No-one knows, as I never talk,
Of my aching love for you.
I keep it bottled, under cork
Where it is safe, and true.
A weakness, or insanity,
That I should fail to act?
It's not for pride, or vanity,
I am mired here with tact.
Oh, I wish I'd told you months ago
Win back the time we've lost,
But,alas, I took it far too slow,
To our detriment, and cost.
And yet, so simple, it should be
To set it out in words;
Paint it for you, lyrically
Like the other bees to birds.
Of course, I fear I'm not enough,
Wrong in a thousand ways.
Too nervous to blag it, off the cuff,
Lost in my nervous haze.
So, tis secretly you hold my heart
And, in sorrow, I stay quiet.
Dreaming that we are not apart,
As I was brave enough to try it.
Wednesday, 16 November 2011
Sunday, 13 November 2011
The Fear
One of the things I find it hardest to do is to open up about my feelings on a one to one basis. If you're a regular visitor to my blog, you'll know that I have no problem expressing feelings in poems, or in the snippets of short stories I occasionally post here. However, I find writing things down all too easy, and indeed in poems the feelings of the self can be transformed into more generic comment on love itself, or the protagonist can become anyone, and the feelings universal.
How much more terrifying to speak to someone directly and address these issues. Now, I am not necessarily talking here about proclamations of adoration and love, though they would indeed fall into this category, but more generally than that, expressing how I feel in any capacity is extremely hard for me.
It doesn't really help matters that this opening up is exactly what I need to do to help out with my mental health issues. I would dearly love to be able to open up and talk one on one with those closest to me about the things I struggle with, my fears and shame at my own weaknesses. My friends and family will generally know when I am struggling, but I need to be able to convey how and why I am struggling, what I am struggling with. However, as much as I have played out conversations like this time and again in my head, I can never push myself to sit down with someone and have the conversation for real. I'm really not sure if it is fear of uncorking the bottle, or fear that my problems are too small and insignificant to trouble others with, but fear it is, and fear I am stuck with.
The silly thing is, I am not sure where the fear stems from. It is not as if I have a long history of wrongly trusting others with my feelings, I cannot recall any incident in truth where I have trusted someone and had it thrown back in my face. People are not as terrifying with your feelings as I imagine. Yes I have had my heart broken, haven't we all? But no-one has ever gone out of their way to hurt me, it has always been one of the unavoidable by-products of falling in love with at least one constituent out of sync (right time, right place, right person).
While we're on the subject of love.... I don't really find that easy either (unsurprising isn't it!) Have I ever said 'I love you' and meant it? Yes. Have I said those words to every person I have been in love with? No, guilty as charged. That bothers me. There exists, in this universe, undeclared love, and it is my fault it is undeclared. It has never had the chance to fly, because I have stifled it. In fear.
So, there we have it. I am an Old Yellow with my feelings. I need to change that, and (perhaps) writing it on here will serve as a reminder to me to man up and trust people. So, if you ever have me all to yourself, and you are frustrated as I am with my inability to express, remind me about this blog entry and tell me it is time to open up. Who knows? It might just work!
How much more terrifying to speak to someone directly and address these issues. Now, I am not necessarily talking here about proclamations of adoration and love, though they would indeed fall into this category, but more generally than that, expressing how I feel in any capacity is extremely hard for me.
It doesn't really help matters that this opening up is exactly what I need to do to help out with my mental health issues. I would dearly love to be able to open up and talk one on one with those closest to me about the things I struggle with, my fears and shame at my own weaknesses. My friends and family will generally know when I am struggling, but I need to be able to convey how and why I am struggling, what I am struggling with. However, as much as I have played out conversations like this time and again in my head, I can never push myself to sit down with someone and have the conversation for real. I'm really not sure if it is fear of uncorking the bottle, or fear that my problems are too small and insignificant to trouble others with, but fear it is, and fear I am stuck with.
