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Tag Archives: poetry

Man…#Poem#poetry

A ‘Man’ cannot cry.
Emotion not show.
This is the lesson,
we learn as we grow.

Ridiculed in the school,
and ‘Gay” are we called.
If tears we do show,
for names that are called.

Character building,
is said it to be.
The spit in my hair,
and the blood on my knee.

The victim fights back,
and wins my first fight.
Then I get punished,
just how is that right?

The one became two,
and then became three.
I am the week one,
that’s what they tell me.

Complain I dare not,
and get called a ‘Girl.’
Try now to hide it,
will give it a whirl.

Now it is bottled,
tis working well.
Take home the pressure,
still we don’t tell.

__

If it leaks out,
you’r not a ‘Man.’
Too much to carry,
you’r not a ‘Man.’

Asking for help,
you’r not a ‘Man.’
Bought to your knees,
you’r not a ‘Man.’

__

We don’t ask for your help,
as it shows that we’re weak.
Admitting our problems,
tis a trait of the meek.

Then there’s the ‘New Man,’
we try to be both.
Still short of  – the ‘Man’s Man.’
it brings down his wroth.

I can’t be a ‘Man,’
and neither be ‘Me.’
To take one’s own life,
a chance to be “Free.’

Free from the standard,
of the word – ‘Man.’
But then it’s to late to,
find out it’s a sham.

On medication,
we hide out of sight.
Avoiding the questions,
ashamed of our plight.

Courage it takes us
from – ‘Man’ – now to walk.
Open our feelings,
in therapy – talk.

Become our own person,
in our own right.
Finding my own me,
and leaving the fight.

I stand on my own ground.
My battle cry – I – sound.
From ‘Man’ – now – I am – free.
Before you, stands —
ME.

A § M
8/10/2017

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

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Supermarket Meeting…#Poetry#Poem

Supermarket Meeting

I have just seen you,
or maybe I didn’t.
Could be illusion,
of someone who isn’t.

Style of the Eighties,
a decade – long past.
I stand enchanted,
my heartbeat, is fast.

Black T-shirt knotted,
not front, but round back.
Classic are blue jeans,
they’re skinny, not slack.

Mouse blonde is your hair,
T-pau is the style.
Ends with white trainers,
you’ve had for a while.

Sparkling are your eyes,
when flashed with that smile.
I felt a feeling,
not had in a while.

For time that was happy,
I feel my heart pine.
Should I approach you,
deliver that line.

Then is reflected,
the age that I am.
Time of the asking,
has gone with that ham.

Real or remembered,
illusion or not.
You woke a feeling,
I’d left there to rot.

Silent a thank-you,
is sent with a smile.
For thinking that I could;
for just a short while.

A § M
3/10/2017

Home…#poem#poetry

Home

What is home?

Home is not tied to the land where we live,
the country we’re born or the people we’re with.
We build our new homes on land where we stand,
do we get more if majestic or grand?

More home in a mansion, than house or a flat?
Some people will float on boat with a cat.
A caravan large, and a caravan small,
even a motorhome; the name says it all.

Some live in a tent, or even in snow.
But that’s not quite true, Just think, and you’ll know.
That leaves the street, for those named – Home-less.
If thats’s not enough, we can always oppress.

A tunnel, a bridge, a doorway’s alright.
A place to lay down, a “home” for the night.
So a home is not in, the places we build,
but rather, within, a hole to be filled.

A home to be happy, or even be sweet.
That doesn’t quite fit with those on the street.
Some people can’t wait till they get back home,
others they dread, or fear being alone.

So home is a feeling that needs to be fed,
not just a place where we lay our head.
It matters not even if happy or sad,
so long as we feed it, the good or the bad.

Can we control it, this feeling of home?
Whether in group , or standing alone.
Or are we its servant, its slave if you will.
To never quite manage, its hunger – fulfil.

