[poetic-martyr]

I hate a man who has never done anything to me. He told you to follow him. So you did. He told you to give him everything you had. So you did. He built a bonfire and told you to put your hands in for him. So you did. He told you he didn’t want you anymore. He told you to leave him. So you did. Then sometime later he asked you go back to him. So you did. When burnt hands touch flammable dreams your future depends on how bright the embers glow on your fingers. You’ve been waiting for him to put them out for you. You’ve been waiting for him to pour a bucket full of water and tell you to put your hands in. You’ve been waiting to watch the steam rise up in front of your eyes. The sweet blessed relief of knowing he cares enough. Even though you knew you could do it anytime yourself. You could have cared for yourself. Now I hate him. Now I still care about you. Now I can’t accept it. Now I can’t admit it. But somehow you’re still happy. And he won’t say he’s sorry. You’ll just say it hoping he says it back. And you may say you love him. To which he will say it back. But he won’t say he’s sorry. He will never say he’s sorry.

@poetic-martyr - Acceptance

[poetic-martyr]

Guest

Amazing how I look up to see a monster on my ceiling I never knew it came here so often it scuttles around so easily upside down because it's been laying web work between the walls and my lampshade right around my head when I was looking down corpses of pretty things dangling like pendulums in the place I feel the safest are you friend are you neutral are you something sinister you'll just levitate there looking smug as if I'm too scared to get rid of you

[poetic-martyr]

Balloons

It will be a long time before I descend again I was let go by someone once and I fell into a pearlescent violet sky drifting on the edge of dusk I don't remember much I rarely recall what home feels like I know that I've forgotten that person but I remember being dropped, dropped upwards. I think it was because of me I always wanted to get up I always wanted to see everything from above and look down when I got higher savouring the sky and it's ever changing palette sometimes I've been really high and at other times I've stroked the ground again knowing that it's where I will end up I've noticed that I can't stop because the world is such a free place if you let it take you where it wants you to go some places I hate other places I'd like to stay but in the meantime I like to keep moving One day I will come back down, someone will tie me to their wrist because I will be prepared to make them happy but in this moment I love only the wind and where it is going to take me across sea across country looking over cities and glancing at every face every light every reflection every day every night every poignant setting I feel so free. I feel so alive. And most importantly I feel happy about myself no matter where I go.

[poetic-martyr]

The Hallway

The hallway of our house harbours more than that which meets a pair of eyes or even a pair of ears this hollow room between rooms holds a mystery that only I seem to be figuring out it's different because your car finally came home this week we seem to chase each other's shadows across the landing and despite the bond of blood there is no speech as all of your business is never mine and all of my business is never yours to put two people under the same roof it's strange to see a verbal barrier emerge and split a house right down the middle because the closest thing to gospel that I hear from these four walls is hearsay of a life that mum and dad recite to me the friends you meet in one town over the conveyor belt of boyfriends delivered through the front door put straight to the bin the tumultuous sequence of professions that I know leave you feeling unfulfilled and incomplete my headphones are in or my record is spinning with the volume turned up just low enough to hear you speak because somehow it's reassuring rarely do I see you properly rarely do I speak to you properly never dare I try but somehow still your brother forever and always since your name appeared on the birth certificate sharing the same last word as me

[poetic-martyr]

December, I will never love you

you are the darkest daytimes that one twelfth of the year that brings out a segment of my personality I wish I never knew I had the colours that past seasons gave me grow pale in your light and the final fires that autumn gifted me dissipate to embers at my toes

your nights that grow so long make me reminisce in summer I would be out for the day before the sun ever thought of setting but with you it barely strokes the sky or it hides behind the obsolete grey clouds that hold my neighbourhood in a snowglobe

and yet you return every year as nature says you must and you bring with you that tedious metallic persona you’re like some programmed machine dressed in tinsel and lights chanting the same monotonous tune and ordering everyone to be happy

leave me be, vile month, the first step into woeful winters, I have known you all my life and this relationship we force between us always leaves me feeling disgusted how on earth do you get the privilege to end a year I have thoroughly enjoyed?

December, I am sorry but I will never love you.

