Like burning Charcoal
Being drowned to black again
Like seeing darkness
Swallow all life around
It’s like being awake
When sleep takes over
But most of all (and over all)
It’s like the music playing
Over mourning heads further down the road
It’s about playing football in the sand
And sitting squashed in bumper cars
Or just about playing a thousand new roles
In a plastic-strewn landscape.
It’s mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters
And having children on our knees.
Everything is chaos.
Battering winds, flying debris,
Blood, bruises, lightning
Deafening crashes – …….
Respite. A few seconds
In the eye of the storm, I stand
And brace my soul for the next
Wave – immerged, submerged, drowning.
And so the cycles waltz along
As I stagger looking for shelter
In any shape or form,
Pure, distilled, strange or familiar (mixted or dry).
Until I’m caught – softly softly
Brought to see the calm & charm
Of these here shores, our own.
There’s a half-moon stain
Deep dry red on the table.
In another room a glass
And the unmade bed staring, empty.
Echos. All that’s left
Of wine, and chills, and new ways
To fix my wavering will,
Gather the screaming winds
And be still.
What a strange, warped world, where knowing better is just not the way. Being stupid and slow will save you, being sharp and aware just damn you. Whatever protocols keep these walls standing are built from absurdities and flimsy “certitudes”. Where is the wholsesome place we need? We bruised souls unfit for combat. They herd us in, lock the gate and think we’ll heal. Now why do they believe that cut off from life is how to deal? These brutish beds, yellow walls, airless windows…is that the answer? Rather than my cocoon, painstakingly built, feather by feather, plush by plush. That’s where I need to be.
The whole world
Is on its head
Pupils taking care
Of teachers’ kids
The sick taking care
Of the young and free
To keep me from the lake
Is cruel torture.
To see it glisten from afar
Watch its waves beckon,
Waver in the weak winter sun
Is it necessary?
Leaving me to sing songs
Behind fast glass
Is making my soul weary.
Time scales superimposed.
These same four walls
Contain an impossible vision –
This should never have happened,
Could never have occured.
The universe is warped, twisted
Glimpses of my self in times,
Ages, galaxies long past.
Yet watch me revel
In the bliss of a stolen life
Stood on tiptoes, leaning in.
Is it me? actions repeated,
Words I said, moves I made.
But them! They’re different
Shape-shifting beings.
Better watch my back.
My name is Lila. I am Lila. I am she, she is me.
I am a writer, a reader. I am a listener, and a sharer. I collect things, and want to be better. I am a learner, a lover of things, a hoper.
There is a sadness in my heart, I am Melancholy. I am the mind stuck in the past, the overthinker, the forever in love.
Sometimes I paint my nails, and then I let them chip. I wear tight dresses, or give up and let it all go. I want to seduce, but still, always, be one of the boys.
I am Lila. Play of the gods. An entity of pleasure, something of a higher nature.
I’ll tell you my story, and speak it again. Everytime, I am more me, closer to truth, somewhere on this journey.
My name is Lila, I am she, she is me.
And now I’m 25.
The sun rises through mists onto the land I was born.
And this I see through psych ward windows.
Wield Words - Build Worlds 