How Poets routinely tell lies or truth with great "sincerity"
and earnest projections of "poetic charisma" and lashings
of "who me tell lies?".
and yet they routinely avoid truthfulness, in case they forget the  power of lies and truth, in their search for fame.
Mesmerised by its attendant celebrity groupmind and of course its wealth..
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truthfulness
has nothing to do with truth.
Indeed Poets don't want to know that truth
is a lie and a lie is truth,
two sides of a darkened mirror
and both are equally valueless
except  for  seeing false faces in..
Poets bleat on about how the shackleable object of their 'love' ,
she or he, are not theirs to own
or categorise or monopolise.
yet they keep on expecting full submission
and just getting an empty back,
and a disappearing set of footprints.
Like the sheep and goats that Poets are,
they bleat on endlessly
about their wants their wants  their wants.
They want fame as Poets--disguised as distribution deals.
They want contracts to produce garbage for HallMark--as if..
They want **** licking critical acclaim--from **** licking critics.
They want international poetry prizes from aesthetic morons--
wearing Armani suits.
They want Groupies--but not *******.
They want Media eulogies--but not truthfulness.
Always are they  deliberately forgetting that
"you cant always get what you want".
The last thing that Poets want is what they need most of all.
They really need
An end to the narcissism of those
that want to be called "poet"--in your dreams.
An end to the juvenile arrogance that motivates them to put up strings
of meaningless associated words
and vainly call them poems.
An end to childish immaturity, and inchoate meandering
through other peoples words and experiences, stealing others lives
and characters.
Always incessantly pretending that because
they can read the words of others
that they have also shared their experiences--indeed their experience was deeper wider higher.
In another day and age of non-violent sensibility  
these kind of Poets would
be called thieves and liars.
In this day and  age they scribble emotional garbage
and pretend its "poetry"--encouraged by intellectual follies.
As poets they have become walking proto cash registers.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin Verguensa.
Sin is Spanish for without.
Poets are  SIN integrity.
Poets are SIN Truthfulness.
Poets are SIN decency.
Poets are SIN.
Im so glad I could never be mistaken for a  Poet.
Wouldnt want to be mistaken as a poet.

It is only when you realise,
As you sit in the far corner of the room,
that they are all so far away from you.
So
Distant.
Laughing amongst themselves
In a joke you clearly don’t understand.
Alienated from the throws of conversation
And the formalities of friendship.
You daren’t say a word for the silence that will follow.
A dragging
Periodic
Calculating
Silence.
So you sit, content with your space
In need of something you cannot categorise.
They’re all just
So
Distant.
If the physical space weren’t enough,
Your individuality will seal the deal.
So
Distant.

From the prelude it had
my undivided attention.
Cup of coffee in hand
I commenced reading
the tale: "My Life"

The intriguing twists,
the plausable comebacks.
"I" seem to simply bounce back
no matter the size of the
curveball life has in store.

Filled with mystery, drama,
action, comedy and romance,
it's hard for any critic
to categorise, to pinpoint
a suitable genre.

I have barely just begun,
and am truly looking forward
to discovering the
adventures that are
yet to be documented.

And one day, this
manuscript will be published.
Unedited, of course, as
editing will cause it
to lose its impact.

The purpose of this life . . .

My god, you've finally done it.
I'm lost for words.
Me! Lost for words!

Words have always been my friends,
My tools,
Working for me when they would work for no one else.
I'd pluck perfect prose out of the air before me
Words curling luxuriously like cats around my writing hand
They seemed standoffish to others
But I was the Cat-whisperer of creative composition
My magic was language
I have personified pain
Allegorised anger
Sensationalised sadness
But when it comes to your love
I must use the words of another
For I cannot heave my heart into my mouth.

Why?
I want to give you the gift of my words,
For they are the only thing I have left to give,
My heart was always yours, even before we knew
How well we fit.

When talking on any other subject
I find it hard to stop
But when it comes to you,
My silver tongue turns to lead
Because you are the one thing I cannot articulate
How can I explain that when I look up to the sky I search for the colour of your eyes but I can never find it
That falling in love with you was like falling in love with a sunset
That the way you look at me feels as if, for the first time, I am a girl worth writing a story about.

People have put these sentiments into much better words than I ever could
And I love you always seemed enough before
But how can that crescendo of emotion I feel-
And the constant gentle waves that lap the seashores of my mind,
For what is love if only felt in passion not in anger-
Be summarised in three short words?

You know me.
I like to compartmentalise,
Categorise,
Have a name and a meaning for everything I do,
A consolation prize from society-
Sure you're weird, but others are too,
From my sexuality to my star sign
My life is neatly noted
With post its and labels
An explanation for everything
An Oxford dictionary definition for anyone who sticks around long enough to care
I like to pretend I don't do it
But I do.

