We exist on the periphery.
The road less travelled,
where the sheep tend to sleep,
and the cows will always graze.
The sun still shines here
like a cheap jacket,
warm but not fulfilling.
We exist on the edge.
Where shadows are cast,
the wind still blows here
its face unseen
but always felt.
I exist on the last ledge of mankind.
Where one step would see me drift off
into a black abyss,
flying past stars that only exist
in blurry photos,
ones printed in big textbooks
where people try and understand
the painted world around them,
moments before the artist
swaps the canvas,
and we all must start again.
We exist on the periphery.
Tag Archives: World poetry
July poetry: a cities people
Sirens scream past
like and ice cream van
looking for the spark in
children's eyes
when he hands them
over a sense of joy
packaged in a pyramid
of cold, sugary bliss.
Birds carve the skies above
like the butcher artfully,
following lines in the dead animal,
lay in front of him.
It's blood
a river
flowing off the wooden workbench
full of etchings
that falsely portray
the presence of nature,
yet only reveal the use of a
cold,
sharp, metal blade.
A taxi cab,
turns off its glowing sign,
telling the world
it is once again full of purpose
although the sigh from the
driver would suggest otherwise.
A life long education
of street names and landmarks
makes him the closest thing
to the City,
not the men in suits who sit
in powerful huts
and navigate their post code
pretending to do good.
A chef wipes his hands after another shift being done.
He spent most of his day
in one spot, one location,
hesitant to break from his role
whilst
tomatoes from Cornwall,
truffles from Italy,
cuts of meat from Argentina,
all passed underneath his own very nose.
He would have the world at his
fingertips,
although his feet refused to move
more than 5 meters away,
the occasional pause to
fill his lungs with smoke.
The ingredients in his kitchen
were forever at his mercy
yet they were more well-travelled
than him.
An Uncoloured World
The colouring pencil in his hand
looked new.
The colour didn’t matter.
He lay there
figuring out which part of the Globe
to paint next.
He scratched his head
He had to be sure
Whatever he filled in the next needed to be right
The right portion of the world
himself
another culture
another hobby
he wanted to understand
to learn
to discover
because that is life
at least his life
One that was currently in need
of a new pencil
and not a new holder
a common misunderstanding
but a drastic one.
Afterall
he was the only one who
could hold the pencil.
Otherwise he would never
recognise the world he had coloured.
wear shoes, write poems 