, numb to the call of the mountain and spring. Waiting for thunder. Waiting for the heavens to open and swallow them into their imagined places. But they sit idly busy not seeking, hearing, nor seeing themselves in the nothing.

Nothing

The nothing is safe – easy.
No fires scorch, no oceans to drown in. No up nor down, no happy or sad.
Nothing exists in solitude. Nothing exists in isolation from itself.
Nothing is the space that joins the universe to itself.
Nothing was there, before there was everything. Yet you call to me and make of me nothing
all this while as I try to be everything for you, just like you.
You are the everything and I the nothing and so it is true that I am and so are you,
nothing and everything as time moves forwards and backwards.

I am there. Turned out. Turned inside to the places before I was.
Now nothing under you in your everything,
I bow in weakness to be strong  in these spaces between gravity,
my ears not waiting for the thunder, my eyes not grasping for the sky to suck me up.
No fire, no ocean, just you – as nothing was before everything came to be.
You are nothing, to me.

IW –

J.S ~ D.O. 11:11,

 

12/05/2017