Christmas Day

Finally got to writing this - hope you enjoy and Merry Christmas!

From the moment that you lay your head

down to sleep at night,

until the moment you awake

to a glittering world of white,

you will be paid a visit

by the jolly man in red,

who in exchange for milk and cookies

will leave presents by your bed.

He will smile when he sees you

tucked up safe and tight

before climbing back up the chimney

and off into the night

to spread his Christmas cheer

to each and every one,

delivering thousands of presents

before the rising of the sun.

And to this morning you will wake

to spy the presents there,

dress warm against the Winter chill

and make your way downstairs

where the smells of spice and turkey,

chocolate and mulled wine

mingle sweetly in the air

around your Christmas tree of pine

that you decked with lights and tinsel

and topped with an angel all aglow;

her radiance will guard you

as you venture into the snow.

Each step in the pristine blanket

is soon filled in once again

until not a single passer-by

could know from whence you came

as you see in strangers' gardens

snowmen with hats and scarves,

get a shiver and begin to wish

you were back home by the hearth

listening to those festive tunes

and wearing a silly paper crown

with the people that you love the most

gathered all around.

Ode to Rik - The People's Poet

We branded you the new Messiah

with the way your blue eyes held

each and every one in the room,

with your telephone voice

and vulnerability,

and the new breed of humour

that spoke to a generation.

You were mad but beautiful

in your lust for life,

taking the stranger

by the hand and the crotch.

You were brash and undisguised

at the centre of the universe;

an insuppressable little child

who never learnt to behave;

a phenomenon of ego and erotic thought.

No one could stop you,

and no one will forget you.

Rik Mayall was without doubt a successful, sexy, insanely brilliant comedian, a light the kind of which this world will never see again. If I could have met him, I would've told him just that - because we all know he was the kind of man who loved his ego massaged. You will never ever be lost. 

Untitled

This is the salvation we seek 

delivered straight to the heart,

jump-starting us from cardiac arrest.

A world we enter, each and all,

a realm of sound,

where we can close the door behind us.

I tried to add more to this one but nothing seemed to beat the simplicity of six lines. Hope you get what I'm on about :)

White

A case of misadventure,

curious minds led astray

by the crazy trail of breadcrumbs

laid out in their way.

Fall into darkness

not knowing where it goes,

as reality melts and fate is spelt

and the addiction only grows.

Days turn into weeks

of hiding from the Sun,

but when they finally emerge

the damage has been done.

Brainchild

I can't recall why or how I started this poem, but it was a labour of love for the good part of four months - and this is the result: a statement of how it feels to create characters in stories, and the essence of inspiration.

In an endeavour of the mind,

I strive to make real what cannot physically exist;

breathe life into such machinations

as can only be created on those dim blue screens.

Guiding the metaphysical quill,

I pen lines pertaining to the realms of fantastic insanity;

severing all ties to accepted reality,

and thereby donning the mask of the pseudo-god,

the blasphemous creator.

My scripted child is no mortal,

for it lays dormant in an unconscious culture,

suffocated, starved and blind

until the inspiring essence reaches out

to spark it to life.

With each resurrection come atrocities

I have learnt to love as much as fear;

for every body that hits the floor

another rises from the ashes to take its place

in a manifold continuum.

While Death holds court over the living,

passions bloom in the maelstrom,

life's exordium is realised,

my world goes on oblivious under the radar. 

Until once more my brainchild grows weary,

and, lachrymose, the flow ceases, 

leaving every heart beating alone in the dark.

Daddy

This poem was inspired by one of the most emotionally packed and raw songs I have ever heard, by a band which I hold close to my heart (Korn). This is the song for anyone who wants to listen (it is loud, angry, and emotional, touching on a subject that affects modern life in a shocking way), and this is the fruit of my labour.

The little child he was was supposed to be safe,
tucked up in bed where the monsters couldn't get,
but the nightlight threw shadows to disturb his rest
and the man is back by his side.
Tears already threaten as he remembers the last time,
knowing they won't change a thing,
as his innocence came away in the hands of the man
who whispered 'That's a good boy'
while he pulled the cords still tighter.
After that, it hurt, and that was all he knew;
fear blooming before its time,
forever asking 'why?'
Why he touched him there,
and why he couldn't cry,
and why no one believed him
when he told them what he'd done?
Behind his bedroom door
the nightmare lives on repeat,
until his skin no longer feels his own,
so dirty and abused,
and he gives up screaming because no one hears.
The little child lives on inside,
a scar that no one else can see,
a scar he cannot live without,
of the memory of innocence, raped and taken away.
On the other side of the door
he is ripping his soul to shreds,
remembering all the times he wished he had been dead,
and with it come the tears he'd been deprived.
A visceral agony pours forth
as he grieves for the child inside;
all his hatred and bile for the man
who was more than just a lie,
whose sick pleasure ruined his life,
until there is nothing but his sobbing,

helpless, broken, and lost.