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John Bird Poem
Everything is now a shade of a colour
Nothing is defined anymore
No longer are the edges clear
Moments of light
Moments of dark
But one blurs into the other
My better judgement tells me it’s because I don’t recognise myself anymore
If I ever did
I don’t know if I ever had something to compare this to in the first place
I like to think I did
My friends will tell me I was different years ago and I need to come back
But how would they know
They don’t know what was going on up there
And the past lives mean nothing when you’re trying to identify the scared face looking at you in the mirror
The voices are just shades anyway and the memories are just whispers
No commands in colour just suggestions
You might and you may
But who knows, this is just a game of chance
And you don’t make your own luck anymore
I can’t stop thinking about how you were asked if when you play your saxophone you see colours or shapes when you think of the notes
It’s funny you couldn’t answer at the time but later you told me you saw shapes and shades of colours surrounding them and they dropped down as your fingers hit the keys
I now see the world in colours and shapes
That party was a triangle
Obtuse and flattened
In a shade of navy blue
No room for the circles inside to breath
Everyone else feeling like it is just another triangle
That dinner was a semi circle
And that drink with my friend was a stout rectangle
I told my therapist this and she said I always see flat shapes and asked me why
I told her I didn’t want to talk about music anymore
I told her I wanted to talk about how I can stop talking to her anymore
She almost seemed more confused than me
That conversation was a rhombus
Copyright © John Bird | Year Posted 2024
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John Bird Poem
I have to become something
It will iron out my faults
Like a shirt with too many creases that still needs to be worn
I’m a bed sheet with too many stains and too many folds from restless nights
It’s okay when the sheet has a history
Has a memory
Has a past
Has the time you spent with your future wrapped in a ball all broken and stretched
Has the times you spent recovering from the heartbreak of the time
Watching the Simpsons on repeat until you mix her name with homers and laugh to yourself in a hungry sadness
I want to become part of a life not a thing to be discarded because it’s damage causes more disgust than it does sentiment
What can a piece of fabric with holes cut out and black marks in its middle be if not a work of art
To be admired by some and misunderstood by many
Where does it go
Does it go with all the others
Burnt recycled washed and repurposed
Into the machine
Into the personalised fix for one hundred pound a week
Into the wash to be made anew
Something the same as before but without the scars of its past
I don’t want to be new
I want to be me
I want to be seen
I want to be wanted
The black marks not defining my value
And making more while finding something new when being wrapped up in it
All stained, torn, and marked
Beautifully marked
Copyright © John Bird | Year Posted 2024
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Details |
John Bird Poem
The Simpsons was special to you now it is special to me
The colour pink was fun for you to control now I own a pink cowboy hat
Tones of a classical piano sent emotions into your heart and now I bleed when my boss thinks it makes her look cultural to discuss Chopin with me
How can I forget the shapes of you
The scars love leaves can’t be worth the hit
Surely I can’t be the only one to feel this pain when I’m sitting on the bus alone
Surely I can’t be the only one who feels that life isn’t worth living without the living someone made for you
The regret will eat you alive so move on before you’ve lost your legs
Sadly I think I’m now only crumbs to be pecked at by the vultures
My sister says she has no time for me because her demons are louder than mine
And she lives in love
I wonder if she would be devoured quicker than me if I was to tell her about a woman he had been seeing behind her back
She might then understand
My demons are quieter but more cunning and persistent
She could have them too
We would be closer and mum would be happy but we would each be nothing
I just wish I had never sent the texts
I wish I had never told any of you
But you can’t live with that
You have to gather up those bloody parts and hope the surgeon will see you again
Though I don’t think he works weekends anymore and I can’t take anymore time off work
Copyright © John Bird | Year Posted 2024
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