Author: poetryfest

There seems to be a disconnect in what we deem reality
The truth about our origins being forgotten, it seems
Like we don’t understand the reason for existing
Like we don’t comprehend this paradox in which we’re living

Do they even want to see or understand the meaning?
Why do they get angry when everything that I am saying relies simply on thinking?
Isn’t that what they wanted me to do?
Didn’t they teach me that in school?

It’s thanks to them that I see right from wrong, right?
It’s thanks to all their lessons that I see when it’s a genocide
‘Never again!’, they kept saying with so much pride
They named my school after a man who failed at homicide

They taught me about her diary
but not about her family’s history
And now they are literally trying to convince me
that truth is not what my own eyes can see

They gaslight and they name-call, while they justify another bomb
Do they really believe we don’t see that that is wrong?
They’ve always stood so ‘high and mighty’, defended by their lying media army
pushing all this propaganda and narratives that are so harming
Thinking they’ll just keep brainwashing everyone

But somehow I perceive that we are not standing for this much longer
Somehow I believe we see collectively that only the truth will make us stronger
When our souls shout loud enough
their narratives vaporise and turn into a cloud of dust

They taught us all of this
They said to fight and to resist
regimes of oppression
and proprietors of mass-destrustion

They taught us right from wrong
So what the fuck is going on?

I take the grainy water
dip a furtive hand in the low tide
and kiss the sign, sulphur rising
I watch the tangle of motorway turn
as a mobile above her riverbed

kneel, penitent daughter returning
forgive us our trespasses on the tip of my tongue
shame my voice and its betrayal
the forest encroaching
on this bright communion ground

to contain holy sound, I write myself breathing
I write the path we found
lost on the hillside
did we look towards heaven?

I write myself out of this place
I write home, write stillness
between the line breaks
my god, is this where I’m rooted?

Your roots are deep
They beckon me
Pulling me towards you

You and the earth collide
Leaving cracks at the surface
Ditches and rivets I cross
As I journey
Unable to ignore your call

There you are
Moonlight dancing on your leaves
I stand in awe
Next to you I feel so small

Your bark is thick
Impenetrable
Your branches spread wide
Sturdy
Able to hold my weight

I climb your fortress of limbs
‘Til I’m safe within
Looking out
Looking up
The stars are bright
I enjoy the world from your sight

I want more
I want to explore your every part
I travel deeper
From branches to twigs
Until you break
And I fall

I’m bruised and you are broken
I promise to never push your limits again
I make myself a place
A home
I lie at your base

I water your roots
And one day you bloom
Beautiful buds all over you

Months later they turn into fruit
And feed my soul
Sweet to the taste
But then they turn
Rotting once they are inside

After many nights at your feet
I now know it’s time to leave
Your siren song still sings
Still pulls at me

In your shadow I have spent too long
It’s time that I move on
I’m a traveler you see
It seems this world
Doesn’t have a place for me

I did not want to converse with your ashes
A result of your index finger of defense on the shooting barrel.
Your body deflecting the light of the early morning fog,
The sun.
Ricocheting on your beige monochromatic static expression.
Staring at nothing.
And the blue aryan of your eye, the only glittering coat of life.

No more of your butterfly wings,
your laughter—
only the filth of mud in your fingernails
inertia in your hand,
still gripping the Holy Bible
I gifted upon your soul.
The psalms your lustful clench casted away,
the last thing you prayed.
Unfaithfully.

But now I–
speak to your ashes in an unconventional face and gaze
a premature metaphor-ordained death
but there is no voice.
Not from me or you,
Despite your face coming through and blood pumping out of you.

So I faithfully stand at the telephone booth,
wasted all my Sunday church coins trying to squeeze vowels out of you,
choking you. Turning. You. Blue.
(Heavenly father disapproved—said that wasn’t proverbial of me)

So I try at home, and voicemail is all I know of you.
Go. fuck. you.
I meant, sorry. Go. forgive. Yourself.
Or Forgive. me.
Now that the telephone cable is clothing my neck
in the spread of your Holy Ghost
round the city’s face.

