Home Babies

Age four.

On the floor.

Dad long gone.

Mum no more.

On the floor.

Example to all.

Old and small.

This is how it looks

This is the result

Age four, put on the floor.

Cloaks swish by, the smell of lack.

Dressed in black, shoes that clack, eyes that bore.

On the floor.

Don’t get up, stay right there.

Don’t dare.

Glares and snares, looks that hate

Unable to relate.

Expecting nothing more

“He smells” becomes the bait.

Punishment for shame

Playtime denied, who cried?

Quiet while the others receive what’s truly theirs.

And could have been for you

But no one said their prayers

For you. 

On the floor

Aged four.

Now gone.

Eight hundred more.

Right then...

The writing coach said to clear your mind, hold the pen and just "take it for a walk".
Don't think about it, just put pen to paper and write words.
Once you start, keep going. It's therapeutic.
Peter anxiously set forth, unsure how this would work but also eager to discover what his silent self was thinking.
The nib gently touched  page.
Nothing.
Then...movement.
Unsure how it started, Peter smiled; excited, liberated.
Slowly at first a single letter, another, then...a word.
A sentence.
How long did it take? He couldn't say...a minute, an hour?
Exhausted and sated, he looked at the inner self revealed through words: "Poo sometimes smells nicer on the carpet".
"Well" said the writing coach "that's fucked up".

I O U

Mortgage. 
From the Latin words 'Mori' and 'Gage'. 
Literally meaning ' 'Death Pledge'.

The new shop-front advertising campaign started to reveal the bank's intrinsically dark nature.

I Am

I am not gone.
I have not left.
I am still here.
In the breeze that brushes your hair. I am.
In the warmth that bathes your skin. I am.
In the laughter of a little child. I am.
I am not gone.
I have not left.
I am still here.
In the part of you I touched.
In the memory of a smile.
In the comfort of a sense.
I am.
In the sound of a voice.
In the rhythm of a song.
In the joy of a dance.
I am.
In the tears that you cry.
In the anger that you feel.
In the love that you knew.
I am.
I am not gone.
I have not left.
I am still here.
When you need me there. I am.
When you think my name. I am.
When you move along. I am.
I am the one who supports you.
Until the day arrives when you are.
Then, I was.
And you forever will be.

On a Carousel

It was like looking at a carousel.
Turning round and round. Empty.
Nothing on the carousel floor. Round and round.
Then, occasionally from the umbrella roof, a rope drops.
You know you need to grab that rope, so you chase after it.
Round and round, hoping to grab hold before it shoots back up and out of sight forever.
You get a good grip, feel your legs lift off the ground as you attempt to hold on with all of your might.
What the rope brings, you don't know. But you hang on because you need a rope.
Other ropes drop, but you hang on to this one. It's your rope.
To try grab a different rope might mean falling back to the ground.
No one wants to go back there.
So, you hold onto the rope.

The Journey

Francis Daly arrived at what he perceived to be the gates of heaven.
In front of him stood, who he perceived to be, Saint Peter - leafing through a large old book.
"Right, let's see. Daly, Francis. Paid all your bills on time, taxes too, mortgage, car insurance,  worked to age 65, obeyed all the rules. Good. You can go in".
Tired yet delighted, Francis walked past the gates.
As he did so, he heard Saint Peter continue:
"Campbell, Paul. Traveled the world, sat on an elephant, ate and laughed and drank for fun. Danced in a waterfall.  No traditional job, no bills and answered to no one but yourself. Good. You can go in".

Your Number's Up

It took six doctors five hours and three minutes, using four scalpels and two clamps to force one double edged sword from his multiple personalities.