Make a painting with sweats,

And resins from plants ;sweets,

Bitters and thoughtful meets

To form its themes,

Weaved lining of lines,

Hardly the Magnum opus; it might,

But to feed it's beauty to flames,

Just to escape cold,

 And warm hands!

Am I a meaningful painting

Or just a plaything

Lying like a firewood

With no good,

 Isn't it you behind this, o almighty...

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you lay numb

hypotherminc, dying

the fire, it dances

taunting, flickering, in and out

like hope

hope that it may help

help to that your frozen fingertips

slow your chattering teeth

soothe, ebb the icy grasp of the violent, pulsing

piercing burning

that is your fear and your doubt and denial

the drowning, whispering, screaming

wave that comes crashing

beating ...

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It’s easy to give in to being depressed
To savour life’s taste and yet feel second best
To challenge yourself to win the prize
Only to find that it’s empty, worthless and composed of lies.
What’s the use of trying hard?
When others don’t and can still reach behind your guard
To juggle the balls and keep them in place
To use every bit of effort and find you weren’t even entered in the race.
...

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Life is full of illusion, 
a process of disillusion. 

No perfection in decay. 

To die, 
to be reborn, 
to be all that I am 
is eternity. 

Oblivion only comes 
to those that seek it.


©JMCole 

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the monsters used to live under the bed

now they walk the streets, most often,

with halos around their heads

cold sunbeams stiffen my hyphenated bones

and even singing does nothing

to evaporate the frosted water in my veins

splash my neck

slap my face

I’m sick of talking, I get no satisfaction

from my lower case hate

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