The squeaking surplus, washed up under soles sobbing and unstopped. The dribble of storm, silent streams twine down two legs truly bare. Grey knee-cut breeches remain crisp to one side, the facing pattern clime conquered and darkened. A blue tee sags not kindly; brimful in heavy clam, humid in disturbance against pale skin beneath.
A stance now open, but plain to see unmoved. Both arms bow outward, a wranglers pose most stiffened, caught still in wetted form.
The relieving wheeze, testament to shelter now found below a concrete umbrella. The hut giving disguise in cultured degree; tieback bamboo, vague necessities, petals blooming in multi-coloured tango. The floor once silver, withered now it fades; collective with the ‘welcome’ mat forsaken to lower limbs that stride in purpose to nowhere.
The accession. The arrival. A thriving hub. The chalked walls stand uneven, splendid in the grasp of directionally obtuse vines, mashed green in upward spirals. To the fore a daybed, caped and grooved. Angled central but since shifted, the settee for stopgap community when strangers meet to announce. Sound bites are subtle; selected euphony bridles affection, the hustling voyagers appease in rising maunders. Liberation in heralded acquaintances never before known, never known thereafter. The uncounted amble in and back out, careless avenues in adventure from ad hoc itineraries around the world.
The host he slouches, downward buoyantly. Smiling, most handsome. Gentle in his formed triangle. The hulky upper-bows to resting forearms with fingers intertwined, inked and bulging. Giant hands together pressed soft against the unspoiled lectern, a wooden bridge of welcome and goodbyes. Normality in commotion, he sterns a chaffed face. I watch. Teaspoon cheekbones, cobbled and sun bruised, high and brooding above hammock lips showing perfect enamel.
The blanched stanchion holds aloft my imperfections. A position protected, away from summer cloudburst. Mouthing squirms. Head nods. Signals in understanding to the latest washed up on the tiled shore. Further swash from the heavy sky fall definitely copious and stifling. Fenced within comforting restlessness. Temporary insanity grows. Fervour meeting flavour. The spice of day long enterprise. Nostrils sing over close upon shoulders, lacklustre sun lotion and the tang of required bathing.
Babbles. Eruptions. Red-skinned and singing. A gala moves smiling. Touring to and fro, an obscure blockade they vibrate. Heartbeats. Handhelds. Sandals. Sunshades. The pulsing traffic. Silent in solitude, my feelings still and comfortably complacent. The mindful indulgence disturbed. A sauntering eye catch. Recognition.
My stomach whistles. The doubting calculation behind the consistent stream. People left, people right, crowds prosper in amongst a flourished lobby. Rising certainty. It has to be? A blatant joist, beaming white like these pages I write. I see the person just near; same shirt, same smile. The excitement it simmers. Come onward the affirmation: ‘Go far and go wide, it’s all to play for living’.
Monday, 11 May 2015
Wednesday, 11 March 2015
Pressure born & marred
A tableau course and shot most colourless,
the scene set still.
Third person running, addressed from each angle,
Recreant monologue a sound on loop,
a heavy ball bounced back.
Dreary dictum bethinking acrimony inside,
the pendulum of drastic bios, confessions most terrible,
Tortured brainwork to punished pinballs that strike.
Two strikes and return,
Two strikes and relaunch.
Music and moments fasten musings to conclude,
The power to suck air, the tower the smother.
A pledge to take bullets, a turn to fire three.
A pledge to take bullets, very quick to fire three.
the scene set still.
Third person running, addressed from each angle,
Recreant monologue a sound on loop,
a heavy ball bounced back.
Dreary dictum bethinking acrimony inside,
the pendulum of drastic bios, confessions most terrible,
Tortured brainwork to punished pinballs that strike.
Two strikes and return,
Two strikes and relaunch.
Music and moments fasten musings to conclude,
The power to suck air, the tower the smother.
A pledge to take bullets, a turn to fire three.
A pledge to take bullets, very quick to fire three.
Saturday, 14 February 2015
Sunscreen scribbles and shouting
Plainsong fusion. Classical guitar. Female crescendo a vocal peak. The rhythmic fanfare against subdued jitters in the room above.
The lust to thrive lay slain, a body slouched horizontal. Fallow in heat, fastened in flesh to bobbled and hardened layers over a recycled mattress finely solid.
A thrum sent pale from a seasoned vent. A metal flower, three-petal and turning. It's wired stem overreached. The near silent application vague in its persistence as hot air broods.
