Media coverage of tragedy (for the people left as numbers)

Quote numbers and statistics,
When they’re large enough to get read;
Fifty, three hundred five hundred, whatever,
Hundreds injured hundreds dead.

One hundred is a big number-
Then you talk about the “how” and the “why”,
One hundred is a big number-
Yes, I get it, yes we know,
One hundred is a big number.
But one hundred people.
That; is a god damn tragedy.

How dare you use them,
Only to draw people to you;
Quoting it as news;
While you use unreliable sources
to back-up unfounded points of view.

There are people who lost their lives last night,
And you’ve no mention of a name,
No care about a person,
Only of the fame.

But there’s a whole range of people,
Sitting in their rooms,
Thinking;
That could have been me,
You know, that could have been me.

And you’ve no care for them either,
You have nothing to say.
Nothing that could be considered “news,” anyway.

On the subject of scribbles

I write some words
That are now hidden
Behind further smudges of ink
Roughly scratched into the page
In anger and desperation
For I can’t find the right way
To say what I mean
Or rather I can’t find
What I mean at all.

Behind these tangled networks
Forged by singular-lined scribbles
Zigzagged in frustration;
Due to the lack of parallels
Between the words on paper
And unfound words in my mind
You will find the crudely written ideas
That came before-
That were unwanted
And incomparable
To whatever view I was attempting to convey
Though I was unaware that they were wrong
Until after they appeared upon the page.

The meanings behind these words
Becomes lost
As inked grooves build atop them
You may find entire pages unreadable
Due to the markings upon the surface
Forcing incomprehension
Because of the meaningless
That collected around them
Once reread

The words hidden behind vicious scars
In embarrassment
From the lack of eloquence or
Significance of these blocked out views
Tehy’re simply first drafts of
Poetry and paragraphs
I will never write
Idea’s forgotten behind
The locked gates of ink marks.

I let the pen flow
And the words appear
Without so much as consulting me
On what I have to say
So I suppose I cannot blame the page
For becoming so clogged up with
Scribbles and scratches and scars.

Sometimes, it seems
That words can’t express
The true extent, of thinking
So we hide them away
And try something new
Until black ink shines and gleams
With a new meaning
And new life.

Extract

 

There was a frozen wind breezing in from the south, and while not at all unusual, it still bit and burnt and stung at skin. Funny how even with the most persistent of things, you never could get used to such cold and brutally unsympathetic events; no matter how much you prepare in the weeks before. Then, of course, a few weeks after the rocking trees seemingly shake themselves apart in a flurry of glinting golden leaves that now lay coating the streets with the surprising beauty of pretend treasure- the winds eventually brought in the snow. First; clearing the leaves from the pathways with tiny hurricanes of spiralling glitter, as the last of the summer months was shredded on the pebbled ground. Then; when what remained of the golden foliage was left floating on the surface of clear blue lakes about a morning’s ride up north; houses and branches and stone streets became coated in a thick layer of finely powdered snow.

It’s strange, how nobody could get used to this fascinating display of pretty purity either. Perhaps, one could argue, it is even stranger than the kingdoms persisting intolerance to freezing weather. Why, when every year at the same time, when the world becomes a flourish of fast-falling, silently-swirling, daintily-dangerous blur of white, does everyone begin to believe in beauty.  There’s just something about the outside chaos that makes the inside silence peaceful.  While the skies above swim with spiralling grey and the ground beneath it is perpetually coated with freezing snow; the inside fireplaces from the homes give the long night’s dark streets a gentle golden glow from underneath tightly closed curtains.  And in the distance, surrounded by shadowed trees, lay the castle, ever beautiful, but more so now as it’s silted windows light up the dark grey stone it was built from and the high towers seem ever higher against the backdrop of misted sky. Within a kingdom of shadow trees, and shadow hills, with shadow birds flying overhead and all the shadow people throwing shadows onto the streets as they pass under the murky glowing streetlamps, the castle stands as a beacon.  Five towers all burning bright, with wood stacks atop them constantly kept aflame, and at its base bonfires and torches line it’s walls. It stands strong, it’s presence evident and commanding, it has faced a hundred dark and beautiful winters, and won every single one. And in the town, the people look out from their gentle glowing windows, at the awe-inspiring beauty of the winter, and fear none of the danger it brings.

