Is It?

Is it too much to walk on a path of thorns

When the well-travelled road is like industrial porn

Is it wrong to refuse the shoes

When they were bought in endless queues

Is it okay to swim against the tide

Rather than accept they lied

Is it out of style to sing out loud

A different song sung by the crowd

Is it okay to be me

And remain myself and free

Is it wrong to want to be odd

When most worship the golden god

Is it too much for me to want more

Than what is churned out by the media whore

Is it okay to question the status quo

Than to drown while going with the flow.

 

 

 

 

What ifs…part one.

If there was a way

to open the doors of time

to shuffle across a dusty floor

kicking up the ashes of memory

turn back the lost days

the hurtful ways

all the cuts that scarred

all the things that marred

in that room of time

could i bring myself

to pull back the curtains

let light shine on the dark

and change my life…

 

 

hush

In silent doorways

spotted with grime

alone in the quiet

As loud as a mime

dirt shows the age

of slow rotting time

step through the doorway

drying in lyme

life as a corpse

created in crime

lay in the earth

the wind as a chime

close your eyes

invested on my dime.

Scream to the hopeful

Scream to the lost

Gasp for your breath

No matter the cost.

 

The world.

When the world looks at me

Does it see hope

Or does it shake its  head

When the world holds out its hand

Do I reach back

Or roll over in my bed.

When rhe world is in trouble

Do run to its aid

Or hope someone else runs its way

When the world cries its salty tears

Do I comfort it with love

Or have nothing to say

When the world needs me

Do I stand in line

Or feel it’s too much

When the world needs my help

I hope I will be strong

And feel it’s gentle touch.

Window Lady.

Some secrets were best left unsaid. He knew this as he watched her through the slit in the curtain. It was cold out but he was warm as he watched her in her bedroom. He came here most nights, to watch her getting comfortable after a long day at her work.

He was happy she got home when the light was gone, easier to hide in the dark of the yard. He didn’t remember how he had found her. It wasn’t as if he had been looking to become this voyeur, but something caught him, something in her eyes that made him follow her so long ago. He had never spoken to her, he always just watched. He imagined himself in that room sometimes. Imagined having a life with her.

Of course right now he was more focused on her getting ready for bed. She always went to her room 30 minutes after she got home. Just enough time for him to get himself over to the window. She walked into the room still in her black skirt and white blouse. The skirt was one of her favourites, he thought of a life where he had helped pick it out. The blouse was silky and already unbuttoned to her naval. Her bra was white lace, hooked in the front.

God he felt guilty sometimes just watching.As was her routine, she unzipped the skirt from the side, slowly untucking her blouse. The blouse was just long enough to appear as a very short dress as the skirt fell to the floor. She never wore pantyhose or tights, just her bare skin. Now her legs looked as soft as anything he had ever seen and he marvelled at the pale magnificence that stood about 8 feet from him.

Through the glass he saw her stretch, the blouse raising slightly, just enough to see the black panties beneath. He was already excited by this, already feeling himself enjoying the view. Part of it was the thrill, he knew this. What he did was wrong and illegal. It added to the danger. Maybe he should stop while he could, maybe he should just go back to his own wife.

No he couldn’t do that, not while this was always waiting. He stared at her as she finished unbuttoning the blouse. She slowly let it cascade over her shoulders. She turned from him as it fell to the floor revealing her ass in one of her black thongs. She bent over as she stretched, her ass taught and round. He let his own hand fall, as she arched her back seductively.

She straightened out and turned to face the window. He already knew she couldn’t see him, he tested this himself one night. He leaned closer, almost close enough for his breath to fog his side. She reached up to her bra and unhooked the front. Her breasts exposed to him. They were not big, but they were perfect to him. The nipples round and perfectly positioned. She reached up to rub them, relaxing after a day in that bra.

To him she was rubbing them for him. He could feel himself pushing against the material of his track pants. She turned from the window and walked to a door at the other end of the bedroom. She walked in and closed the door. End of the show he guessed. He slowly turned away from the window and quietly headed home.

As he reached the door he still felt himself hard and longing dearly for the window. He opened the door and walked in, hearing his wife move around. So he followed the sound to their room. They had some hard times recently, but he really felt that his window girl had been helping. Hell he was so hard, that was one of the problems. He walked into the room and saw the mess. He wished she would pick up after herself. He reached down and picked up his wife’s black skirt as she opened the door of the bathroom just in black panties.

“Hey hon, long day for me. How was your run.”

“Fuck the run, come over here.”

Yeah the window lady helped.

Old Man.

Sometimes the old stag stood on the mountain, chest puffed up as the rain poured down. His broken antlers shining in the wet. His fur matted to his skin. He had earned every scar and every scratch. He still looked powerful even with his age. So many battles won, now just a distant scent on the wind.

If deer could feel, he felt his age. His shoulders  burned, his knee joints ached. He had struggled to climb so high, but this was his mountain, his ground to guard and as the rain fell on the old stag his knees buckled. He fell to the ground, the fast beating heart quickened slightly and then began to slow. He rolled onto his side, looking up at the dark clouds.

If deer could feel he would have been scared, or maybe he was reflecting on his many children. He helped populate the mountain and the forest below.

If a deer could smile, perhaps that old stag would be smiling as his heart slowed and the rain poured down and his heart stopped, but the rain kept coming unable to wash the scent of life off the mountain.