“No one can tell your story so tell it yourself. No one can write your story so write it yourself.”— Unknown Author
Children Are Our Future
They say children are our future
But what future will it be?
These children are disillusioned
Blinded by the deafening intrusions
On their senses. The intensive offensives
Of their defenceless young minds.
Overstimulated, pixilated—wasted ene-rgy
They say children are our future
But what future will it be?
With their attention spans
No longer than seconds
Video games, mobile phones and computers
No time or energy for learning
Teachers’ presence only disturbing
They say children are our future
But what does that future hold
These young soles are sold
And controlled by the latest gadgets
Tiredness their daily habits
How will they achieve their full potential
Without suffering— existential
Like we had to suffer
But these young soles have it rougher
More distractions, interactions and pressure
It’s another time, another life altogether
They have so much more to deal with
So much more than we had to deal with
Who would be in their shoes now
No, I would not wish to go back
They like me must find their own soundtrack
Through life’s amazing pages and mazes.
Your refusal to say goodbye with a hug.
You stayed in the car and waved
Me on my way through closed windows.
The forced barrier of glass and metal
Made me feel rejected.
That time you left me in the supermarket because you were angry
We argued by the deli counter.
The nonchalance of a dismissive hand
A barbed comment meant to tease.
Then your coy smile in apology.
But you saw my face; you knew
I felt re−jec−ted
The intolerance, you sometimes show
Your clipped tones at the end of a conversation
Saying you want to go
Like we’ve been talking too long
Then not answering your phone
When I call back, to tell you I love you
You know that makes me feel reje—cted
Yesterday when I come home from work
After a long day. Stress weighed down my body
Only to find you on the phone cackling with laughter
Then I spent time cooking you dinner,
Lighting candles to make it special…
Then you say you’ve already eaten−
Don’t you know I feel rejected?
Remember the time we made love,
Your mind was elsewhere. ‘Where were you?’
I could tell you would rather it was over
And sometimes when your climax comes all too quickly,
Then lasts so long, a sign not to touch you anymore
Yes I feel reject—ted
The storm in the teacup, the threat of rejection in every move, in every stare. The lights dim and my heart jumps, I relax not into your arms knowing as I do What you think and feel. The button is permanently depressed so the sensitivity And intensity is heightened… My love is dispelled and quelled in a single frame.
Cos this is what rejection feels like
This is what rejections feels like
This is what my rejection feels like
This is how rejection feels like
Tomorrow will be different
I promise myself, today is gone and our love still lingers,
But still my heart pales and the fear rises,
Catching in my throat
The fear of rejection,
The pain of your rejection,
Of rejecting myself.
The drowning face seen just before it disappears into the sinking ship,
Mum beside me drinking beer in a cup, the last lonely sips, a gasping slurp, then a burp.
A quiet storm brews over our heads, I look up in amazement, the colours arrange themselves like a moody tempest about to devour us. My unwavering happiness clouds any sadness. Then my father’s voice rings in my ears, like the sound of the bells of the village steeple. They killed Billy Five! They killed Billy Five! My father’s prize pedigree racing pigeon.
Billy’s memory tumbles into my vision. His plumpness giving testament to his breeding and worth. Feathers that flutter in full glory, once so meaty and solid are now flattened and sullen. I see the tears roll down dad’s cheek.
Mum lights a cigarette inhales with satisfaction then blows blue smoke into the air. I sit quietly watching. Billy Five’s body, limp and crumpled, nestles against the box destined to be his grave.
The snivelling boy responsible comes, stone still in hand, body lank, matching his hair, his father is a replica. Both now seem unsure—even remorseful. The father pushes the boy forward.
‘I’m sorry Mr Smith, It was an accident, we were just playing’
‘Playing at what, stone the pigeon—do you know what you’ve done? Can you see what you’ve done?’
Dad’s voice is hoarse, it crackles. He blows his nose on a handkerchief, puts it back in his pocket. He sniffs in deep bursts, then he hiccups. His eyes are rose red.
‘Please sir it wasn’t my fault, I didn’t mean it…I’m sorry!’
The boy snivels louder, his distress palpable. His body trembles.