The final person

 

What little left of the world,

Washed away,

What little of the world was left.

With some self-destructive flaw

Within the universe,

Such little things

Are forgotten, and lost, and wrecked.

And perhaps it would be saddening,

If there were anything that could feel;

But there isn’t.

So it’s not.

That in itself is quite saddening-

I suppose.

Or maybe that in itself is quite happy

There is less sadness after all;

If you consider a lack of sadness

To be happiness

Then that is what this is.

More likely however,

It is neither,

It is nothing,

There is nothing;

So that would make sense.

 

It is lonely;

That’s what this is.

Strange-

To find a name for something

Is to admit that it’s there,

Now I wish I hadn’t.

 

There is something that can feel after all

 

The silence is tangible,

Flowing,

Engulfing the nothingness

With nothing,

Flooding the dark

With black.

It doesn’t make a difference,

The vastness of the lack of anything;

Somehow that makes it worse.

No- No-

That doesn’t make sense.

But what does sense matter anyway

When this nothing is so senseless,

And that’s all there is-

All I can feel

All I can be.

So much…. Potential

Yet so much hopelessness.

 

Why is it me!

Why am I cursed to be so alone,

In this universe so infinite

That there can’t just be black void for ever

And ever

And ever,

But still so vast

That it is all that can be found to me.

I am everything there is now-

And I am nothing to whatever else is left.

So much

And so little

And regardless

It doesn’t matter,

These worlds can’t function

With only me

Yet I am all the universe now;

Always alone,

Since there is nothing outside of me

Yet always around,

Since there is everything within.

Post-apocalyptic

 

The world is shattering, falling apart

With burning minds- burning heart,

Dissolving into a golden glow,

Ash settling as un-melting snow-

 

Groups of people, huddled around,

Shrieks shake the vanishing crowd,

Silent screams stand stupor and static,

Even in a world so erratic-

 

Previous dreams, now lost, thrown to the wind,

Split sunlight becoming dimmed,

Fearfulness fading to helplessness

Weakness fading into hopelessness.

 

Then separated from the agonised pack,

Stands a couple, blended by soot into black.

Unlike the rest of the unfortunate swarm,

Each hold a smile, hands entangled, eyes warm.

 

They stood here once; beneath what used to be trees,

Before cites crumbled into surging seas,

They stood here once; beneath a star-sprinkled sky,

Before the streets echoed with an anguished cry

 

While trees fell down; brick and concrete broke apart,

But their love, though soft, held together their hearts,

And their voices, though soft, still drift though the roar,

Like the calmer waves rolling into the shore.

 

“If I am to breathe a last breath

Then I’m that glad that it’s here.

Mostly, I guess, I’m just glad it’s with you.”

 

 

 

The world shattered that night, fell apart,

Two sets of calm minds- calm heart

Dissolving into that golden glow,

Buried beneath, an un-melting snow.

How silent things would sound

Sometimes I wonder how silent things would sound if we could hear them.

How the sparkling sunlight would echo around;
Like metal striking metal,
Throwing off a shower of sparks.
How it would shatter as it enters our atmosphere,
Quietly bounce around,
Getting softer and softer as it fades away.
Unable to escape the prison walls,
To get out into the safer void.

How the minds of people around you
Would buzz and whirr,
With each thought that passed behind their eyes.
How you could listen as your own brain
Whined with maddening rhythm,
Matching the words you think.

How still water would whisper to the wind
In faint chiming echoes,
About how it wanted to rush
And scream,
Down hills
To the sea.

