Creative Writing Me

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How Do You Sleep At Night[?]

How do you sleep at night?  With one eye open or one eye closed?
Dreaming of knights in shining armour, or amour in [with] shining nights?

How do you sleep at night? Do you dream of impending death, or [upending] impending [this] life?
Dreaming of C= Squared, or of squares being equal [stuffed] with Cs?

How do you sleep at night? Do you dream in the blues, the blacks, the yellows, or the whites?
Blue I hope. [I like the blues]. 

How can’t you sleep at night? Laying and thinking. how you can solve the [world’s] problems.
Problems of Linus, Lucy, Schroeder, Charlie Brown and Snoopy.
But not Pig Pen as he [or is it she?] just reminds you of the house [pen] you live in.

Maybe you think of things you can do in a house, counting them one-by-one, until…. you… dose [not doze]…. off?  The kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom.
Baking the perfect cake [you like to bake]; write the perfect letter [you like to write], watch the perfect film [you like to watch]?

And then, maybe you think about him…..or her…..or them…  ‘If only he,’ or ‘if only she,’ or “if only they’.

“If only I…’

[You wonder, how does he…she…they]

sleep at night[.]

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The Inconvenience

The inconvenience of the coincidence, left me infused with the confused and the determination to be a lot more pre-dict-ta-ble.   As it is told, my country of birth is a mere coincidence (much like Columbus’ coincidental boat ride to India – so I’m told). My ability to read and write?  A coincidence,  no explanation needed.   For every affect there must be an effect, [so I was told].  If we can explain it via the science, then what we have is a ‘coincidence’ (con in science)

Coincidence is King, and I am its joker.  I choose my words carefully (and not so carefully, sometimes).  But why had I even bothered!  It is coincidence’s words that hail supreme.  My words (and my thoughts) screamingly falling behind.  ‘Coincidence is dead, long live Coincidence’.  I am a walking and breathing example of the inconveniences of my all coincidences – from my birth to my eventual death.  ‘Cause of death?’ they will ask. Coincidence. 

I once fell in love (ok maybe more than once, I will admit),  the crazy drug-like euphoria and rush a coincidence.  Or have I, once again, fallen into the con in science?  And dare I say, by coincidence, I too have fallen-out of love, which I can assure you was both totally and utterly inconvenient: I left infused in the confused but now, feeling much more content in knowing it was all down to a mere…. coincidence.

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To No One in Particular

Back in the day, I was the guy you called for a pint-and-a-punch-up, 
back in the days when I didn’t drink.  Who do you call now, with so many moons passing?  
I saw what’s-her-name some time ago, it being a fragment of my imagination.
She asked about you, but I couldn’t remember her name, so I ummed and ahhh’d until she walked away. 
Another fragment I won’t get back.  
Nor she.

“Everything changes, if it’s allowed to”, 
tattooed on my arm, to remember.  Read over and over again.  
You said that to me and I tried to understand.  I’m still trying.
Everything changes, if it’s allowed to.
Back in the day when I didn’t drink,
I was the guy you called for a pint-and-a-punch-up, 
Who do you call now, if anyone at all?

To, No one in Particular:
I nearly wrote you something last night.  The words came, but so did the shame 
followed by my embarrassment, so all you get is this.   
…Three days later I came up with this …
I wanted to ask you to hold my hand, to lay with me
and tell me everything was going to be ok, 
to tell me the one lie I needed to hear.  
Who do you call now?  Is it what’s-her-name?  Her and her passing moons!  
Or is that too, just a fragment of my imagination.
I want to hold your hand, lay next to you as you tell me.

Everything changes, even when it’s not allowed to.

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It Takes a Village

Bombardments, I see them in the distance, but realise that only a selected few know that truth.  I am a see’er.  It sounds mystical, because I am.  And we – I’ve not knowingly met another one, but I know they exist – are.  Mystical.

It takes a village.  Bombardments seen in the distance.

See’ers are trained to be indifferent.  Not on the outside, but in.  Indifferent to indifference to everything they see.  I mostly hear (which is odd being a see’er).   

It takes a village,

it takes a village.  

The others – the see’ers who I’ve not met, but know they exist – want me to be quiet, not on the outside, but in.  ‘Keep quiet‘.  Well, for  me at least.

Bombardments, I see them in the distance, but now realise that only a selected few want to know that truth.