‘The Twelfth Month’ - @poetic-martyr

[poetic-martyr]

Mother

There once was a boy who now stands a man someone who once couldn't became someone who can youth engraved to stone stuck firm in the ground toys laid at it's base and the yew trees surround lest we seldom remember where we all once were laid on backs until crawling screaming out for her Mother can you tell me where on earth I am now? I walk and talk fluently though I don't recall how Where to go from here? I haven't the faintest clue but if I have learnt anything I have learnt it from you

[poetic-martyr]

When I walked into the city I was embraced with open arms libraries and cathedrals holding history between walls monolith concrete fingers holding me in their palms glass spire skyscrapers of the modern age standing tall metro tunnels and hidden bars flourishing underground black coffee, vinyl records and clothing labels galore voices and vehicles mixed in cacophonous sound an enticing mirror world of windows to adore when on the way home I look out of the plane the buildings are drenched in lemonade twilight the busy street-lit roads become luminous veins the electric neon glows and the filaments ignite I knew I was countless miles away from my house but the city is my home and that is what counts

The City - @poetic-martyr

[poetic-martyr]

We recreate our past in the hope that it gets repeated, using the bodies of other people who do not know the intimacy that you share with your past and if we dare to keep the past alive we will also repeat the heavy melancholy that looms behind the sunshine we think we have made. Your favourite record will warp and the pleasant sound you love will be a distant memory before you can say “I wish had just moved on” even though you loved dancing to that same old song. You wonder if you ever fucked up or not and because of this you try and do the same thing over and over and over trying to find the opportunity to apologise or to get the words out that you never managed to even though the model that you’re talking to is already listening with refracted hearing. What you say will never feel right because the only moment you ever had simply got up and walked away while you were lost in thought or plucking up the courage to get the words out. The moment has gone. And yet, even as I say these things I too am thinking. I am thinking of those special somebodys that I left behind in the past and I am leaving them be for now. I loved them at some point. And I’m sure I still love them now. But they are not what they once were, I am not what I once was and all those little messages are locked away at the back of my mind until I decide to open them up again for myself, even when I cross them in the street again. The crisp autumn leaves will blow around reminding me of the natural cycles that have to happen in order to keep things flourishing. The sun will shine tomorrow. The music collection of your life will change but only through acceptance. And only then will you dance as freely as you once did.

Untitled - @poetic-martyr

[poetic-martyr]

Public Transport

Here we go again strolling in the rain we both get here at the same time five twenty six exactly there's something casually strange about this isn't there at least that's all I can think about I swear our eyes have met again on top of what must have been at least four times this week alone I hope it is just me who is too weak and too meek keeping my curiosity as discrete as possible I hide a vault of careless thoughts behind a blank face that stares into my lap until looks up every now and then longing for that bus this isn't a pain of sorts and nowhere near agony merely an eternal anticipation of what scenario would occur if one of us could speak but your earphones are in and I am reading this magazine heck I'm not even reading the pages just seem to turn like a revolving doorway now my feet keep tapping on the floor I look up for the bus once more and heaven knows my eyes are sore when I glare away from the person I think I adore those headlights arrive brakes start squeaking that engine stops tickets ready we stand and shuffle onto that warm ride home why does fate bring people together to such a small space of tar everyday knowing neither have the guts to bite the bullet and say... 'Hey...'

[poetic-martyr]

I'm sorry if I have not seemed like myself for so long but it is the heavy chains forged from the agony of adolescence that encumbered me down to my knees and as tangled as I am I can only walk. I have been walking the winding unpredictable paths between gardens and graveyards where the same flowers that flourish in meadows of green are set down to rest at the mausoleum doors and tombstones that crack and disappear when the darkness makes way for all the new souls that the reaper takes when he rolls the die. For now I am stuck thinking between epic euphoria and the tendency to balter on the edge of being suicidal and the trickery of these thoughts that make me think I might be better off not existing. Believe me reaper that if anything I am coming for you because there is no way you are getting to me before I am older and wiser and sincerely serene and I know that when I am standing at the end, either by those golden gates in the pure white clouds or the neglected cold stone entrance to fiery hell, that I may not be greeted by any god or saint or angel or demon alike; it will be by my love in all of their glory, divinity and prosperous bliss. We will meet at the gates and there we will see the world we left behind and we will smile because we were the workers, the winners and worshippers of holy hope that never unclasped our hands when our wrists were strained to the tendons, no matter how hard and swift the scythe fell.