How silence itself would shout-
Wishing there was something to fill
The emptiness that it leaves.
Every noise plays at once,
Shattering and buzzing and chiming,
Louder and louder and louder,
The longer the silence goes on.

Perhaps there’s a reason some things don’t speak;
Sometimes an absence of sound reflects the need for peace.

Anxiety

Falling apart. Trapped behind a terrified smile
twisting into troubling tranquillity
calmed beyond the point of comfort
sitting amongst static silence.
Where the air is thickened,
with the lack of needed noise,
and burns into your lungs as you breathe,
everything still, unmoving, background noises vanish,
for a second that feels like sixty.

Your throat tightens;
in reaction to congealed air
coiling as you breathe it in?
The paralytic serenity contradicting
the frantic pounding in your chest?
The way time has frozen comprehension
with an icy inert panic settling in your brain?
Or perhaps the fact no one else is affected
by the ever curdling atmosphere?

And you’re wishing someone would speak.
And you wish that you could;
anything to break the cyclic silence.
But you can’t.
Can’t because your tongue has become desert,
water diverted to your palms.
Can’t because your throat has collapsed into itself,
since the air is unbreathable.
Can’t because you know whatever you do,
it will be wrong.
Can’t because your mind is exploding out against your skull,
and you can feel your heart jumping out of your chest,
and there are nails impaling your palms,
and your thoughts spiral into something inconceivable,
and you can’t.
Can’t speak
Can’t disappear
Can’t escape

The previous paralysing calmness has shifted now,
changed into unadulterated panic.
Because you’ve realized people have realized,
and the hollowness creating almost tranquillity
is filled with frantic detached thoughts,
telling you that your wrong,
anything you say is wrong,
but the silence is deafening
and the air is getting thicker
SAY SOMETHING, ANYTHING,
No, no, no ,no, no, no, no
don’t talk
don’t breathe so loud
you’re drawing attention
people are noticing
shut up shut up shut up shut up
why can’t someone say something
why can’t you just say something
stop it stop it stop it stop it.
sound has been devoured by void,
or maybe your mind is just to blurred to notice it,
your heart is practically in your throat,
choking on any word that could potentially escape,
knuckles white, skin stretched too tightly over bone.

Then finally somebody speaks.
The clock begins ticking again.
Heavy air evaporates allowing breathing.
You pull your nails out of your sweaty palms.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.
You’re okay. You’re okay.
Okay. Okay. Okay

You remain stunned for a while afterwards.
Telling yourself you’re alright. It’s alright.
Trying to comfort yourself;
Your heart as it slows
Your lungs as they make up for held breaths
Your mind as it recovers from exploding panic
Everything is fine.

And then amongst the aftermath
people come up to you, and,
expressing the extent at which
they do not understand,
will inform you they know better.

Saying:

You really should stop being so shy.
As if you haven’t already tried

Why don’t you talk?
As if your mind and body would allow that.

Can’t you just go and speak to people?
As if it would be that easy.

And as they do you feel your breathing hitch,
and the air begins to flow like rapids,
with the intention of drowning you.
And your skull is cracking under the pressure.
You feel the all too familiar ache,
in the palms of your hands.
And you simply want to scream
just to let the pressure out
And for once, you almost have to confidence to speak
Just in order to say
YOU’RE NOT HELPING.

Love is dark

Everyone always seems to talk about love as light.
As a bright white light engulfing any wrong
As something that always triumphs in the end.
Shining and beautiful and everlasting.
They’re wrong.

Love doesn’t illuminate a clear path through the night.
Love isn’t glowing gold stars in an otherwise black sky.
Love can’t shine through the darkness.
Because love isn’t a dazzling light
Real love is the dark.

It’s not the end of a tunnel, it’s the beginning.
It’s the darkness of night engulfing the stars.
It’s a rocky path, it’s hard to navigate, it’s hazardous,
And there’s nothing to show the way, no clear direction.
Love is the dark.

