Confessions of a Haunted Mind

There are parts of me so dark even I don’t wish to dwell there too long,

pieces of my life no-one will ever hear about unless you happen to have been there,

things I cannot acknowledge I was a part of, even instrumental in creating,

and there they remain, forevermore carved into my psyche, onto my bones.

What madness made them mine,

what sanity escaped me,

what reasoning allowed them in…

...…that’s the side of me that is disturbed and detached,

forms impulses that scare me, reactions too foreign to be my own.

This fearful darkness is a part of me I guard,

prevent it from being seen, from gaining a foothold in my reason,

and I’d rather bear the scars as it claws at me, fully knowing I am harming myself,

for as much as they hurt me, they can hurt you too.

                    

Citations of an Unwritten Book #1

It was a rainy day, dawn hadn’t even broken when dusk settled in.  Her appointment was for 4, a call on her way postponed it to 5.30.  It was pointless to go back so she drove to the address she’d been given.  The parking lots was full, she turned into the side street and found a spot half a block down.  She turned off the engine, slid down in her seat, curling up, warming herself, the pelting rain a million drumsticks beating out a monotonous rhythm on the canvas roof, her lids grew heavy, she fell asleep….

……only to be jerked awake to a thunderous knocking on her window, ‘Ma’am, ma’am, are you alright? You’re not to be parking here alone so late at night, it be not safe?’  She blinked, sat upright, blinked again, this must be a dream, where the hell was she, what was the time, it’s dark out, and how did the buildings and streets turn into an ocean and the beach?

Broken, just broken

Please tell, please tell me

what it is you see

tell me what colours your dreams black

eyes cold, eyes cold cry

there's blood on your cheeks

tears that come from the depths of your soul

show me, show me where

did the sword cut you deep,

show me what has you struggling for air

please tell, please tell me

I stand helpless here

tell me who stabbed you in the back

The Lonely Guitar

Sitting alone in an empty house

a lonely guitar and smoky voice

takes my hand and leads me down forbidden paths,

shows me an album of memories

pulled out of yesterday into today,

it’s no dream, it’s a real as the goosebumps on my skin,

and it’s hot, your touch commanding,

I’m enslaved to this moment,

to these visions neither time nor distance can eradicate.

The Story of your Life

picture credit: https://bonjonour.wordpress.com/2015/09/02/surreal-photography-art/

A good life is a gift, a gift of moments with laughter on your lips, your interests piqued, full awareness of your senses,

what is more welcoming than the recognition of a kindred soul, a like-minded stranger in an obscure location, those instant connections beyond time,

moments that creep into your memory to stay, to recall on rainy mornings, stormy afternoons and uneasy darkened hours,

and through the years these moments keep growing, startling realisations and welcoming surprises multiply into a glorious rainbow, to form The Story of your Life, treat your gift well.

Dreams and Dreamers

Dreams just keep on dreaming

reaching higher than before,

dreams are changing, ever changing,

there’s no exit from this door,

you can live in your creation,

awe and wonder painted real

and the pictures keep on growing,

yes you’re in them, never fear,

and the dreamers will keep on dreaming

build on what they had before,

dreamers change, they’re ever changing,

let us walk on through this door.

The Mist over the Ocean

There is no moon to guide me, there is no sun to light the way, you’re disappearing into a mist stretching south to eternity,

and it keeps getting thicker, visibility reduces to nil, the air is so moist I am drowning in an ocean of sorrow,

my breaths get shorter, my eyelids grow heavy, a comforting numbness wraps itself around me, too alluring to resist, to become weightless,

don’t let me drift into this endless sleep, only you can pull me back before I sink, only you can give me back my sight, my meaning, my purpose. Don't go?

away...

The hour is late, the streets deserted, orange pools of light the lonely sentries in the dark, we’re in your car driving past the old stone church, race up the dual carriageway towards…  there’s a tension in the air, I keep looking over my shoulder, are those headlights following us or is it my paranoia finding threats fuelled by fear, that don’t exist… I look over to you, your eyes focussed on the road, your body adeptly in control on this mad flight across the city, away from them, away from all known, away…

and again we pass the old stone church, turn left up the dual carriageway, the energy flowing one of hurriedness to reach privacy, seclusion, to the fulfilment of plans devised, dreams we dragged into reality, toward a togetherness, a new way of living, and your eyes shine with excitement, brighter than the streetlights in the darkest hours of this night, your lips curl into a smile of victory, away from who we know, away from what we know, away…

and we pass the old stone church again, turning up the dual carriageway, puzzlement, frustration and confusion littering the air, loss of control brimming just under the surface, tethering at the abyss to insanity, why is this taking so long, how many churches must we pass, how many doors must we close, how many farewells must we issue before we’ll reach the outskirts of this town locking us in, until our page is clear and we are free to leave…