—

But your voicemail preludes Gods,
and he’s the only one that softly,
madly talks,
filling the puzzle of you.
Sanctifying my intestines,
Wrapping my hands in rosaries,
restoring the lustful grip of yours
washing my typewriter and me
while I call
and call
and call
to the one that was you

The fleeting beauty
Of her yellow birthday roses
Excites Me
And saddens me

On one hand
They are full and vibrant
Filled with scent and adoration
A presentation of my
Inner love
Manifested in their
Overlapping petals
They naturally exist
That brings pure joy

On the other hand
Vibrancy dies in a day or two
The fragility of existence
The short life lived
Only to serve
To only exist to bring joy

The delicate balance
Of a short but fulfilling life
A small moment in time
To express an abstract
Yet foundational feeling
Maybe a filament of life lived well

In the Office of Squirrel Recruitment,
A scent of damp despair was evident.
With documents that smelled both sweet and faint,
And one wilted fern, a drooping, sad complaint,
A silent witness to some long-lost goal.
Behind the desk sat Kafkett, whose whole soul
Seemed sewn into a suit, a rumpled sight,
As if it went through a car wash one night.

Across from him, a man so truly beige,
He risked just blending with the plaster stage.
This Normalson, he clutched his CV tight,
A sacred text in the depressing light.

Kafkett leaned forward, with unblinking eyes,
His voice a boom of confidential size.
“Let’s begin,” the strange pronouncement flew,
“I am a Business person, and so are you.”

Normalson blinked. “Well, I’m currently not employed,
Which is the reason I came, I’m in the void—”

“Details, details,” Kafkett waved a hand,
“You are a business woman, or a man,
And so am I. I have registered. See?
A legitimate establishment.” With glee,
He patted his desk, which gave a woeful shake,
A leg about to buckle, bend, and break.

“Right. So,” said Normalson, with focus fraught,
“What is it, then, that you do?” he sought.

“Excellent question!” Kafkett beamed with might.
“We find you Candidates. Have you lost your light?
Have you lost yours? Are these them, by the way?”
He gestured to what looked like takeaway
Menus in stacks. “Take them! Be my guest!
I don’t want them. Put them to the test.”

Normalson stared. “I… have no candidates.
I am a candidate who waits and waits.”

“Precisely! We provide a tailored,
Integrated approach. You’ve been detailed!
What is it? You’re asking the wrong me.
A horizontally-integrated synergy
Is at the grassroots of our great success.
What does that mean? I couldn’t tell you, yes.”

Kafkett stood up and started then to pace.
“We are a forward-thinking, future-facing space.
Our Digital Team got stuck inside the lift.
How disruptive! What a paradigm shift!”

He stopped and pointed. “Here’s the process, son.
I come into your office. We have fun.
We do meeting-and-greeting, hellos and good-day.
Then I leave the premises. I go away.
Voluntarily, in some cases. I’m a very
Smooth operation. Quite contemporary.”

“But I don’t have an office,” Normalson said low.

“We’ll work around that. We will make you grow
Into the great success that you are today!
But also employed. It’s a two-pronged attack, hooray!
We’ve placed so many people, just like you,
In jobs like yours. The market’s flooded through
With quality. The market then collapsed.
Is that a good thing? My knowledge has lapsed.
I don’t know why. I’m not your mother, friend!”

He leaned against the wall, and to that end,
He struck a thoughtful pose. “We’re well-renowned
In Business Circles. Lies about us bound.
One of our great successes was a forum,
Where candidates could meet, a place for ’em
To talk about our service. Then, you see,
Another success was shutting it down, with glee.”

A headache bloomed behind poor Normalson’s eyes.
“Do you have… references? Or some replies?
Reviews perhaps?”

Kafkett was bright and cheery.
“You can rate our services online, my dearie.
Good luck finding the site. We have a feeling
It’s been deleted. But if you’re appealing,
And become an elite VIP, you’ll get
Your own Account Manager. A person you’ll have met
Who will be very difficult to please.
Welcome to the real world. Now, on your knees.”

