Love rises like a sun to give warmth and light,
Feelings start to grow like delicate flowers,
Colours are vivid and unnaturally bright,
In a body so charged with amazing superpowers.
Eyes dance and glow like firefly swarms,
Cheeks ache from smiling for hours unbroken,
Every beat of your heart miraculously warms,
Ailments are cured with words unspoken,
Love is a wonder more devastating than war,
The most dangerous risk offering the biggest reward,
There isn’t a moment you don’t hanker for more,
For time spent in love before your heart was cruelly broken.
Life is a wonder to destroy or build;
Its beauty and shape for all to admire.
In this endeavour we don’t have to be skilled;
All we need is will and a burning desire.
Ignore the urge to cower and bow;
Our job is to build, that is our calling.
There’s no need to train or try to learn how;
The skills are ingrained so we need to stop stalling.
Procrastination, self-doubt and pity,
Tear down walls of our own clumsy making,
Emotions are wrecking balls in a world aready gritty;
A devastating ruin so vast and deflating.
Tools lay discarded, paralysed by rust,
Yet Utopia’s a paradise so easily erected;
When we look into our soul and find self-trust;
Faith and belief are the gateways selected;
Brave the path, it’s your world your shaping;
Temples, roads and neighbourhoods in a personal map;
The world at your feet is now so engaging;
Because life is our own – the world rests in our lap.
The colours of happiness will never appear without a border;
The darkness of sorrow, without which we’d know not joy.
Elation, it seems, is like an obsessive hoarder;
It hangs on to the fragments of life like a child clutches a toy;
Memories shade every section of our lives;
Childhood to present are strokes of a brush;
Every new colour the result of how one strives;
Blocked out with black to symbol death’s eternal hush.
Before the blackout comes a swathe of light;
See colours dance on a canvas of our making,
The dark border is there but rarely captured by sight;
Look at the edges for inner awakening;
We are framed by the dark to make more vibrant the bright.
Redemption leads to rich rewards,
Bestowed too freely to ungrateful hoards;
Good time girls who partied & snorted,
And saw countless babies gleefully aborted;
Bullies who joyfully abused and tormented,
They preyed on the meek & never relented;
Heartbreaking liars who cheated and stole,
Personal gain was always their goal;
All the troubled, selfish & unkind,
Get rewarded in life while the good still grind;
Why does redemption come to all the ungrateful?
Rewards aplenty for all the unfaithful,
Why does retribution ignore the big sinners?
So many in life emerge as clear winners,
But the meek, the bullied, the silent or ignored,
The quietly hurt; those who never roared,
Die as they lived; alone and so lonely,
While fate turned her hand to reward the phoney.
A merry-go-round forever spinning in high gear,
A playground for all to love and to fear,
A new road branches behind every bend,
A devil’s delight or a true God-send?
Instructions and rules are broken and discarded,
The grim reaper stays close though often disregarded,
Angels tread lightly without making a sound;
Silent watchers of the merry-go-round.
Some will jump off, others ride for the duration,
The former labelled ‘weak’, the latter praised for ‘dedication’,
Pace never changes yet each ride is unique,
Scenery swirls past but you can find what you seek,
For open minds have widely opened eyes,
While closed hearts mourn nothing but sad goodbyes.
Longing and yearning, twisting and turning,
Desires and dreams unravel at their seams,
Tears start to sting, no end to the burning,
Heart and mind at war; a lurch and a roar,
Stomach in knots, painfully churning,
Mouth forming words to start a furore.
Explosions inside where emotions reside,
Containment impossible, no place to hide.
Screaming, shouting, spitting, then crying,
Reason and sanity inexplicably dying,
Relief from expression, regret for confession,
When calm soon follows, in creeps depression,
No retraction of hurt, no clock to turn back,
Control and restraint painfully slack,
Self-loathing abundant for all that you lack.
Silence is golden, but rage is gothic black.
Drained, devoured, discarded and bruised;
All of the side-effects of being used.
Weary, bewildered, deeply confused;
The pain continues after you’re used.
Anger, frustration, even bemused;
It makes no difference; you were callously used.
Hatred and self-pity, now strangely fused;
Rage burns hotter after you’re used.
Decorum and pride, not so politely excused;
Self-loathing for weakness: only fools get used?
Thoughts of vengeance – revenge for being abused;
But your energy’s spent from being so used.
A crisis situation that cannot be diffused;
Until you get over feeling so used.
It was while I was walking to the toilet at the back of the aeroplane that it first happened. It sounds crazy, but I swear it was like something or someone had suddenly crept up in the dark and tickled me from behind. I turned around sharply, expecting to find some drunken lech who couldn’t keep his hands to himself but all I could see was a dark, empty aisle, illuminated by a weak set of floor lights. Row upon row of passengers, shrouded in scratchy blue blankets, were either sleeping or yawning their way through the in-flight movie.
I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. I couldn’t breathe. My eyes frantically searched left and right trying desperately to see something that would explain what just happened. I’d walked past ten rows and was only yards away from the washroom when it occurred. To my right, a small child, a little girl no older than three or four, slept soundlessly in her chair, her tiny head leaning against her mother’s shoulder. Underneath her blanket, two fluffy, pink bunny ears stuck out awkwardly. I remembered her from the airport; the exhausted mother had held her daughter tightly all through the four hour delay, trying deperately to rock her into a slumber. The kid – exhausted and irritable – writhed and moaned the entire time, unable to fall asleep in the cold, uncomfortable lounge. I had watched her hurl her cuddly toy – a pink rabbit – onto the floor more than once, from fatigue and frustration. She was practically out cold now; she probably fell asleep the second her mother had settled her onto the flight. There was no way she had reached up to touch me. It wasn’t her. It just couldn’t have been. But, on the other side, to the left, was an empty row of seats.
I hesitantly rubbed my ribs, still feeling the lingering touch of whoever – or whatever – had crossed the line seconds earlier. Feeling scared, I turned and rushed to the toilet cubicle. Once locked inside the cramped, tiny space I finally exhaled and tried to think logically about the terrifying incident.