Shorts pulled and loosened. Cotton resting warm and cumbersome against muscled thighs otherwise bare. Shirtless under sweat; daubs, bubbles, a devastated torso held unavailing to need. Chest intensified, but no air free.
Starring, both pupils swell; water-wells of lightlessness ran deep through body ground and mind soil. Blackened sight pockets pitted in drought. Unforgiving to the enemy inside.
A glance arrested, the room shoeboxed. One mansize entrance of expanded lumber, bound and locked. The black helve ornate and pushed upward, forced for insurance.
The wallpaper seeps; once full of newness and shine, but since conquered. A corner folds triangular, hanging down from up. Below a locker sits polished, ruined in gloss by only scattered coin and debauched tissue.
On opposite, the floor hides. Clothing worn and discarded, unfolded and frayed beside a travel bag untouched. Readied, zipped and ribboned with yesterdays destination. Subtle confirmation of a sojourn all-out impermanent.
Just beyond, bottled lotion sits tepid. 500ml run down. Its lid on axis, excessed with creamed residue, liquid cling to the aftermath of today.
Joined in recent desertion, a red notebook. Tattered, small and well-borrowed. Pages unsmooth, earmarked from transit. Open, the exhibit of scribbles. Doodles little to purpose. Notes on proposals. Words to ideas. Sentences to reasons. Pleasantries and requirements simple but learned:
'¿Quires hablar?'.
Lonesome in rest nearing the corner, black tape unused. Armed extension thoughtless towards the thick loom. One hand hits lotion, the bottle fallen and flat. The notepad now further found to damage with white unction splotched gradually over lined pages.
The pressure naked, careened warm and humid. The circled band held and twisted. The seal broke. Tape pulled stern. Body movement swift in direction to the door.
Tape revved once more, sticky side down. The first fillet bitten, pulled and broken. Thumbed fresh between wood and wall and hand-palmed downward.
A process repeated. Turned. Stretched. Ripped.
The ripple of strips a sharp eruption not shallow to the risen soundtrack still echoed. The outline firm. The keyhole final. Stuffed and covered. The window secondary in airtight succumbing. A room blackened. A room thinning.
Positioned in bed once more. The required ribbon. Duct tape raced heavy under thumb against unshaven neck contours. One wrap soundly, a second looped secure.
One fist levered in sternness, trembling yet vivid. The quickness. The rip. Twisting tape constant. Three rounds. Four. The tightness, a surge. Several pulls more. A squirming throat, an hourglass unturned.
Calmness and heartbeats. Sweat and still. White spots. Black spots. Together the rabbithole to perceived liberation.
One tear.
One gasp.
One knock on the door.
The lust to thrive lay slain, a body slouched horizontal. Fallow in heat, fastened in flesh to bobbled and hardened layers over a recycled mattress finely solid.
A thrum sent pale from a seasoned vent. A metal flower, three-petal and turning. It's wired stem overreached. The near silent application vague in its persistence as hot air broods.
Shorts pulled and loosened. Cotton resting warm and cumbersome against muscled thighs otherwise bare. Shirtless under sweat; daubs, bubbles, a devastated torso held unavailing to need. Chest intensified, but no air free.
Starring, both pupils swell; water-wells of lightlessness ran deep through body ground and mind soil. Blackened sight pockets pitted in drought. Unforgiving to the enemy inside.
A glance arrested, the room shoeboxed. One mansize entrance of expanded lumber, bound and locked. The black helve ornate and pushed upward, forced for insurance.
The wallpaper seeps; once full of newness and shine, but since conquered. A corner folds triangular, hanging down from up. Below a locker sits polished, ruined in gloss by only scattered coin and debauched tissue.
On opposite, the floor hides. Clothing worn and discarded, unfolded and frayed beside a travel bag untouched. Readied, zipped and ribboned with yesterdays destination. Subtle confirmation of a sojourn all-out impermanent.
Just beyond, bottled lotion sits tepid. 500ml run down. Its lid on axis, excessed with creamed residue, liquid cling to the aftermath of today.
Joined in recent desertion, a red notebook. Tattered, small and well-borrowed. Pages unsmooth, earmarked from transit. Open, the exhibit of scribbles. Doodles little to purpose. Notes on proposals. Words to ideas. Sentences to reasons. Pleasantries and requirements simple but learned:
'¿Quires hablar?'.
Lonesome in rest nearing the corner, black tape unused. Armed extension thoughtless towards the thick loom. One hand hits lotion, the bottle fallen and flat. The notepad now further found to damage with white unction splotched gradually over lined pages.