He sat back down, his fingers in a steeple.
“Let’s talk of strategy, for business people.
Our main competitors are common sense,
Market fluctuations, with their evidence,
And carrying on just like a pork chop might.
My chief concern with fluctuations… right…
Is that I do not know what they all are.”

He stabbed the air with two fingers, near and far.
“You have to have charisma for this bit,
Which is what I believe this is. To wit:
Ways to appear charismatic, so they say,
Include market fluctuations and, okay,
A random, aggressive use of ‘air quotes’.”

Normalson just stared, collecting notes
Within his mind of pure insanity.

“I used to be like you,” said Kafkett, he
Whose voice now softened with a strange, off-key
And manufactured sense of empathy.
“Hungry, lopsided, and not using the words good.”

He cleared his throat. “Now, to be understood:
The interview prep. We take turns with the pack.
If one consultant embarrasses themself, alack,
The next one goes in. Then the next. Then three.
Then lunch. Can’t be doing this all day, you see.
Our Digital Team locked themselves in a meeting.”

He leaned in close, a scent both wan and fleeting
Of weak tea and sheer confidence took flight.
“Psychometric testing is a tool of might,”
He paused, a glint of madness in his eye.
“But so am I.”
He let one sharp laugh fly,
Then stopped. His face a mask of solemn thought.

“A sense of humour,” he continued, “can’t be bought.
Much like a dog that’s not been taught to speak,
I’m great at sensing humour’s highest peak.
Would you like an example?” Without a pause,
He barrelled on, ignoring nature’s laws.
“And finally, the Squirrel Recruitment prize:
We analyse the psychological ties
That stop you getting work. And if we find
No such issues present in your mind,
We will create them for you. Custom-made.”

The room was silent. Even the fern’s slow fade
Seemed to have stopped to listen. Normalson
Opened his mouth, then closed it, feeling done.
He saw his perfect CV, neat and plain,
And saw the crushing, bleak, predictable rain
Of one more automated, cold rejection.

“And if I’m unhappy with that selection?”
He whispered, barely breathing in the room.

“If you’re unhappy with that pending doom,
We have a special consultant,” Kafkett cooed.
“If you are not unhappy, feeling good,
We still have a special consultant. That’s our way.
We have one regardless of how you feel today.
You are not the boss of us, I don’t think so.
I’m the boss of us, unless you know
Otherwise, and if you do, please tell me now.”

Normalson looked at Chaos, with its brow
Furrowed in thought. He saw the void, and it
Was wearing a cheap suit and wouldn’t quit
Making air quotes. And for the first time in
A year of beige, he felt a spark begin.

“Okay,” said Normalson, a slow smile bloomed,
No longer feeling weathered and consumed.
“I’m in.”

Kafkett’s face split in a triumphant grin.
“Who runs the world? Girls. Now, let us begin.
Any other questions? Things to know?”

Normalson shook his head and answered, “No.”

“Good. Squirrel Recruitment. Are we the best?
No. Are we going to put feathers to the test
In this whole industry? Also, no.
Welcome aboard. We don’t know where we’ll go.”

There is an outer layer of this feeling:
some fragments of infinity that gathered around and framed you in my heart,
there is mystery to this all but
this layer doesn’t peel off,
I wonder if painting your portraits and watching them burn would do the trick,
but it shatters my already hurt heart
to think of burning your beautiful face painted in dexterity,
I guess the poets, and all were right:
love doesn’t go away
it stays smouldering and sinking within.
I guess the movies were not playing us either
there is no way around pain but of embracing it
when all I yearned for was your long arms holding mine
nothing the universe and her magnanimity couldn’t spare.
My ilk, the bad writers and lovers, only get scraps for the memory
the rind of our affinities stays affected and eternal.