He drops the stone.
Mum and I are silent. Outside the rain beats the window, the wind shrieks. Then a sudden gust blows open the doors of the parlour. A loud clamour, something falls to the floor. It’s the shoebox meant for Billy Five’s burial. The box is broken….
Then Billy Five’s body twitches, does he move? The air in the room chokes, no one breathes. Billy’s body convulses once, twice then shakes into life. The bird jumps to its feet, ruffles his feathers, puffs out his chest. Then takes to the air, gliding about the room.
Our eyes follow Billy transfixed. Mum lights another cigarette. Dad screams, his eyes ablaze. The boy feints. His father catches him.
I sit quietly in awe… Billy Five flutters his wings then gently lands on dad’s head. He coos softly.
I burst into laughter, followed by mum, then father, lastly the boy.
Billy Five claps his wings gaily. The wind abates.
The Truth Inside
And deep inside she cries; she cries pitiful black tears that pour out of her like tar, aching and scaring the depths of her soul. She cries for the loss of innocence, the loss of love and simply for an unending self-pity. She is broken, just a shell of what she projects outside.
Outside its confidence and bravado. Outside she’s the hard edge of success and respect with the ‘I don’t care, I don’t need you!’ attitude that has served her well. But in truth, it’s not who she is behind the masks. The masks she wears like a thick coat, enfolding her more intimately than her own shadow.
The numerous characters of her masked personalities that arise and fall have become so much a part of her; they’re like her skin. She barely notices them. And just as the skin protects the internal viscera, weakness cannot be shown, no crack in the armour can be seen; she must survive at all costs. She’s a chameleon, changing her face in an act of unconscious will.
The perfect camouflage, she hides her real colours. The pearl, the flawless gem that was born but was so quickly destroyed in her childhood. She shields that part of her, hides it deep inside like the precipitous crags of a volcano hides in its depths, the source of its red-hot lava. And just like larva she bubbles and churns, disquiet rampaging her innards like the crash of the tide on a lonely beach.
And why? Why all this? Why this inability to be her truth, to release her putrid, festering heart from its shackles? It’s walls so calcified and hardened from a lifetime of disappointment, at the hands of those who should have loved her unconditionally? Why? Because her heart, frigid, stony and unsmiling, lies encased in the deathly cage she unknowingly built around it so long ago, strangling her very life force… So why; you ask again? Because of fear, because of her unrelenting ego, because she must protect herself– But mostly because it hurts so deep to be that vulnerable, to be so exposed.
Yet still, her withered heart beats, still blood and nutrients feed and energise the body. A body, which like a soulless corpse feeds but has no life. No heart connection, no connection with self. The subtle silent screams of her inner child; sometimes become a frenzied howl of such power, it often stops in her tracks, so she notices the searing pain, frittering away her guts. A lifetime of rejection, the sorrow of separation, of feeling unloved and hopeless. There’s a longing in her sadness. A longing to matter, to be noticed, touched or loved. There’s a yearning to express her innermost thoughts, her deepest desires to the one with the real power.
Call of The Inner Voice
Let the call of your inner voice raise you
Let it blaze trails through your life
Because opening your heart to truth is not easy
When life and challenges leave you feeling queasy, uneasy
So listen carefully, for the call may be subtle
No more than a muffle in times of your deepest troubles
Hard times come to us all
You know life is not always a ball
We sometimes crawl about in a daze,
The difficulties in life keeping us hazed and phased
But there’s no need to look outside of yourself
For the call of your inner voice is there to help
The call becomes stronger and stronger
The more you’re able to honour yourself
No longer acting to please or appease
But living large and fully at ease
With all aspects of your authentic self
Even the parts you dislike, the parts you want to hide or shelf
The ugly and the beautiful are all a part of you
So learn to love them in sacredness
In true essence of all that you are, you were made this way
Individual and set apart
So be who you are, live in your greatness
Letting go of sedateness, tameness or safeness
Live shameless and free
The true embodiment of all you were meant to be
Listening out for your own voice of reason
A beacon of love, light and inspiration
The call of your inner truth is an inner call from you
Hear it then live your life anew