 

 

 

A § M
1/9/2017

Puddle…#poem#poetry

Puddle

If your mind’s containerises,
each memory then is just a drop.
And when the droplets do combine,
the puddle it grows, it need not stop.

There is no shape to work towards,
no master drop design.
No matter are the bumps bellow,
twill surface not define.

A child can in puddle splash,
and send in all directions.
But most will flow to puddle back,
be still, and show reflections.

Tears will the puddle grow,
whether sadness or of joy.
The saltiness diluted out,
matter not from girl or boy.

From puddle to pool and then to lake,
great depth the surface hide.
And with the wind a movement make,
to ebb and flow the tide.

With water you can take a drink,
or even let it flow.
You cannot cage it with your bars,
around it puddle will grow.

The mind 2 of 2
A § M
22/8/2017

With “Monster”…#poem#poetry

 

If you have not read the first poem of the two, Without “Monster”, here is the link….

https://awanderthroughthemind.wordpress.com/?s=without+%22monster%22

With “Monster”

Your not here for shopping,
but to me – entertain.
Metal the chariot,
so shiny – not plain.

Kicking and grabbing,
at hand and at cart.
I will go screaming,
right from the start!

Joyous the screaming,
with a laugh and a grin.
Sound effects are added,
as shopping put in.

I am now hungry,
cheese puffs my snack.
My face is covered,
I wear half the pack.

Screech around the corner,
into “that ladies” isle.
With disapproving stare,
on a face with no smile.

Quietly we go past,
with a smile and a grin.
Off to find Nanna,
what isle is she in?

She heard us coming,
from the first isle.
Asks what your doing,
Say nothing and smile.

And so it continued,
till Nanna was done.
I am her “monster”
Her little Grandson.

‘Monster’…Poem 2 of 2

A § M
21/8/2017

Boxed…#poem#poetry

Boxed

A brain is like a box you know,
filled with knowledge as we grow.
we are taught, our lessons learnt,
bridges crossed, and bridges burnt.

The box it acts like our hard shell,
for our social times – that don’t go well.
The box it fills right to the top,
cause our learning will not stop.

The box sides creak as more’s crammed in,
showing cracks and crumblin.
We can’t remove the useless stuff,
if space required – well that’s just tuff.

Until a breakdown when walls fall,
shows twisted rebar – our cell wall.
The strength it added now traps us in,
kept half the rubble – caught within.

Memories crushed, or leak on out,
not just the ones we can do – without.
Out of our reach beyond the bar,
some to recover, but it’s just too far.

So boxes should you no longer build,
with society lines, from roles we filled.
Controlling, this life, I know it seems,
but it is our life, our hopes, our dreams.

The mind 1 of 2
A § M
22/8/2017

Time to Wake…#poem#poetry

Warning this one has been classed as dark.

 

Time to Wake

Shiraz is my choice
of wine now to have,
for sleep I need some help.
My throbbing head,
my shattered soul,
I take tablets for the pain.

I failed you see,
but I tried so hard,
I even gave it my all.
My best – not enough,
twas never enough,
no matter how hard I tried.

We are told what’s expected – of life,
how to be.
but never how to get there,
A hint would be nice,
or being told a direction,
if ever they did, they never told me.

So I glance at the picture,
the one of my son.
Tell him I’m sorry and cry.
Sorry I failed him,
that I fought and I lost,
but defeat may offer an option.

I tell of a plan that is plotted,
a gift from the sidelines.
Half a bottle has gone.
With it’s vanishing comes weariness,
I need to sleep
to escape – all of this.

Ive made my bed
its time now to lie
and place my head on soft pillow.
My eyes, heavy, they shut,
the darkness it comes,
and with it goes all of the fear.

As the darknesses embraces
acceptance is found.
It offers a strange kind of calm.
My head it is swirling
from all the wine had.
The temperature drops just a little.

I pull up my cover;
the leaves they fall off,
the woodlice scatter from under my body.
When hypothermia starts,
my body to shake.
A spider – walks over my hand.

A § M
5/8/2017