Before I tell this story of mine
Each of you must keep in mind
The people mentioned are fictional
And similarities to the real are coincidental

Part 1: The Treasure

Now this story is a tragic one
And do trust me, there are more to come
I hold this story like a pet
For it covers the first love I’d ever met

We’d met in a land far from here
A place that I again would never near
Using stones to communicate at once we would chat
Of mystical things we would do if we came back

That day never came, but that’s far ahead
I could only dream of her in my bed
Well, him, a princess turned prince
But again, only important since

Then I wasn’t a good person
I don’t look kindly on this version
Of I, one who would yell at any tone
That wasn’t of obedience, I felt so grown

But I was a child, one who had thought
That to be mean was how power was got
And it was power I wanted, power I had
Over this little one, having thought it was planned

There was no plan, no need to manipulate
This newly-crowned prince had given himself the bait
That I was worth the time, worth the effort
Little did he know, he would only get hurt

One day another would give me an opportunity
Oh how he asked, oh how he plea’d
For my love, of my kindness, to relieve his distress
Of course, I would say yes

Neither would know that I’d betrayed
What could I tell them? What would I say?
The truth, of course, but I was a kid
One relatively smart, so all the more stupid

My action bore too much weight
I could feel the aches
Turned to paranoia
Like sailor on a cursed voyage

By my own guilt I was found out
I’d connected them both, and without a doubt
I knew they’d be compatible
But I never expected to crumble

I cannot tell of the months spent
Oh what I said, oh what I sent
To gain back the love of the original
I knew it was over, though in denial

A Treasure lost to my own idiocy
Or maybe, it was more than I could see?
A relationship so weak that I
Ruined it all, seemingly out of spite

Over time I became myself
Ditched the pursuit of ears that fell deaf
I’d completed my schooling, one day to become
A magister, someday wanting to be called someone

But late one evening,
Or early one morning,
Depending on your perspective,
A new message had been detected

The same situation, with different people
Him and I, voyages changed our hulls
I became alone, he promiscuous
His truths all ambiguous

On friendly terms, though not the best
We talked it out, and I can rest
As if I would, I’m still blind
By the deafening screams of my mind

With a new year came a new home
My family had moved to a place called Okrashone
Though he was pulled from his place in an old village
By his own volition by people unrelated

They came from the Goon Caves
It was him they came to save
From a family unforgiving
Of his identity unconforming

In Okrashone we now both reside
If I were to want, only a few hours’ ride
My childish self wants to see
Even if the encounter were brief

The feelings I have for him are perennial straits
Thinking that I have caused him immeasurable pain
That what was between us was an exceptional love
That I threw away the feelings of a special dove

Now I know that such feelings are mere desire
That the other side of the coin was much more dire
But every day the feeling of loving him lurks around
Waiting to pounce, the moment I feel the thought has drowned

Part 2: The Goblin

This story is quite tragic, too
One hard for me, one heart-felt
But don’t worry, it’s just as you knew
The other love that I had met

We shared a hobby, one of fighting
Every day we wished to spar
Between rounds I was consoling
For this one’s life had gone so far

Off the edge he wished to go
Well, she now, but I digress
Wanting to die, to go below
As I would expect from a prince turned princess

We talked night and day
About her family, about her fright
The empty words that I would say
To make her comfortable, to ease the night

And she wanted me, or so I thought
To be her lover, until the grave
The betrayal of it I had forgot
For this nobody could have forgave

No wonder I said yes
The allure of such a fantasy
Someone who would transmit to me their stress
And would appease my sexuality

How young I was, how vain
A shared hobby and a god complex
Is what allowed me to cause such pain
To the one I wished to have wanted to accept

As the fallout previously stated ensued
She was the first to leave my head
In the end I knew she was only food
For the voice that spoke in bed

Later on another message had come
I was in the coliseum, where the weights were
At first I was confused as to who, how dumb
I was when I found out it was her

Another gracious story of family long gone
She had left her castle for another life
Living with another woman, surviving on
The goodwill of another’s strife

I was apathetic, but wanted her to know
That I knew my errors, I knew my way
She seemed confused that my guilt was so
Strong though the years that I’d been astray

Of course a Goblin could never see
The way my guilt has carried out
A great blow to my reality
I knew that I could not live without

It festers at times even to this day
I pretend to be happy but who wants me to be?
I’m an idiot, I should go away
Start a new life where I die at sea