The pressure naked, careened warm and humid. The circled band held and twisted. The seal broke. Tape pulled stern. Body movement swift in direction to the door.
Tape revved once more, sticky side down. The first fillet bitten, pulled and broken. Thumbed fresh between wood and wall and hand-palmed downward.
A process repeated. Turned. Stretched. Ripped.
The ripple of strips a sharp eruption not shallow to the risen soundtrack still echoed. The outline firm. The keyhole final. Stuffed and covered. The window secondary in airtight succumbing. A room blackened. A room thinning.
Positioned in bed once more. The required ribbon. Duct tape raced heavy under thumb against unshaven neck contours. One wrap soundly, a second looped secure.
One fist levered in sternness, trembling yet vivid. The quickness. The rip. Twisting tape constant. Three rounds. Four. The tightness, a surge. Several pulls more. A squirming throat, an hourglass unturned.
Calmness and heartbeats. Sweat and still. White spots. Black spots. Together the rabbithole to perceived liberation.
One tear.
One gasp.
One knock on the door.
Monday, 5 January 2015
The fibres of living
A trio, we travel and talk. Forward with fleeting footsteps that answer back. Leather and suede announce intent against the pathways beneath accomplished fibres of fast falling rain.
The sodden severity becomes most definite through brazen white light that strikes and fades, the movement of cars passing by. We stop to configure; a grasp to sought composure beside a poled nightlight. On show for all a kindled brume so dank and teeming.
Three friends, three faces hopeless to the elements.
A wash of wringing jeans, soused shirts and seething jackets. I correct a wet collar and brace both shoulders; a shiver that follows courteous to the finest droplet that finds flesh and tickles my spine.
Four flooded fingers repair a onetime coached cowlick as rainwater streams gel downward, a wince behind eyelids as the sting sets in. In unison we declare the obvious; stating blatantly the heaviness of the downpour.
Late for the party, wet for the celebration. We carry on.
I trial to the rear; soaked, silent and satisfied. An easy soul cotton to the purposeful wanders that take us through car parks, low roads and side streets.
Unlost in an industrial maze and lead by two in front who crave liquid and leisure.
I pry openly as they flirt with the fashionable; fascinating with goals scored on the pitch and the girl goals missed off it. They audit their finances by trading tips on 'each way' and pricing the pint.
Their excited natter shrinks to background sound bites as I bow in admission to ones standing in social circles. Ambiverted and interesting in my own small way; unique and proper; flawed, but full of love; drenched but devoted.
We yield at a crossroad; still late, still unperturbed. A window nearby provides a black mirror to my reality. Self judgment is cast, all positive and proud. Wet and wandering. I look good. I feel good.
"Everything alright there Davy?"
"Couldn't be better my friend, couldn't be better."
The sodden severity becomes most definite through brazen white light that strikes and fades, the movement of cars passing by. We stop to configure; a grasp to sought composure beside a poled nightlight. On show for all a kindled brume so dank and teeming.
Three friends, three faces hopeless to the elements.
A wash of wringing jeans, soused shirts and seething jackets. I correct a wet collar and brace both shoulders; a shiver that follows courteous to the finest droplet that finds flesh and tickles my spine.
Four flooded fingers repair a onetime coached cowlick as rainwater streams gel downward, a wince behind eyelids as the sting sets in. In unison we declare the obvious; stating blatantly the heaviness of the downpour.
Late for the party, wet for the celebration. We carry on.
I trial to the rear; soaked, silent and satisfied. An easy soul cotton to the purposeful wanders that take us through car parks, low roads and side streets.
Unlost in an industrial maze and lead by two in front who crave liquid and leisure.
I pry openly as they flirt with the fashionable; fascinating with goals scored on the pitch and the girl goals missed off it. They audit their finances by trading tips on 'each way' and pricing the pint.
Their excited natter shrinks to background sound bites as I bow in admission to ones standing in social circles. Ambiverted and interesting in my own small way; unique and proper; flawed, but full of love; drenched but devoted.
We yield at a crossroad; still late, still unperturbed. A window nearby provides a black mirror to my reality. Self judgment is cast, all positive and proud. Wet and wandering. I look good. I feel good.
"Everything alright there Davy?"
"Couldn't be better my friend, couldn't be better."
Saturday, 27 December 2014
A warrior awaits...
A shadow cast on eight, the sides of test and tradition;
A warrior awaits.
Darkness, strobes, music and noise;
The change in tune, the tact in tone, always calm.