You were the first person to make me realise:
There are some things
Beyond language.

whether it matters anymore to look to look
to count who of us is fuller of night does  
sensibility disappear every time it appears

i have been called upon more than once and understand
that the most poignant statues of Pygmalion are
built on misery and

how much more can my feet disappear in insomnia
through my imagination's door a myriad of beautiful things are hidden that make me cry i am so touched

how much distance is needed between
three decaf days to
still feel it feel it

i decapitate my presence
my existence leads its own life: with a curious
personality a somehow experiencing courtesy

ergo my inner landscape: conversations between an
infinite essayist and a
grounded grounded devilish being

i categorise everything like
the sound of nails and crystal chalice and angel voices stray in a
circle of dirt and head on my chest

good morning to all in your lines
lick your fingers clean fiercely let me
remark something of desiring value:

how are those nests you all hold high above your heads
i can see handfuls of spider webs
i sit nailed into a wall

How to describe this feeling ?
What name does it go by?
Does it even have a name?

The answers to my questions
Remain unanswered
But with absolute certainty I can tell you this

I never want to let this feeling go
I'm on this insane rollercoaster of happiness
And I never want to not have this feeling

Cloud 9 seems like childs play
Sky high is where I'm at
It's like being in love only a thousand times better

The sun and the stars are all in one frame
Both shining at their brightest
Someone tell me what this feeling is !

I take that back.
No one tell me.
No one utter a word.

For if I was to categorise this feeling
It would be sure to escape me
No one tell me.

Let me drown in this moment
In this feeling that is like no other
Allow me this one pleasure.

No need to name the feeling.
Just watch on by as I sink in it.
Grant me this one request.

managing?  knowing that it will come clear,

gradually, carefully, piece on piece.

they do say, a little help

et cetera, they do say such

a lot of things.

help spurred me on to

sort and tidy, categorise

again.

they do say that it is *******,

yet placed in tidy piles, it

becomes most attractive.

they even like the photographs.

sbm.

the end of the year, time for the counting,
time to number, categorise, remember the things,
lost. the people.

the list is endless, we highlight, tick, arrange
in rows, the stuff of our lives, the shirts and
nonsense. we mend the family clothes,
while ours are unrepaired. a whole day

counting.

he brought the logs, more than i imagined.

sbm.

Details shape perspectives killing time
classifying experiences drawing lessons
from the past to live a fleeting
present wrapped up in comfort offered
by the most illusive conviction we are
ensuring a mistakeless future laying

the grounds to understanding.

People hurt others and themselves, a fact,
have and will do so again, might as well
rationalise and take notes, categorise offenses
under text book notions of human psyche.
To pseudo comprehend, believe they surely did
it out jealousy or envy, inferiority complex, greed,

fear of rejection, of commitment, fear
tout court, latent ancient traumas, alcoholism,
loneliness, inadequacy, stress, lack of fantasy,
defence mechanisms, revenge and rage,
frustration, Freudian mums and dads to blame,
poverty, miseducation or in vogue bipolar

mental disorders.

Newly labelled manic depression justifying
the indefensible, falling under the taxonomy
of psychological disease. Victim of one’s mind
or coward in disguise? And if evil be an illness
would it follow that, with no fault comes no crime?
The catalogue complete, what is left a bunch of notes

recorded in the abyssal perplexity of tired
brains, aged bones. A life spent studying flaws
instead of standing in awe in front of All.
While if, zooming out from details to focus
on bigger pictures, homes become nations,
neighbourhoods Earth, individuals Humanity,

the Universe,

partial essence of which we are, traveling
without moving through mysterious space
under mystic laws we call, Natural.
Do they determine who we are? And if,
ridding of the catalogue I am reborn,
a newfound meaning looking far beyond,

to see amazing little creatures stubbornly survive,
to live and endure, prove we are
much more than complexes and fears,
ambitions and diseases, corrupted thoughts,
but a miracle of feelings, eager to learn,
only beginning to become,

aware of itself.

It is only natural
to use your narrow logic
tick box
and categorise

To hold this freedom
in your mind

Resist resist
this logical temptation

You are not
a number

You are free

I write as I need to express myself and as this gives me clarity.

That I am doing something 'special' should never enter my mind.  Life is lived in the singular and everyone has their own story, whether such were a prince or a pauper.  No one has the monopoly over life or knowledge--every story, however simple or humble, has a place in the democracy and mystery of life.

Perhaps the personal narrative of a beggar, ***** or the farmer is more poignant than that of a royalty , a rich or powerful man, a scholar, or anyone else in high society's.

And we are more enriched as we are able to see other aspects of people's lives which otherwise would have been denied to us.

My humanism has enabled me to espouse this view so easily.

The greatest problem that divides people is labels and comparison-
people are full of themselves and regard others to be somehow 'inferior' to them. either in terms of education, wealth standing, rank...
And this is accentuated by our materialistic and competitive culture.

How could harmony exist among people as long as they choose to categorise?  Where is the love of and compassion for others?

Evolution has not saved us but has made us selfish, callous, heartless and uncaring.  How deplorable and miserable we are!  

Let us pause to re-examine our life and priorities-
we forfeit our very humanity if we can't find meaning and purpose in our pursuits.

Honestly I just look around and I'm stunned that any of us is expected to work as normal given everything. Like. Seriously. What do we call unending grief of this magnitude, this scale? How to we wrap words around the unfolding horror and trauma? To categorise it minimises it.

To not name it leaves it unmarked, but certainly we are marked. All of us. In ways we will be healing from for generations to come. This is catastrophic. And we buy our bread, drink our coffee, tweet our daily observations.

We're not looking at things. We are glancing adjacent, refusing to let our retinas be scorched by the gore. And that is our greatest failure.