It’s the grinding I can’t stand – –
The constant tell that something’s wrong.
The aches and pains:
Irrelevant really.
No one else Feels them
Knows them
Believes them.
It’s a falsehood,
Apparently.
And when I dissent, the
Fault is Mine.
And when I acquiesce, the
Fault is Mine.
But it’s My flesh and bone
Screaming into deafened ears:
(It’s My Ache, My Pain)
Pleading for recognition.
Still, ignorance prevails,
And I am left
Trying to convince you
That the sky is blue,
After all.
June-July 2025
Category: Writing
Blunt
I am (a Shadow)
Cigarette-thin paper
Torn
from an exquisite manuscript.
Faded.
Letters
from long forgotten scrolls
Immaculately inked.
Dark then, now greyed
On yellowed backdrops of once
Crystal white.
A corrupted nib –
Near blunt –
Near Extinct.
Near.
But not yet.
Not yet.
Existence
One score and nine years ago
(OK, that’s a tad dramatic, but…)
An entire existence –
as it was –
Obliterated
by ink on paper and
Blue-green hues evaporated
in the scent of tender wood, whisky and spice.
(And then again, before)
that existence –
as it was –
Fabricated
in snapshots of
Skewed perception and ransomed
in paper and words and broken promises.
(And now?)
Existing –
as it is –
Existing.
Written January 2024
Moves like Jagger
It goes like this:
My Dreams grew wings and fled.
Soared away with mocking delight!
The Churn – the Grind –
Stole me away;
and in the distant shadows, still
They goad…
Waiting for me to follow
and fail again.
Written June 26th – July 13th 2024
boc-hord 