Cotton Flowers

‘I want red flowers to grow
On a piece of white cotton.’

But I am the gardener.
Slowly, gently, I see red petals fall
As the flowers germinate.

‘I want a white piece of cotton.
Only the purest of whites.’

But I am the seamstress.
Bit by bit, I see white bubbles form
As I tear open the cotton flowers.

‘You must keep planting red flowers.
Only the deepest of reds.’

But I am the florist.
Again and again, I see crimson scents arise
As the colours proliferate.

‘You must leave the white intact
Amongst all the reds.’

But I am the artist.
Softly, peacefully, I see white clouds dissolve
As I become intoxicated with the pollen.

Because this is the only alternative-
A cheap alternative-
To destroying the entire garden.

Disputation

(Author Unknown)

I remember times when the inner disputation
Was quite fierce (to pursue the game, or sign
A full stop to pain). The call was mine-
Or so it seemed. Each voice a singular temptation:

The beguiling cries of longed-for rest,
The easeful quiet, the total peace
- what a boon!- finally to cease
The struggle; to know that nothingness is best.

But then, from the barely bubbling sieve
Of my active self, a tired but urgent call
To return to habit and duty; reluctantly to fall
Again into pain and heartache- and to live.

Oh soul! thou then stood on an isthmus break
And heard, in separate ears, Aegean and Ionian wave.
Which sea? To drown, or combers once again to brave?
The vital choice was solely mine to make.

Scarlet

Scarlet is the colour of the illness
Scarlet is the colour of the cure
A booklet and a certificate
730 days that I must endure

Will everything go as planned?
Scarlet tears and scarlet smiles
An existence and its proof
Every time I travel across the miles

Scarlet is the colour of my skin
Scarlet is the colour of my mind
Uncertainties and anxieties
A hopeful future I must find

Will I regret what I have done?
Scarlet dreams and scarlet eyes
A special delivery and its recipient
Every time I tell unintended lies

Scarlet is the colour of the day
Scarlet is the colour of the night
Delusions and predictions
Pernicious urges that I must fight

Will I leave everything behind?
Scarlet identity and scarlet self
A new scar and its aftermath
Every time I promise that I will live…

The Act

It is an act for the weak
An act that depends on ultimate strength

It is an act for the cowardly
An act that requires extreme courage

It is act for the escapist
An act that faces the denial of self-preservation

But everybody has contemplated it.

It is an act for the uneasy
An act that offers eternal peace

It is an act for the sorrowful
An act that leads to unfathomable happiness

It is an act for the sufferer
An act that cures the incurable

But everybody is fearful of it.

It is an act for the selfish
An act that stems from distorted altruism

It is an act for the self-contradictory
An act that battles with the life instinct

It is an act for the thoughtful
An act that terminates every thought and action

But everybody has the potential to achieve it.

Morning Calls

It disappoints me
When sunshine calls each morning
From the broken window.

Am I pursuing towards an end
Or a full stop?

You stop when there are possibilities
You reach the end
When there is nowhere else to go.

When will I
Drown in my own blood?

This question remains unanswered
I still long for the future
But my mind keeps playing new tricks.

Sleeping without dreaming
Is this dying?

Morning calls
Like an unwelcomed guest
Intruding upon a helpless host.

What is it like
When the end eventually comes?

Those who know the answers never come back.

Steps to Recovery

Steps to recovery
It is essential to make the first move
Unless I am already in the process
I will get lost at the starting point.

A truly cowardly act
An escape from an inevitable fact
But not until I retrieve my self-consciousness
Not until I deny this darkness.

Steps to recovery
It turns bleeding into a part of breathing
When I have so much to live for
I think of so many reasons to leave this reality.

A panacea well hidden
An attempt to achieve the forbidden
But not when there is quietness in my ear
Not when I am still here.

Steps to recovery
It involves a white building and an artery
Although I struggle to embrace tomorrow
I am ready to reach the last stage.

A desire for closure
An obsession for an immediate departure
But not before I can control these thoughts
Not before I become yours.

Passing the Test

Together with my driving tests
It is something I always seem to fail
And it is just like a driving test
You just don’t come back to the Centre.

But I enjoy life, I aspire to see tomorrow
Life is so beautiful that you wish to preserve it
Forever. It is a test that only few can pass.
Each attempt gets you closer to the destination.

Such a fantasy, such a temptation!
The evanescence of an ambivalent reality
Betrays the examiner, falsifies the test route
My hands are tied to the steering wheel.

The sentient battle begins within me
Everybody is given a provisional licence
Like an instructor, they don’t care why you drive
They simply give you directions and a car.

But there is no turning back, once you
Pass the test. Your full licence is fatal.
Do I need one, or do I simply want one?
Who knows? Perhaps one day I will pass.

How futile, how unimaginative!
As long as I still have the innate ability to drive
There is always optimism. Selfishly,
My right foot slowly moves to the accelerator.

Captive

Programmed to destroy, I am a disciplined hostage
In free air, a captive blinded by
The darkness of the unconscious. An error
In judgement has occurred. Not in perception, but
No external stimuli could have evoked the same response.
Am I in control or under control? My very sense of autonomy
Is under attack, the illusion of a comprehensible self
Disappearing like a snowflake in April. Yet Reality alone
Cannot cure this disease of humanity. A green tablet
Confirms the diagnosis of an alternative hypothesis.

Trying to break the code of passivity, it is hard
To imagine that nothing has ever happened.
What seems real becomes real, and those thoughts
Integrate with a strange voice, like another
Conspiracy theory. A brain without a mind
Is eternal bliss. I have yet to achieve this state.
When self-awareness creates an intrusive atmosphere
Of nihilism, I’d rather devote myself
To the other side of all existence. Reality itself
Is like a red eye with many pupils. But what it sees

Remains a mystery.

Disintegration

I remember
When every breeze of fresh air carried a special message
But I don’t remember
When my life abandoned me, leaving the world

Colourless.

I remember
When the future shone through the curtains each morning
But I don’t remember
When the Self departed from my mind, creating a black hole of

Nothingness.

I remember
When I used to take reality for granted, just like the hopes for tomorrow
But I don’t remember
When the first thoughts disappeared, converting my brain into

Emptiness.

I remember
When I expected the next season to be bright and fruitful
But I don’t remember
When my eyes began to wither, memories forming a river of

Hopelessness.

I remember
When I was in control of all my cognitive processes
But I don’t remember
When my own consciousness disintegrated, rendering everything

Meaningless.

I remember, I remember…

I don’t remember.

The Power of Insomnia

The power of insomnia
Eyes wide open
Yet I am still dreaming of the self
In a different reality.

The onset of paranoia
Body lies still
Yet I can sense the line of vision
In this all-consuming darkness.

The force of catatonia
Ears tightly covered
Yet I am still listening to the footsteps
With fearful obedience.

The power of insomnia
Nervous system down
Yet I can feel her existence
With paradoxical reassurance.