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Archive for April, 2011

Lonely Christmas

This was written a few Christmases ago when life was kicking me in the teeth.  I make no excuse for the single instance of profanity.  At the time of writing my thoughts and feeling were swinging between despair and anger, so what was written came from the heart.

 

Christmas…
“How was Christmas?”
They ask.
“Did you have a good Christmas?”
They ask.
I bet it was great fun with all the kids!”
They say.

We nod and smile –
The practiced lie,
But no one really knows,
Or asks where we were,
Or who we were with.

They all assume –
That Christmas Day = family
But no – no, no, NO.
So fucking wrong.

Christmas was lonely –
Just the two of us,
Rejected by those who professed to care
And that rejection worse than not having anyone at all.

Enforced solitude
When all around shrieked joy and happiness.
No one saw the tears we cried
Or felt our pain.

For that day we were orphaned
With nothing to do,
Nowhere to go,
No one to share with,
No festivities to join.

When hunger finally overtook despair and anger
We ate takeaway in a deserted carpark,
Our only companion – a security camera
Assigned to watch the close of our pathetic day.

 

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She is who I am not
She satisfies where I cannot
She is the me that is not me
She is the sum of alien expectations
She walks a path I cannot tread
She makes me look like a failure
She is a constant reminder of what I am not
She is an invention of someone else’s making
She is my alter-ego who stares back at me from the mirror
She iluminates all my flaws
She tramples all my weaknesses and insecurities
She holds the whip that threatens when I falter
She is a collection of perceived ideas
She is compartmentalised where I am chaos
She causes me frustration at every turn
She fights me constantly for control
She is cold, hard logic where I am fuzzy, confused emotions
She is the false identity that tries to adopt my name
She is not me
She cannot be allowed to be me
I am not her

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Fantasy vs Reality

Fantasy
Harmless fun
All based around “What if…?”
A chance for imagination to run wild.

Wishing and dreaming
For perfect scenarios.
No verbal faux pas,
Or tiredness,
Or scraped knees.

The fairytale quality,
The illusion of perfection.

Fantasy has its place,
For dreaming is what the mind at rest is suited to.
But with it, always,
Comes the temptation to cross the line
To reality.

Reality
A different game entirely.
New rules apply
And the stakes are higher.

Where fantasy always conquered evil
And let the good guy win,
The conversion from bubble to being
Twists and warps that which was so flawless.

There is no win or lose;
Only a forfeit to be paid.

Imperfection is all around,
Mocking the fantasy
Until what is left
Is a faded sepia snapshot
Bearing little resemblance to the dream.

Yet strangely
Although logic laughs in its face,
The hope persists,
Secured by a single thread,
That perhaps one day
The translation from fantasy to reality
Might border on perfection.

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