Sharing some of my own art and poetry

Sharing some poetry and art I have done over past few years.

"Everybody has a secret world inside of them. All of the people of the world, I mean everybody. No matter how dull and boring they are on the outside, inside them they've all got unimaginable, magnificent, wonderful, stupid, amazing worlds. Not just one world. Hundreds of them. Thousands maybe." ~Neil Gaiman

Weight of the world

Photograph my Mood

I wish I could photograph my mood,

imprison it with oil paints, smeared down pretty paper…

I'd give you a copy of this ever changing art,

so you know always which fragments need you most.

You touch me like I'm glass,

reminding me I'm frail,

but I want to be grabbed,

held tight

It really is ok to crush me,

I'm already broken.

There are kaleidoscope curtains across my eyes,

reality was painted over years ago.

The bonfires of my formal self's are still burning,

the smoke sitting in my stomach,

a hazy ghost of past intentions

hunting me down like a pack of wild hounds.

While you dream I let them take me,

When morning comes,you pull me back with arms bound tight around my belly,

repairing my faith in the passage of time

reminding me that this is now.

You ask SO, many, questions,

these days I don't wear a gag,

my mouth is drooling out these mangled nightmares

LISTEN TO ME!

You don't want this in your head because it changes everything.

The case of Lisa Strange

The Pretend Romantic

You pretended to be a romantic.

Whilst insisting outwardly That

“really… you didn’t have a romantic bone in your body”

yet still

enticing me with mills and boon tension charged words and

bowling in the odd nonchalant comment about how pretty I was,

you couldn’t help but notice my plunging neckline,

I used to wait up for you,

late at night.

to soothe your mask off discomfort,

at this scandalous situation we found ourselves.

The first time we fucked,

you pretended to cry

and I pretended not to notice the lack of real tears.

I didn’t mind when only a few minutes later,

you forgot your imaginary remorse

and pinned me back against the wall.

I listened to your grievance about your lack of sex life

and domestic hell,

How you aren’t the only man

who’d had an affair and “almost” run off with a younger woman.

Implying,(that made it all ok).

At the time

I suppose it did.

I longed to rescue you,

telling myself, (and you) that I’d fuck you,

no matter how fat and wrinkled you became,

or how putrid the smell from your sweating torso,

I!...would be the one to love you unconditionally.

Because

you said you loved me back

I could picture us growing old,

or at least you’d grow old.

I’d be the contented young wife.

People would marvel at how I stood by devoted in the face of old age,

finally agreeing our love was true.

Of course my fantasy curdled,

you predictably traded me in.

I was never the dutiful mistress you’d sought.

With my fanatical nature and inability to keep a secret,

the fact I was determined

you come through with some of those empty promises.

In the end

I was far too high maintenance.

Algolagnia

Maggot Parade

It's not like she doesn't know you're too good for her,

she's known that all along,

The awareness wrenched at the corners of her mind for months

humiliating and unyielding.

The knowledge gushed over her a torrid paranoia.

Sense screaming;

"it's not safe to get comfortable"

Not with someone like you.

her…A ruined rag of a woman,

Sometimes child,

clinging to you like a leech drinking you up,

sinking in her teeth again and again

hoping that you won't succumb to the irritation

and instead parent her like a needy 3 year old.

You took the parts of her that where meant to be strong

and bound them.

The irony of being incarcerated by lover destined to leave;

has left my endless story telling the only part

with the power to go on.

I have planned scores of poetry

and untold metaphors to convey the heartache,

the words are eating into my throat,

consuming me like a parade of maggots.

When you are gone,

I will birth my creativity,

because only then will I have the power to rot,

nourish them enough

until they fly from my hands wringing out the last of my mourning,

leaving my narration finally silent

a lonely hollow carcass.

Julianne Rennie