The Inbetweens - @poetic-martyr

[poetic-martyr]

The Bridge

Why put a fire so monstrous and irresponsible to something we were so patient to establish when the river ran strong flooding all in its wake when we built a new route so we could be connected it beat the river it still stands strong but now it's fate lies to the torches in hands that belong to the same people who used them to build this blessed bridge if blood and sweat and toil are worth anything at all it is the time it takes for time itself to take what we built as friends and not what we burn as enemies

[poetic-martyr]

Moon

I am that silver side of a lucky coin that rarely lands face up but my judgement is the truest

I have more faces than a masquerade ball but at least I’m not afraid to show every one of them

I use a different light when I sit in the darkness to illuminate all you know so you can see it in a new perspective

I always travel in elliptical patterns so it’s a miracle you’d ever see me

but if for once I am in your vision you had better believe that there is nothing more natural in the sky than me or my behaviour when you are sat down comprehending your plastic sunlit planet

[z-poetry-blog]

Amazon.com: Z Poetry: An Anthology of International Indie Poetry Volume 2 eBook: Z Poetry: Kindle Store

Volume 2 of our international poetry series is now out, both as an electronic eBook and in physical print. In this volume, 52 writers from over a dozen countries come together to share their words on love, loss, meaning, nature, and much more. Find it on the above link!

[poetic-martyr]

Pound

Why sell an hour of my life away in exchange for paper while I live anyway

a chip in a card is all I seem to have pay me in poetry or something worth having

I’d turn cold cash into fiery ash it’s a toxic triviality drowning reality I am here I am alive so why do I strive for pieces of paper with royal faces greater than I or anyone who has a nine to five way serving coffee or at a desk or fixing cars everyday

why is life limited to this strange variable the world is a present that we must all pay for with our time awake it’s more give than take we shouldn’t need money for heavens sake give me my water give me my bread and that’s all I will need to save me from death I could take photos that paper seems worth it we’re condemned to some coins and we don’t deserve it

the roulette wheel spirals out of control they gamble with nothing and lose their souls to the idea that one thing makes the world spin around and around and around until it hits the ground left in a room alone with material possessions wondering if it was worth it losing time to a profession

whilst the seasons turn and the sunsets fall will we get the chance to have real change at all?

[poetic-martyr]

Sail

I can sail through a storm climbing over hills of water though close to capsizing too close to kissing the sharks and just above the surface both of which may eat me up so that I will be forgotten lost to the carnivorous abyss you were the wind sometimes turning to my favour as I glided through the calm but when the waves appeared you didn't seem to stop pushing me further to an epicentre of destruction most likely uncharted now I suspect a shipwreck as something I appreciate throws me to the rocks surely my end despite my trust or at least unfamiliar lands should I be unlucky enough to see where I am left stranded

[poetic-martyr]

Self Confidence

When I need to step up I just want to step down straight after this pressure feels like a planet on my throat and the words just can't come out ten pairs of eyes seem to be ten thousand arrows piercing me like some inanimate target and this spotlight burns and peels my skin this moment lasts hours but only seconds pass and my fear is the judgement of people I don't know with their mallets held ready to crush down my spirit I don't think I'm capable with this situation inescapable I'm no more competent that a baby in a cradle no, I won't go I can do this, I know I'm wearing some armour and it's called bravado I can take skeptics and words that are septic endure every knock no matter how pathetic anxiety thinks I am I will bet that I am better

[poetic-martyr]

The Blade

It became forged with purest fire the molten metal of hearts desire baptised in a bucket a new beginning for two content souls who both dreamed of winning cutting down all who stood in their way rejoicing in victory with trophies on display one month, six months turning into years except time hurts slowly and taints all the gears as days went by the cracks appeared and became smothered with rust just as they had feared they could not swing as elegantly as before they found themselves thinking about the apocalypse more and when the steel snapped broken in two the clock used its hands and fractured them through gargantuan time loomed over the couple built a wall between them and stopped all the trouble no more cuts no more wounds no longer a bride no longer a groom if love is a sword expect to be slain expect it to snap after years of rain