The religious state.

Into a heart of forsaken debt we are birthed, so says the friends of heaven; and not without pain do we fight for more. With the relentless demands of social stature and unforgiving acceptance, seldom do we achieve anything more than mediocrity.

Ridiculed for vision, our dreams whither into uncertainty. Starved for attention they beckon for more but fall far short of found. Led by insanity we reek of rotting souls in search of normality, that form of torture for which we ache to know; a curse, tradition is so. Yet with respect for such we hold high. Hope will be forgotten once we mature into those required by whom seek conformity. Dreams will be just that, a subconscious request to nurture imagination to reality and flicker will the feeling of thirst as it’s quenched with governmental aid and reactive medicines. Trust will become lost with its foe as we know no more or less than what we’re told.

An observation..

Woven with hope and worn with pride her veil shadows a short lived smile. He was hers for a while. She was his since the trial, but life has won and now a measure for her pain there’s no dial.

A heart too free for this tale now her lips set sail and an island of pleasures await. But not until this curse of her first she must break, and to no end there’s risks she shall take, for only her flaws, not her wants she can fake.

Now with waves of relief washing the stains from her grief and inscribing a hope shaped model of her heart, its only she that can drown her past. Revive her once lost love of self and art and swim in the sea like they once did, back when life was bliss, back at the start.

Whom sort Australia for asylum are lost. (Written as rhythmic Spoken Word)

I’m so happy yet hate my reflection, I have no objection it’s just a method of deflection from “them” being too young to die, to not live even once but half that of I. The kids know stares not stars, dream it’s theirs not ours and even with nightmares told, their lives we’ll still hold in bars. Their trust in the hands of those alien to the plight, to suffer there’s no might but the media will buffer their fight.

“We’ll win!” they scream at me from that hateful box, we’ll keep them detained with locks, and if we must – we’ll ssh them with rocks. I should be happy, because who won but I? You’ve heard the lie, except its the un-broadcast truth that shares my cry. From there to here, their fear is still near but there will be no cheer, welcome seekers of hope, here’s a new reason for tears.

The honest feelings of one man

As men, symptomatic is the angst we feel whilst not feeling that another feels what we feel. Although this twist on direction is not to obscure your perception, it’s purpose has featured in your mind for at least the previous second. I am awoken to this prevailing preoccupation by not the love that I feel for another, but the desire to love the love I feel in return and the necessity to hold close the love of being held by another. I admit, to a fear of lovelessness I am captive. I am strong, deliberate and act with conviction. Though to detriment I hold these attributes high, high among the preconception that a man requires power to be powerful or strength to be strong. This isn’t just wrong, it’s the reason I am often found with head in hands searching empty nothings for direction. But you can only walk so far in your head before you’re back to the start, wishing you had ran instead. I can stand proverbially tall and with a reputable resolve but shy at the thought of being challenged by the need to feel loved. I am inexcusably guilty with contempt in this court of my own judgement and to you I ask, please don’t share as I have. It leads only to realization that I’m helpless to my predisposed anxieties and denial is too dark distinguish.