The silly thing is, I am not sure where the fear stems from. It is not as if I have a long history of wrongly trusting others with my feelings, I cannot recall any incident in truth where I have trusted someone and had it thrown back in my face. People are not as terrifying with your feelings as I imagine. Yes I have had my heart broken, haven't we all? But no-one has ever gone out of their way to hurt me, it has always been one of the unavoidable by-products of falling in love with at least one constituent out of sync (right time, right place, right person).
While we're on the subject of love.... I don't really find that easy either (unsurprising isn't it!) Have I ever said 'I love you' and meant it? Yes. Have I said those words to every person I have been in love with? No, guilty as charged. That bothers me. There exists, in this universe, undeclared love, and it is my fault it is undeclared. It has never had the chance to fly, because I have stifled it. In fear.
So, there we have it. I am an Old Yellow with my feelings. I need to change that, and (perhaps) writing it on here will serve as a reminder to me to man up and trust people. So, if you ever have me all to yourself, and you are frustrated as I am with my inability to express, remind me about this blog entry and tell me it is time to open up. Who knows? It might just work!
Thursday, 3 November 2011
All the things I'd do for you (remix!)
I'd call you in the morning,
Because I miss your voice,
Or whisk you without warning
To destinations of your choice.
When I come, I'd bring you flowers,
And a book about Peru,
Y'know we could be there in twelve hours
Give or taking one or two.
On weekends we would wander
Under blue and sun-kissed skies,
Or I'd gaze at you and ponder
The depth and beauty of your eyes.
I'd take you out, carousing,
And wake with cloudy head.
Which is in itself arousing,
An excuse to stay in bed.
Of course I'd very often,
Turn up with a grin,
And watch you laugh and soften
At the foolish mood I'm in.
Oh, if only I could find the way
To tell you to your face,
That when I see you, any day,
My heart begins to race.
Because I miss your voice,
Or whisk you without warning
To destinations of your choice.
When I come, I'd bring you flowers,
And a book about Peru,
Y'know we could be there in twelve hours
Give or taking one or two.
On weekends we would wander
Under blue and sun-kissed skies,
Or I'd gaze at you and ponder
The depth and beauty of your eyes.
I'd take you out, carousing,
And wake with cloudy head.
Which is in itself arousing,
An excuse to stay in bed.
Of course I'd very often,
Turn up with a grin,
And watch you laugh and soften
At the foolish mood I'm in.
Oh, if only I could find the way
To tell you to your face,
That when I see you, any day,
My heart begins to race.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Poem - a rejigged Song of Me
He is reflective, soft and caring,
Bears his burdens heavily.
He’s not prone to natural pairing,
Flies solo all too easily.
He’ll debate on technicalities,
Or chide you with a smile.
But he’ll miss your similarities,
By at least a country mile.
If you show him some compassion
You’ll win a lifelong friend,
Just don’t ask him about fashion,
Or which bouquet to send.
He sees beauty all around the place.
But won’t recognise his own,
Hides tears behind a stony face
For his love, in secret, grown.
And so he never questions why
He wakes each dawn, alone.
A tragedy, for he is I,
And such frailty I’ve shown
Bears his burdens heavily.
He’s not prone to natural pairing,
Flies solo all too easily.
He’ll debate on technicalities,
Or chide you with a smile.
But he’ll miss your similarities,
By at least a country mile.
If you show him some compassion
You’ll win a lifelong friend,
Just don’t ask him about fashion,
Or which bouquet to send.
He sees beauty all around the place.
But won’t recognise his own,
Hides tears behind a stony face
For his love, in secret, grown.
And so he never questions why
He wakes each dawn, alone.
A tragedy, for he is I,
And such frailty I’ve shown
Saturday, 22 October 2011
The definitive list
Ok, I have had an epiphany (again, seriously, I am pursued everywhere by epiphanies). With the countdown to 40 now almost at T 1 month, I have spent a lot of time recently getting more and more annoyed at myself for all the things I keep promising myself I will do but never get round to. All that is about to change, however, as I am reconstituting 'the list'. This is the definitive list of things I WILL do, not just want to do.