Emerging in strides, superior and significant;
Bare skinned, bearded, braided and born.
Tattooed and untainted, capped and comfortable;
a celebration of confidence and indulgence in honour.
A right hand raised, an emblem to roars;
the approval all round answers acceptance to accolades.
The face of focus; fuelled, ferocious and physical.
Relaxed and relishing raucousness', a revelling renewed in expected conquest.
Surrounded by stalwarts, saluting strength in their standing;
the goal always glorious, the going a grateful gift.
A fighter famed on feeding fiercely on the fallow; a freak of fearlessness inside the fence.
The pride pronounced previous to participation, a publicity in positivity and persistence;
A prize proudly personal and a promise to his own person.
Bold and brash, a champion challenging collective conclusions of characters contained.
The tribal triggering, tastefully targeting those testing the temperament;
trials always trumpeted, a top flight performer present not to take part, but only to take over.
Inspiring, the self-respected ruthlessness that raises rancour;
Rushing relentlessly in triumph, an Irish artist, flawless, fine-tuned and firm.
Sweating in supremacy, selfishly succumbing to the stalks of success;
second to none in notions that nurture the needs of a nation,
No nonsense negotiations; 'I will win. I will win'.
The calculated carnage, the bellows of belief;
The narrow aisles, the path to righteous inevitably.
A warrior awaits, but not in the shadows.
The beaming light with 8 sides around him;
Ready, zealous and namely, Notorious.
@oconndr1984
A warrior awaits.
Darkness, strobes, music and noise;
The change in tune, the tact in tone, always calm.
Emerging in strides, superior and significant;
Bare skinned, bearded, braided and born.
Tattooed and untainted, capped and comfortable;
a celebration of confidence and indulgence in honour.
A right hand raised, an emblem to roars;
the approval all round answers acceptance to accolades.
The face of focus; fuelled, ferocious and physical.
Relaxed and relishing raucousness', a revelling renewed in expected conquest.
Surrounded by stalwarts, saluting strength in their standing;
the goal always glorious, the going a grateful gift.
A fighter famed on feeding fiercely on the fallow; a freak of fearlessness inside the fence.
The pride pronounced previous to participation, a publicity in positivity and persistence;
A prize proudly personal and a promise to his own person.
Bold and brash, a champion challenging collective conclusions of characters contained.
The tribal triggering, tastefully targeting those testing the temperament;
trials always trumpeted, a top flight performer present not to take part, but only to take over.
Inspiring, the self-respected ruthlessness that raises rancour;
Rushing relentlessly in triumph, an Irish artist, flawless, fine-tuned and firm.
Sweating in supremacy, selfishly succumbing to the stalks of success;
second to none in notions that nurture the needs of a nation,
No nonsense negotiations; 'I will win. I will win'.
The calculated carnage, the bellows of belief;
The narrow aisles, the path to righteous inevitably.
A warrior awaits, but not in the shadows.
The beaming light with 8 sides around him;
Ready, zealous and namely, Notorious.
@oconndr1984
Monday, 22 December 2014
I am me...
14 and unfree, chosen chains chasten character. 'The leader' longs to lambast the liking lovingness that lingers through my heart for others.
Beaten by bullies with a fist full of names; powerfully pounded by punches of insults. My internal inquest; investigating the inklings of identifying in earnest the true meaning of myself.
Questions, no answers. Hate hovers and holds heavy in my head. More questions, still no answers.
Fear follows frantically, furrowing and folding the freedom of facing friends. The flames of fantasy found in falsely feeling favourite. Please let me be liked.
They justify their judgments through jargon and juvenile joyfulness. Me just being me the jewel of their jest as I juggle jibes and jokes that are far from funny.
Taken twofold by arms of anger as I'm ordered to lick piss from the floor; taken threefold at my talkback. I'm thrust by the temple towards the tin; my teeth are taken out. Their thunder throbs my thoughts and all.
Their laughter lives loud as I lay lame in length on the floor. Blood bellows, red and running, ruining my outside and in.
Bent, bruised, bloodied and beaten. Belief banished and my brain blackened by blame. This is my fault for being me.
I succumb. Let me sleep. You win.
14 and free, I straighten my spine and stern my shoulders. The sense of inner strength. Spirits soar as I stride these streets.
My music is me. Magical and moving; my mood manipulated at Marley's message: 'every little thing is gonna be alright'.
Rightfully revelling in resilience and resolve, as lightning strikes my run towards life.