Part 3: The Jew

I’ve been told tragedy works in threes
Don’t worry, it’s not another one of love
Just a friend I met

The stories before were of people I could never touch
People that I could never see, with whom I never truly interacted
This one is different, I knew this boy in the flesh
When we were young, and even now when we are in different places

He’s just like me, but with one key difference
For he is a jester,
a jokester,
a clown,
But still in the court
He can never be free

The strangeness of our brains glued us together
We grew together, grew off of the weirdness
Nothing to keep us in check, no witness to bear

We had no struggle, we had no life
Except each other and the friends we’d make fun of
Even if I was just a third wheel
Making quips, talking out
It was fun to participate

Of those in the group it was I
The first to make something meaningful
Instead of being a goof, a goober
I decided to move onto something greater

Comedy was my true passion that I’d left behind
To teach, that was my calling
I could never hold that part of me back
So in the end, I fell

At such a time I had the falling out
But the one who was with me all this time?
I call him the Jew
Not from his religious preference
But rather a silly observation of his name
Offensive as it may be,
I don’t care
I held onto it forever

Later in our lives he told me of a dangerous jest
One in which he threatened peers
Said to have shot them dead with a rapid-fire crossbow
From Call of Knightly Charge
He’d been put in the cellar
Charged for terroristic crimes

While his father defended him with violent speech
Remarks against the Gendarme that had imprisoned him, too

Where he is now, I cannot be sure
One thing is for certain:
It cannot be good
I wish to have saved him from such a fate
But one cannot rescue the self from the soul

I am but a bard, I can only sing
I have no influence
I have no game
For this I’m to be shunned
Despite my greatest achievements

Part 4: The Sole Survivor

And of them all only stand I
I, the one who wishes to cry
When I’m the one who flies
Thinking that I’m just a guy

I’ve never had trauma, I’d always been strong
I’d beat on my chest all day long
Unable to wait for the next day’s song
Always excited for the morning gong

Through luck or smarts, I don’t know
I’m the only one climbing to the top of the rope
The one getting an education, going against the flow
Of life, not needing to wander on the tips of my toes

Going through life, no need to become
A magister to be called someone
It’s now just a hobby that takes me to the sun
Even if it pays me, I will treat it as such

A bard by profession, a survivor by chance
All I can think to do is dance
To the beat of my drum, to the romance
Of the life that I lead into my own trance

Fools these are not, they are full of dreams
Crushed by the weight of a life that leads
To a watering hole, drained by deeds
Of the people around the ones who bleed

That I never really knew, I was simply an acquaintance
But the one fact I had, was that their mothers lacked acceptance
Their fathers lacked gold, they could not have accepted
The misery that came to them with any sense of consent

My mind thinks and my heart feels
But neither knows what is real
Both wish to hurt me
I will never heel

I don’t know what God demands
All that I do for him is act
My life is out of my hands
For I am not human, but a man

I survive,
Better die.

Ever wonder what might have been
Wish you could play it all over again?
Press rewind and choose the alternate,
Door number two instead of your fate?
Regret, a whisper behind closed doors,
Yearning for something just a little bit more.
Is there a time machine made for this
Returning before that deciding first kiss.
A careless choice, a quiet ache,
The kind that keeps you wide awake.
Lying beside one, lost in another,
Haunted by the road not taken with the other.

In the mirror’s gaze, I trace the lines,
Each bump is a story, and the curve is defined.
Time weaves its web, softening the edges,
A canvas aging, adorned with my pledges.

I remember the days when smoothness was the goal,
The chase for perfection took a toll on my soul.
In the wobbles, in the marks that remain,
Lies a map of my journey, my laughter, my pain.

I loved the moments when my skin felt like silk,
But found deeper comfort in the warmth of my milk,
For beauty is nestled in the imperfect dance,
And each scar tells a tale of my second chance.

So here I stand, with whispers of age,
Embracing the passage, the lines of my page.
For what I see now is a world intertwined—
I see myself in the wrinkles, I see love defined.