The Little Things IV: Party

I'm silent,

     Reflecting I survey the atmosphere that is my surroundings, Learning better how to respond out from compassion's empathetic imagination engine that drives the very heart of me. That's Jay, over there in the corner, not upon a wooden stool raised above the crowd upon an open no mic necessary stage, no epic stories to fascinatingly drawn people in tell them all to build my faded, no confidence but courage, ego in a broken self mirror savannah dry oasis internal mirage image.

     Raining myself harbour in, Fatal knock hook out mouth event speak plunged,  Vocal anchor chord remittance unto a sandcastle spoken world poetry earth I shan't ever take part in, Adopting a relinquished heart murmur back shadowy corner invisible vernacular consciousness predator.

      This blog and the poetry, or whatever one might call my broken prose, is no longer about me. Once it was rife with the traumatic healing of an 'artist' with mental illness. Now it is about... Metaphoric language and the rise of your conviction(s). For found haunting amidst the torrential double metal helix D.N.A of poetic written spoken words, are your own opinions, which are founded in beliefs and long moral derelict trenches, that were never wholly abandoned, for the thought guise of fairness lingered forever within you.

     So welcome, now read, listen and thrive!

In earnest anticipation of,