More importantly, my Mudpuddlin mateys, you have my permission to harangue, hassle and heap opprobrium upon me for failure to act upon these in the future without fear of any come back from me (so sayeth I on this day!)
1) Do a stand-up routine in front of genuine punters
2) Climb Ben Nevis - reaching the top this time, not 'somewhere near the top' (which was actually somewhere near half way)
3) Get the property flipping company up and running
4) Finish writing the damn novel I have been tinkering with for about 5 years
5) Bully my OCD into submission
6) Make the people I care about proud of me
7) Having done 3), leave my current employment
8) Get the mountain bike and make some use of it, as opposed to considering it something I might enjoy 'one day'
9) Return visit to New Zealand
10) Stop hiding from telling people my feelings for them (specifically people of the female persuasion)
There, it has been published, it is all nice and legal
More importantly, my Mudpuddlin mateys, you have my permission to harangue, hassle and heap opprobrium upon me for failure to act upon these in the future without fear of any come back from me (so sayeth I on this day!)
1) Do a stand-up routine in front of genuine punters
2) Climb Ben Nevis - reaching the top this time, not 'somewhere near the top' (which was actually somewhere near half way)
3) Get the property flipping company up and running
4) Finish writing the damn novel I have been tinkering with for about 5 years
5) Bully my OCD into submission
6) Make the people I care about proud of me
7) Having done 3), leave my current employment
8) Get the mountain bike and make some use of it, as opposed to considering it something I might enjoy 'one day'
9) Return visit to New Zealand
10) Stop hiding from telling people my feelings for them (specifically people of the female persuasion)
There, it has been published, it is all nice and legal
Thursday, 20 October 2011
At the margins (a rewrite)
He stares through the satin darkness,
Straining at each deceitful trick of the eyes.
Minutes, hours, perhaps, have passed
Since her departure forced this armistice,
Their destructive rift brokering uneasy peace.
So many hours lost to spite and bile
For such an innocent little lie.
They are fated to live at the margins of sanity,
Forever tearing at the hearts which bind them,
Hate wearing the seductive cloak of lust,
A parasite feeding on love's husk.
He finds this silence unbearable;
Alone in the darkness he cannot reason,
Reality warped in cruel mockery
Without her rage to bring focus and
Clarity, heralding the descent into the bliss of violent ruin.
She will come, she must come,
And in the fire that consumes them,
His heart will beat again.
Straining at each deceitful trick of the eyes.
Minutes, hours, perhaps, have passed
Since her departure forced this armistice,
Their destructive rift brokering uneasy peace.
So many hours lost to spite and bile
For such an innocent little lie.
They are fated to live at the margins of sanity,
Forever tearing at the hearts which bind them,
Hate wearing the seductive cloak of lust,
A parasite feeding on love's husk.
He finds this silence unbearable;
Alone in the darkness he cannot reason,
Reality warped in cruel mockery
Without her rage to bring focus and
Clarity, heralding the descent into the bliss of violent ruin.
She will come, she must come,
And in the fire that consumes them,
His heart will beat again.
Friday, 14 October 2011
Proto-Dave and the meaning of life
It's all about finding the right Mudpuddle for the right time. By that I mean there are so many different mes that it is quite the challenge to find the right me for right now. Why do I need to find the right me for right now? Well, my 40th is approaching like a steam train - out of control and hurtling along the tracks looking for the wrong sort of leaves. What I need to work out is what I want a forty (say it quietly) something Mudpuddlin Man to look like. Which Dave should it be?
I could stagger onwards as a more dessicated version of the Thirties model - but that Dave was far too introverted and took some bizarre decisions regarding hiding from the world and losing nearly a decade of adventure in the process, so really I am ruling out November 25 2011 and the days that follow it being business as usual. What then of Twenties Dave? What facets of that glorious decade can I carry into the halflife of my forties?
