The Room

Before I moved here,
The room was clean, neat and tidy,
Pristine, there was a corner for guitars,
A corner for creating music,
A TV set and a bright sunny window,
No dust, no cobwebs,
No love.

I arrived and tidied up of course-

No!

I came in and trashed the place completely,
I gave it that shabby chic touch,
I hung the cobwebs and sprinkled the dust,
I gave it that squatters paradise look, with added glitter,
I left my muddy footprints on the carpets,
I left my lipstick on the rims of cups,
I made the cracks in the paintwork more apparent and,
I moved in to add that, left-overs-on-a-dinner-plate appeal,
Yes, I gave it that lived-in quality.

I gave it; me.

The fresh outlook on life you found my love-
Was me in all my chaotic glory,
No pretence left in my bones,
No appearances to live up to.

I turned down the silence,
Turned on the music,
And dimmed the lights.

The house is a ruin-
A few years’ have passed now, and the room is a pigsty,
Me, my stuff, my creative flair, my late-night brainstorms,
My creeping up the stairs.

 

While our guitars have been replaced with photography magazines,
Camera club paraphernalia stacked under the windowsill.

There’s a large artist’s easel, paint brushes in jam jars,
A desk covered in paint spatters, loaded with clutter, like-
Old compact discs, hairbrushes, tape measures and diaries,
Old books, new books, paperclips and lens hoods,
Cameras, hair scrunchies, keyboard, and mouse,
I can barely move about this desk let alone the house,
Trinkets and craft bits and microphones and a wool hat,
Jewellery wire, beads, and a cinnamon bun; half eaten.

There’s a corner dedicated to paint pots and tubes,
Art inks, pens, there’s art on every wall in this room.
You know I turned your world upside down,
Inside out and back to front, but,
This is home, and every room knows we’re alive!

Yeah, we should tidy this place more often than we do,
But the same chaos inside of me,
Is inside of you,
This room is a reflection,
Of a mutual truth, and affection,
Of passion and creation,
Of becoming and undoing,
Of unravelling and renewing,
Me and you.

Cracked Paint

Cracks in the paintwork will show,

No matter how many times you gloss over memories,

The rough grain of turbulent thoughts,

Will never be smooth,

You’ll feel the splinters penetrate your skin,

Your nerves raw, as your mind fragile,

No matter how many times you redecorate the room,

You’ll conclude that old woodchip wallpaper will simply have to remain,

Stuck fast to the plaster, beneath the new.

 

Your mistakes, regrets, and resolutions,

Follow you,

All your doing and undoing,

Will undo you,

For better or worse,

Fractures in the sky will appear,

Sunlight will shine in,

Rain will soak you to the bone and,

The cracks in the paintwork will grow,

Like vines of ivy on abandoned buildings.

 

Where nature reclaims her own,

Your character takes on new meaning,

You survive, you thrive,

Through it all,

Some flakes of paint,

May crumble and fall away,

Let them fall,

It’s the cracks in the paintwork,

-That make you.

 

Dreaming

The dust and detritus of daily life,

Burrows deep into the crevices and cracks of pavements,

We once walked as children,

Dragged at the hand by exhausted mothers,

Smiling at strangers with childish curiosity,

Pointing at random objects of interest asking, “what’s that Mommy, and why?”

Always why-

 

Daydreaming about everything but the harsh reality,

Of our future adult lives,

That we could barely grasp the concept of by observation,

From the comfort zone of parental love,

The safety of not having an inkling about it,

With a vulnerability enough to crave it, pretend,

We dressed up in mother’s high heels,

Put on her makeup,

Played dress up like we were already there.

 

Whilst here, now,

-If only,

I wish it was still a game to us now.

 

These streets are now walked with eyes cast down,

Into mobile screens,

We block out city noise,

Wearing headphones leaving a tinny hiss behind us,

We collide, and brush shoulders,

Strangers all,

We rarely meet eye to eye,

Rarely meet at all.

Till we’re home and dry,

Behind the walls, we build around us,

That seem higher and higher,

Every day,

Watching the door to the outside world,

Slip further and further away,

From our grasp.

 

Like the childhood innocence,

We barely recall,

Though it seems it slipped from us,

Only yesterday,

When we slipped off our heels,

Washed off our makeup,

Staring into the distant silence of our mirror world,

Wishing for dreams to come true.

 

We never had a clue what the game was,

We were playing.

Grace in Surrender

I lost my naivety,

Learned what it meant to fall,

From the dizzy heights of innocence,

To no longer be blind.

 

Too wise before my time,

I lost my sense of danger,

As I tied myself to the railway line.

 

The oncoming train,

The reality I never anticipated,

Slammed on its brakes to spare me knowing,

What it would be like not to feel,

My heartbeat but-

 

For the rest of my days,

I had wasted my prettiest years,

On tears, born out of wanderlust.

 

I had wasted my breath,

Whispering into the night,

Lost in fantasy world,

With no hope of mending,

Such fractured dreams and-

 

I’m a burnt-out shell of a former grace,

With the truth etched on my face,

I’m a disgrace, but isn’t everyone,

I know.

 

Now I’m scared of everything,

And I think too much, too often,

As do you and so does everyone,

I know.

 

Maybe there’s grace in surrender,

Grace in hindsight,

Grace in surrender to next time around,

Grace in surrender to being still after all,

Grace in surrender to the fall.