Positive posture, posing public in proudness. A picture of persistence, personifying my personal placement amongst the crowd.
I stand on the shoulder of myself, shouting in success: "get up off the floor". I am me; leaning in love and longing to live. 1-0 up with a million to go.
Bullies, blaggards and burglars of esteem; the power of my person, a shield of strength shrugging your suggestions that you scream to shake my soul. Feisty and fired up in my findings of figuring the finesse of faith in oneself.
I am me. Tall and not taken. A character unchained. Justified not a joke. Loved and loving. I succumb to life. I'm wide awake. I win
@oconndr1984
Beaten by bullies with a fist full of names; powerfully pounded by punches of insults. My internal inquest; investigating the inklings of identifying in earnest the true meaning of myself.
Questions, no answers. Hate hovers and holds heavy in my head. More questions, still no answers.
Fear follows frantically, furrowing and folding the freedom of facing friends. The flames of fantasy found in falsely feeling favourite. Please let me be liked.
They justify their judgments through jargon and juvenile joyfulness. Me just being me the jewel of their jest as I juggle jibes and jokes that are far from funny.
Taken twofold by arms of anger as I'm ordered to lick piss from the floor; taken threefold at my talkback. I'm thrust by the temple towards the tin; my teeth are taken out. Their thunder throbs my thoughts and all.
Their laughter lives loud as I lay lame in length on the floor. Blood bellows, red and running, ruining my outside and in.
Bent, bruised, bloodied and beaten. Belief banished and my brain blackened by blame. This is my fault for being me.
I succumb. Let me sleep. You win.
14 and free, I straighten my spine and stern my shoulders. The sense of inner strength. Spirits soar as I stride these streets.
My music is me. Magical and moving; my mood manipulated at Marley's message: 'every little thing is gonna be alright'.
Rightfully revelling in resilience and resolve, as lightning strikes my run towards life.
Positive posture, posing public in proudness. A picture of persistence, personifying my personal placement amongst the crowd.
I stand on the shoulder of myself, shouting in success: "get up off the floor". I am me; leaning in love and longing to live. 1-0 up with a million to go.
Bullies, blaggards and burglars of esteem; the power of my person, a shield of strength shrugging your suggestions that you scream to shake my soul. Feisty and fired up in my findings of figuring the finesse of faith in oneself.
I am me. Tall and not taken. A character unchained. Justified not a joke. Loved and loving. I succumb to life. I'm wide awake. I win
@oconndr1984
Saturday, 13 December 2014
Til death do us part
The other guests have gathered, already comfortable and cosy. My arrival is subtle and silent. I'm welcomed through a varicoloured haze of satin and velvet as the girls catch all eyes.
They laud in veils and hats, dresses of great shade and tailor and heels of great height and shine.
The men look polished and groomed; ties and shoes of varied degree with grey and dark ensembles the common choice of uniform.
There's grins and glee aplenty; restless elation amongst a passionate people, all present and sharing the love and life of the newly-weds.
The conversations unfold; spiels on style and comments on culture. Gossip and rumour exchanged in pleasant and upbeat demeanor. There's coffee cups filled and champagne glasses emptied, each beverage shared with eats, both sweet and savoury.
The murmur of patrons, warm and wondrous. Their laughter reverberates, hording the great hall. The grizzled limestone surroundings tightly pillared from all four sides towards the white and gold marble above. The domed ceiling, incredible superiority in architectural purity, brought together by a marvellous crystal chandelier that dangles luminous upon the guests and wooden floor below.
A pianist plays in the key of family and friends bonding in chinwag anarchy. Laughter and stories, catch ups and formalities, a happy time.
"Doesn't she look stunning?" A statement of intent that requires my thoughts on the bride. The smiling bride. She swans beautifully beneath the crystal light tincture, her movement immaculate and graceful, a serene cloud floating in warm white between and beyond her guests.
She's beautiful. But she cannot take away from my own get up for the day which is equally impressive. The carefully chosen mask I've worn that provides
a smile. The humour I've hired that shows contentment and happiness. The body language I've bought that pretends I want to be here. Should anyone enquire as to my wellbeing, I'm fully prepared with deep pockets full of fiction and fable to ensure that the vision of my life at present is one of great ambition and desire.
I mingle and mix when its required, acknowledging in false approval my peers own promise of progression and pride in life; confirmation of further engagements, houses brokered and bought, babies on the way. I smile at their stance, but cry inside as I succumb once again to my own self-hate and loneliness.