Of course, that all depends. In my early twenties I was like a newly born planet in some fledgling solar system - raging, hot, fiery, restless - every day was an eruption - it would begin with fire and end dowsed in alcohol fuelled forgetfulness. It was electric, life literally made the hairs stand up on my arm. Friends, lovers were all integral to the Proto-Dave - I surrounded myself with those that complimented the eruption - fire stokers and fire soothers both as important as each other.
Later, things settled a little. There was still fire, but it was contained. I had learned how to be. Life coalesced somewhat - routines of entertainment set in, comrades began to take on functional dimensions, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow began to have relevance. Life was less abstract and extended beyond the prism of today. Looking back, this is where I made the big mistake - as tomorrows take on relevance and you comfort yourself with familiarity, it is all too easy to let that overcome you - in other words, whilst the later twenties were about finding how to be me, the thirties were about getting stuck as me, and unable to take on the changes that took all those around me onto new vectors. Thus you end up screaming in an aging void. But, back in the twenties, life was sweet. I often wonder now if I'll ever love again the way I did in my twenties - so wholly, and rawly, and intensely? Much of me fondly hopes so, as terrifying as the troughs were to those magnificent peaks.
Such a quandry, which Dave to be. Of course, in truth I can be neither of those Daves, nor (thankfully) can I go on forever as Thirties Dave (Meta-Dave) - what is needed is a new paradigm, but why come to that conclusion without a wordy deliberation? I want the best of all my previous worlds in a brand new one - I want to rage like a new planet, love so deeply I can barely breathe and keep myself sane, whole and true. I want to fulfil all the promise that has come before in fits and starts as a complete picture. I want to grow up without growing up, the best of me has always been just that bit more childish than my age should allow.
I'm not going to go quietly into that good night, I'm coming back, baby. Watch yourselves.
I could stagger onwards as a more dessicated version of the Thirties model - but that Dave was far too introverted and took some bizarre decisions regarding hiding from the world and losing nearly a decade of adventure in the process, so really I am ruling out November 25 2011 and the days that follow it being business as usual. What then of Twenties Dave? What facets of that glorious decade can I carry into the halflife of my forties?
Of course, that all depends. In my early twenties I was like a newly born planet in some fledgling solar system - raging, hot, fiery, restless - every day was an eruption - it would begin with fire and end dowsed in alcohol fuelled forgetfulness. It was electric, life literally made the hairs stand up on my arm. Friends, lovers were all integral to the Proto-Dave - I surrounded myself with those that complimented the eruption - fire stokers and fire soothers both as important as each other.
Later, things settled a little. There was still fire, but it was contained. I had learned how to be. Life coalesced somewhat - routines of entertainment set in, comrades began to take on functional dimensions, tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow began to have relevance. Life was less abstract and extended beyond the prism of today. Looking back, this is where I made the big mistake - as tomorrows take on relevance and you comfort yourself with familiarity, it is all too easy to let that overcome you - in other words, whilst the later twenties were about finding how to be me, the thirties were about getting stuck as me, and unable to take on the changes that took all those around me onto new vectors. Thus you end up screaming in an aging void. But, back in the twenties, life was sweet. I often wonder now if I'll ever love again the way I did in my twenties - so wholly, and rawly, and intensely? Much of me fondly hopes so, as terrifying as the troughs were to those magnificent peaks.
Such a quandry, which Dave to be. Of course, in truth I can be neither of those Daves, nor (thankfully) can I go on forever as Thirties Dave (Meta-Dave) - what is needed is a new paradigm, but why come to that conclusion without a wordy deliberation? I want the best of all my previous worlds in a brand new one - I want to rage like a new planet, love so deeply I can barely breathe and keep myself sane, whole and true. I want to fulfil all the promise that has come before in fits and starts as a complete picture. I want to grow up without growing up, the best of me has always been just that bit more childish than my age should allow.
I'm not going to go quietly into that good night, I'm coming back, baby. Watch yourselves.
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