Light requires a fuel; every star in our sky will burn out.
All the light in our universe will burn out.
After you use it all up nothing remains.
The darkness is everlasting, lingering longer than light.
Love stretches forever.

The dark it’s not gloom, it’s not misery or hate.
The dark is something that’s always there that has always been there.
The dark is a void deprived of everything, but able to be filled with anything.
Love can be anything you want it to be.
Love can be everything.

Because love isn’t light, not a star waiting to burn out.
It’s not clear, it can’t show the way. It’s hard to navigate but always worth it.
Love is the darkness, lasting forever, the first and last thing in this universe.
It’s our desperation, we’re always lost in the dark, but it allows us to hold on.
This is love.

Love: everlasting and hard and dangerous and anything you want it to be.
This is love.
This is the dark inside you.
This is love.
And it truly is the most wonderful thing in existence
It’s what makes up existence.

It is silent now

It is silent now,
The voices fade away,
The sky turns from blue, to white,
To damp and dreary grey

The ghosts lost their voices
Once took the place of mine,
Now I am left to drift-
Through space, and life, and time

It is silent now,
So why am I so sad?
Before, I’d have been grateful-
Now I suppose I’m mad

I guess it doesn’t matter,
Because they have all dispersed;
Abandoned me in the haze,
Left with echoes of their curse

It is silent now,
In the wreck left of me;
My head, my heart, my senses
Lost in tranquillity

But this calmness is maddening
And my mind cannot find compare
To this screaming silence inside
I’m scared by what’s no longer there

It is silent now
And there is nothing else;
The voices left, took away
Every sense of myself

And still- The world keeps turning-
It goes on unaware
And still- My mind keeps burning-
In the icy fire there

And the flames light up,
Burn down, go dark,
Left with the maddening
Beats of heart-
And in their wake,
I freeze and break,
Along fractured lines,
Within my mind,
That those fond echoes
Left behind

And the flames burn up,
Go down, glow bright
When that grey sky
Has turned to night-
Now were apart,
Fire burnt my heart,
Ice froze my head,
And yet this floor still stains in red
Fire goes out, ice will melt,
Darkness falls on lonely dead-
And yes… it is silent now.

Sunrise

 

The sunrise isn’t merely red and pink and orange
Glistening in the sky.
The start of a new day,
Bringing light and opportunity.
It depends on your perspective-
How the day breaks
Depends on how you look at the sunrise.

On some days it’s a light pink,
Softly spreading across the horizon-
The colour of love and beauty.
A few cotton clouds drift by,
Shining gold,
As sunlight seeps through.
The sun’s rays throw glitter onto passing birds,
It’s light glinting gold
Reflecting off their wings as they fly.
The pink fades into deep blue
Which, in turn, forms an ocean above,
In the previously black night.

Other days it’s a raging fire.
Red and orange flames set the sky alight,
Spreading uncontrolled across the horizon.
Burning the darkness, engulfing the stars,
What had previously been a lifeless void
Becomes a battle for the heavens.
The bright white pool of the moon,
Fighting the shining liquid gold of the sun.
The stars flicker before disappearing into the flames.
The fire fighting back the night
Stealing the day.

But sometimes the sun rises, hesitant.
The sky’s canvas coated in reds,
Like an offering of roses.
Gold strands are thrown carefully across the darkness,
The moon hangs low,
It’s pale white rays cast with an equal amount of precision.
The two lights mingle, dancing in the sky,
Swirling together in a perfect performance-
Making the most of their time together,
Since they get so little.
The sun searching for one small glimpse of the moon
Before her light is too much,
And the night is gone
Stealing him away.

And then there are those times when the sky is in layers.
Bright yellow hovering above the horizon,
Spreading into orange,
Fading into red,
Before disappearing into the deep blue.
The day and the night,
Meeting each other-
Greeting each other as old friends
As the day breaks.

The sunrise never really is just a sunrise
Not if you look at it right.