Let me down

I know one day I will die

and cease to be

and nothing but the eternal cloak of darkness

will envelope me

and I will always know until my final breath

that you let me down

second best to that smile

and second best to that frown

but I keep pressing for more

to somehow break that glass

that separates us

into a thousand peices

shattered on the floor

that I might be with you

and be the one you go to

without hesitation

in a crowded room

oblivious to everyone else

to be your world

but I am nothing

along side the fray of other interests

and so you always let me down

from the shadows

at the corner of the room

another drink to stay the hunger

another cigarette to stay the pain

and the anger I feel wells up inside

and pours from my eyes

that I will never be someone

who is worth that much of your time

or your smiles

or your frowns

or much of my own

for that matter

JP Collins

Words

It seems I forgot what my words sounded like

tumbling from my mouth

and how they can be heard

and absorbed

and their content

damaging to those whom I love

those whom I respect

whom I give no reason to respect me

or return that love

and in moments of clarity

in the lull of the waves

between the pitch and the swell

I know again my own mind

and I know again how to use those words

more delicately and more precisely

to make meaning of the mess

and convey that honestly and respectfully

but the damage is done

and you cannot unsay what has been said

even from under the cloak of chaos

thrown over my mind

in fits of depression

I cannot find a valid reason to be

and now I must learn the hardest of lessons

and try to make anew what has been broken

from the wreckage that is left

from that sinking ship

and praying it stays afloat

against the weight of consequence

where nothing exists save

regret battling for forgiveness

and I hope that I can be stronger next time

and fight against the waves of self-destruction

and not throw good things away

letting them loose to the deepest of graves

among sand and stone

to peer at them from the surface

longingly

for your sake, and for mine

JP Collins

Come to pass

So, it is

these good things come to pass

on high seas through chop and swell

past ragged rocks

snagged up against them for a while

hemmed in along the shore

close as a mother’s love

and soft as the kindness in her grasp

until they free themselves to the cold grey waters

fading into the mist that hangs low over the channel

where lands that cannot be named call to them endlessly

from beyond the lip of the world

and so, we let go

a feather floating above the deep

a gull to the wind

the raindrop falling from hard rock

as the ocean breathes it back in

the gift of longing and loneliness

a tearful thing

wrought by the sea and taken back there again so quickly

the land, undeserving in Autumn’s release

loosening of the belt and sighing of the breeze

streaming from its face, and

sinking back down to time and sediment beneath

runs its fingers through waves and tides

as the oceans come and leave

unable to grasp the salt dew beads

in aching knuckles and crevice wounds of weary hands

before dripping free

to seek out those distant lands

and so, it must be

these good things come to pass

a memory of love and kindness

lingers, always

like a knife to the heart.

JP Collins

Unadored

I am ashamed to say

I was small

standing there on tiptoes

trying to look down on you

but I realise it was my unimportance

driving me on

wearing away at my feet

until there was nothing

but blood

and bone

against the hard wood of the floor

and that cake that was cut

in front of so many

is worthless on the tongue

compared to those words

‘I’m sorry’

uttered amidst all the wrongs

and almost not uttered at all

under the weight

of my own existence

still trying to work out

what stage of grief I am in

Denial, anger?

now bargaining?

I’m ashamed to say I acted tall

when I wasn’t really

anything at all

the crushing blackness of feelings

unable to be born

unable to be released

eats away

it turns the heart

and dries the blood

so everything

just. fucking. stops.

and whilst all I needed to say was ‘I’m sorry’

all you needed to say was ‘I love you,

you mean something,

what you do matters,

and why you do it matters more.’

Yet the stack of books

we’d written in all our years

with our memories, hopes, and dreams

tilts and wavers

until it topples so uncontrollably

to the floor

bearing empty pages

where meaning should have spilled from them

in rivers of laughter, love, appreciation, applause.

I balance there, now

blood and bone

on the hard wood of the floor

looking up

and making praise

so others will never so feel alone

as I have been before

thrown in with the tat

floating in the drawer

that inkless pen

with nothing left to write

so utterly worthless

so unadored.

JP Collins

Empty Floor

She asked how many times I’d said it

and how many of those I’d meant

and I know it was too many

in my short years

and that it was none after all intents

like it’s not a possibility for me

and I have to feel inadequate

incapable of being open

and I guess I can thank a few for that

the strangest notion

for leaving a baby to cry

so it knows to the bone

that it doesn’t matter

and walking by the carboard sign

and dirty sleeping bag

without so much of a stare

so they know to the bone

that you don’t care

and I don’t know

how’d it would ever be

a future in which I have kids

a future in which there is me

so it’s easier not to have them

and to bury myself away

door by door, closed

to save the effort of having to be something

uncomfortable

and new

and inadequate

all over again

and shy away

from the growing pains

and the fear

to stay and see

them grow up

and look like me

but I say it again

on a different day in a different year

with different feet looking back at me

to try it out

under the pressure

of all those thumbs

to be that thing that is expected

like it might somehow stick this time

if I throw it hard enough

but it never does

and I collapse inward

like a dying sun

a little more

and say to all those old feet

and the growing emptiness of the floor

that if I am not healing now

then what is all this hurting for?