It took a village to keep us quiet. 

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Just Be’ing

Hold-up. Wait-a-minute.

Tell me, whose play is this, yours or mine?
This ain’t no act baby, this, and I mean this, is the real deal.

You? You are the actor, or is it actress?, whatever the correct political phrase be, you are acting in another man’s play. Yes you Missy Mistress, in another’s man’s play.

Give up your act. Own it, be it, live it, and Just Be’ing. Just Be’ing… you.

Adding life to art.  Remember when we (meaning ‘me’) came up with (meaning ‘stole’) ‘Life, like art is a process.’ All I did was add ‘Life’. I added ‘Life’.

Hold-up. Wait, one minute.

Where you going, why are you walking away?  I ain’t finished yet! My brother, my sister,  I ain’t finished! Let ‘dem real men speak. Let…dem…speak!  Let them Just Be’ing

Hold-up. Wait-a-minute.

Is it me, or maybe something I said?  Is it my top billing?  My owning this, ‘this’ being my stage?  I knew it, I knew it!

I.

Knew.

It.

Well you need to step-aside, step-aside and Just Be’Step’ing

to

the

side.

Stepping to be. Stepping to just be.  Stepping to just be anything.  But please.  Please! Please stop wanting to be… just me.

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If I Could Live Forever

If I could live forever what would I be?

Would I be a writer? a singer?  Or would I just be plain nothing, as nothing and as plain could be?  Who knows, maybe I would be just a no thing.

If I could live forever, what would I do?  Would I do good, or would I do bad?  More than likely I would do both, but subjectively more good than subjectively bad.

When I’m with her, I feel like I’ve lived a life; like I’ve lived a life that’s forever.

As I lay sleeping I hear that voice call my name, each syllable bouncing off her lips, the same lips that kisses me.

If I could live forever what would I do?

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Words Don’t Matter

Words don’t matter, that’s why we read them.

Turning the pages, dirtying our hands with dried ink of someone else’s words.  Let me read your hands, so I can tell you of your past and maybe your future. ‘Once upon a time’. That’s how every fairytale starts. Once, we had, upon a time, something to say. Upon a time, once the words mattered.

But now, we have signs and symbols as replaced letters; as “lol” to “😆” (or is that “ 👁️ ❤️ to 😆?). If the letters don’t matter, where will the words go?

#TheLettersDon’tMatter

Hashtag.

Hash –

– Tag you’re it!

You are the ‘It’ pronoun. Undetermined. You say all the right things, as if answers are copied on your hands. Like a student cheating on a test, #YouTrytoCheatatLife. You have all the answers, with a Hashtag sealing your victory.

You win! You. Win. Your prize? An ampersand – fully spelled out.

Hashtag.

Tag –

– Hash!

I wanted to try it (hash), but you convincingly remind me of the last time I tried it (tag), painting the image of me stricken with the fear and paranoia.  So instead, we drink hibiscus tea. Sitting side-by-side, our polite slurps the only sound, as we redefine a night out.

I wish I had chosen hash.

The words don’t matter. To Shakespeare they did. ‘Out damn spot, out’; ‘To be, or not to be’. ‘A rose by any other name…’

Shakespeare never used hash …or tags.

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No Word Poem

Did you know that I once wrote you a poem?
Yes, I wrote you a poem! Once.
Carefully choosing words, strategically placing them one after each other,
desperately trying to convey, I don’t know what.
I think it was love – so you told me.
I wrote you a poem, didn’t you read it?

A friend told me to write about real love.
‘Real love‘, she said. ‘Your stories are too melancholy‘, she said.
I see them as funny, as love can be sometimes.
Wasn’t our love funny (sometimes)?
I think it was – so you told me.
Do you know that I once wrote you a poem?

We parted as we started, equally dividing the plants,
the books, the plates, the cutlery and eventually the friends.
We saw each the other day, glancing out the corner of our eyes,
pretending to be elsewhere.
We saw, and passed without one word being spoken. Not one.

Don’t you know that I once wrote you another poem?
Yes, I wrote you another poem! Once.
Carefully choosing words, strategically placing them one after each other,
as I wrote about ‘real love’ – I think.
Yeah, it was real love and, a poem with no words…
…because as with ‘real love’,
the words were never spoken.

I once wrote you a poem,
didn’t you read it?