A moment in late afternoon is lost as I stare in abandoned regard at nothing. My empty intent is distracted pleasantly by the allure and elegance of her dainty frame. A bridesmaid cut in emerald green, a silk curtain fitted and flowing in decency and triumph around her as she manoeuvres barefoot around decorated tables and chairs.
She moves in several directions but slowly, an empress of reverie whose looming shadow grows. Her long brown hair a flawless platted rope sitting gentle over her left shoulder. Her eyes glow in peaceful meddlesomeness, two circled ornaments of jewel blue awake under spectacular lashes and thinned brows.
A glance in my direction followed by a half smile from her painted lips suggests she sees beneath my mask and fathoms my lifes intricacies.
My stomach whirls in response to her indisputable bloom. I like her. Perhaps beneath the flames of my own flaws and self-loathing, there's a desire to love and live.
Maybe I could talk to her? Young girls have problems too, she might understand.
I shake my head, acceptance and convincement against the speculation that such a gentlewoman would ever like someone like me, such nonsense. My deprivation in living would never be inflicted on someone so pure.
These glorious notions subside by choice, I catch a clear view of myself in the mirror. I see everything. The trousers and blazer; black and dark like my everlasting mood. A shirt as white as the light I think I'll see once the noose tightens around my neck and a tie as red as the blood that may spill from my wrists when all is said and done.
Depression and me; til death do us part.
They laud in veils and hats, dresses of great shade and tailor and heels of great height and shine.
The men look polished and groomed; ties and shoes of varied degree with grey and dark ensembles the common choice of uniform.
There's grins and glee aplenty; restless elation amongst a passionate people, all present and sharing the love and life of the newly-weds.
The conversations unfold; spiels on style and comments on culture. Gossip and rumour exchanged in pleasant and upbeat demeanor. There's coffee cups filled and champagne glasses emptied, each beverage shared with eats, both sweet and savoury.
The murmur of patrons, warm and wondrous. Their laughter reverberates, hording the great hall. The grizzled limestone surroundings tightly pillared from all four sides towards the white and gold marble above. The domed ceiling, incredible superiority in architectural purity, brought together by a marvellous crystal chandelier that dangles luminous upon the guests and wooden floor below.
A pianist plays in the key of family and friends bonding in chinwag anarchy. Laughter and stories, catch ups and formalities, a happy time.
"Doesn't she look stunning?" A statement of intent that requires my thoughts on the bride. The smiling bride. She swans beautifully beneath the crystal light tincture, her movement immaculate and graceful, a serene cloud floating in warm white between and beyond her guests.
She's beautiful. But she cannot take away from my own get up for the day which is equally impressive. The carefully chosen mask I've worn that provides
a smile. The humour I've hired that shows contentment and happiness. The body language I've bought that pretends I want to be here. Should anyone enquire as to my wellbeing, I'm fully prepared with deep pockets full of fiction and fable to ensure that the vision of my life at present is one of great ambition and desire.
I mingle and mix when its required, acknowledging in false approval my peers own promise of progression and pride in life; confirmation of further engagements, houses brokered and bought, babies on the way. I smile at their stance, but cry inside as I succumb once again to my own self-hate and loneliness.
A moment in late afternoon is lost as I stare in abandoned regard at nothing. My empty intent is distracted pleasantly by the allure and elegance of her dainty frame. A bridesmaid cut in emerald green, a silk curtain fitted and flowing in decency and triumph around her as she manoeuvres barefoot around decorated tables and chairs.
She moves in several directions but slowly, an empress of reverie whose looming shadow grows. Her long brown hair a flawless platted rope sitting gentle over her left shoulder. Her eyes glow in peaceful meddlesomeness, two circled ornaments of jewel blue awake under spectacular lashes and thinned brows.
A glance in my direction followed by a half smile from her painted lips suggests she sees beneath my mask and fathoms my lifes intricacies.
My stomach whirls in response to her indisputable bloom. I like her. Perhaps beneath the flames of my own flaws and self-loathing, there's a desire to love and live.
Maybe I could talk to her? Young girls have problems too, she might understand.
I shake my head, acceptance and convincement against the speculation that such a gentlewoman would ever like someone like me, such nonsense. My deprivation in living would never be inflicted on someone so pure.
These glorious notions subside by choice, I catch a clear view of myself in the mirror. I see everything. The trousers and blazer; black and dark like my everlasting mood. A shirt as white as the light I think I'll see once the noose tightens around my neck and a tie as red as the blood that may spill from my wrists when all is said and done.
Depression and me; til death do us part.
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