JP Collins

Wash

Wash my name clean from your skin

it’s time

you wore it like a coat you didn’t enjoy

and dyed it all your favourite colours

and the ones that the fabric wouldn’t take

were kept unseen

and when it questioned your values you tore at its sleeves

shredding the fabric beneath your nails

but nails regrow

but torn is torn

with no incentive to sew it new

and one day you removed it entirely and spread it beneath your feet

to finally trample down its being

to mould it to the earth

as your feet are so accustomed to doing

worn like a pelt

in honour of your suzerainty

closer to your spirit than ever before

your irreverence undeniable

unhidable

but when you wore it again after, you adorned yourself unknowingly in its dirt

that

can never be washed clean

from either of us

even when a name leaves

and there is not even a whisper left of its being

so go

find a new name and wear it like a new coat

and dye its warp

and dye its weft

and tear at its sleeves

until there is nothing left

again

but shreds.

JP Collins

Gull

That gull flying

high and wild and free

over lonely sea air

and yet always knowing

in which direction to travel

and where it goes

and where it ends

in such an indecipherable expanse

of blue

and then there’s me

and there’s you

separated by wild torrents

of thick swirling air

clouds

and storm

and rain

and thunder

beating down

on the surface

of the water

blinded by the swell licking up

every second

moving the horizon from miles out

to barely a foot in front of me

and then away again

out of reach

I have never been so close

to the horizon

and so far

at the same time

all the while

so lost at sea

longing for the gull

and the clarity

and the calm

and break the knowing

of the world

without you

without me.

JP Collins

Mother

Mother, mother me

won’t you, please?

though I am grown

I still need you to be

everything

I’ve known you to be

What has taken you

from holding out

a blanket

or a soft toy

to a crying child?

and reading

soft and gentle

as we sat on your knee

and drifted off to sleep?

and laughing

and playing

as two handfuls

ran wild?

and giving

a hug

and a sticking plaster

to a boy

who’s bumped his knee?

and making

birthdays

and christmases

more joyous

and special

than we’d ever need?

and carrying

a tired uniform

to the charity shop

when we’d grown

and learned to pick

our own clothes?

and offering

those words of wisdom

when volatile adolescence

steered its ship

off course?

and being there

always

loving unconditionally

when we flew the nest

and didn’t need you

how we used to need?

and smiling

as I looked back

down the isle

to my bride?

and being there

as solid as the earth itself

when that love had died?

and talking late

over memories

that you remember vividly

much more than I?

What has taken you

and that kind

and gentle mind

away from us?

One man and two children

know not

how to be

anymore

with you

so far gone.

Please

come home

if you can

and mother me.

JP Collins

Diary of a missing man

January cracks open its door
with a heavy heart
and blue and white and cold, harsh light
floods December’s floor
and that long shadow
is cast down
from nothing, really, at all
but a slight scent
in the chill of the air
left by a man
who was never
really there
Coal tits on Scots pines
Redwings in warmer climes
and me: I am nothing
but bark fallen to the floor
and browning needles
amongst the dead leaves
scattered and abhorred
Some drunk
swaying through the town streets
whose past is freely ignored
I am and the dust
settling on the hearth
and the window board
in plain view
of the bustling hordes
passed by
without a care
no outstretched hand
no meeting of minds
no laughter to fill the air
no impact or difference made
to anything
dissolving into the earth
among the Scots pine needles
and the decaying leaves

all of it laid bare
the trace of a man
who was never really there.

JP Collins

A poem #111 – Ramblings of Jalova

We met again in London

6 months on

But we were right back there tonight

The sand under our fingernails, and in our socks, so they were more sand than fabric

Sloshing against our Crocs in those fierce carribean waves

The sweat on our hands and red-light toil shared amongst us

A common goal

A home for the homeless

That sweet jungle air, thicker than most

Like blood

Running through us

And the wood from the shacks and lining our bones

The calling birds, and tin-roof congregations of lost minds finding their way beneath the lightning

Crashing down around us as we lay belly to the earth

Giving ourselves to the turtles and the sand and the sea spray and the crab holes

Leaving the most important parts of ourselves on that beach, in that swamp forest, in the cocos

And remembering it every time we close our eyes and dare to dream

The only time we truly fall in love, and allow ourselves to be loved, and to love ourselves

As timeless and changeable as the tideline

Welcoming the maturity and inescapable harshness of life

Glossed over in a second after leaving through the gate

Back to reality

But never forgotten

Never mis-appreciated

Never downplayed and never allowed too far from the mind’s reach

So we can find our true selves

anytime we wish

anytime we need.

JP Collins