By Fuzzy
Dear Queen, I don’t mean to be mean, but I don’t much care for the royalty scene. You live in a palace and express your success, you dress in excess just to impress, you meet and greet and do as you please, while people starve and suffer disease. Imagine those children all on their own, with nothing but canvas to call their home, wrapped in ripped and oversized clothes, faces disclose echoes of woes, their parents died in a terrible drought, while we eat and drink, they go without, their tears, for years fall on deaf ears, they yearn for a hug to allay their fears, they hope for love and love to hope, they learn to live and live to cope, with loss and sadness and chaos and madness, void of goodness, too much badness. A life of death seems unfair to me, the World can inflict such cruelty, so congratulations on the Jubilee, I hereby enclose my R.S.V.P, I shall not be coming to your party.
By Fuzzy
You can drive fast along my favourite road,
But I take my time with my heavy load.
Five routes precede this tremendous track,
I drive down each one, turn around and drive back.
Up and down, I drag my wheels,
Working my way towards the hills.
Around the curves, I gyrate my freight,
And calve a line towards the straight.
The surface is warm from my hot tyres,
The sound of friction inspires my desires.
The signs tempt me forward, so I set my sights,
Towards dizzying heights and further delights.
I reach a peak and pause for pleasure,
The view from here is something to treasure.
Onward I venture, I am halfway there,
Pushing my pedal as much as I dare.
This next length, paved with golden tiles,
Seems to stretch for miles and miles,
So I sit back, relax and enjoy the ride,
Changing lanes, outside to inside.
It soon gets darker and I know I am near,
I check the rear and change down gear.
I see the tunnel and I choose my lane,
The bushes grow thicker as it starts to rain,
And while inside, I turn on my full beam
To the sound of joy and a satisfied scream.
I stop for a break, fill my tank, and then
Drive along my favourite road again.
There is another route you can take which avoids the tunnel, I’ll describe it another day.
By Fuzzy
Stuck for a while
Sucked into your smile
Drawn to compile
To write and profile
Glued to your eyes
Pulled into your soul
Magnetised
Out of control
Secured to your heart
Locked into your life
Tearing me apart
Like a surgical knife
Pushed by self doubt
Forcing me away
Anxious to tell you
To express and convey
I love you! I love you!
I want to say
Now it is said
Poetically bled
Dripping from my head
My wound unread
Formed into verse
For you to mend
For you to nurse
For you, my friend.
By Fuzzy
My mind has been sucked from my head.
May as well be dead.
People stare, where I tread.
I’m scared of the things I read.
The things I did, the things I said.
How do I be ‘me’ once more, the ‘me’ people liked, the ‘me’ they saw.
I have tried so hard to fit and comply, but find my life is passing me by.
I try and I try but keep asking why, why can’t I be a more popular guy?
I climb the trees and I have seen the top, but the branches just snap and down I drop.
And as I fall down, with each twig in my back, the light disappears and my life turns black.
But as I lay, at the bottom of that tree, I see a bright light, an epiphany.
I see new lovers and discover new friends and I see what happens and how my life mends.
I see how to fit in and how to be free and I find out what people like about me.
My mind is back and I feel more alive, I am no longer scared and I know how to survive.
I have moved on from the things I did, read and said and learned not to look backwards, but forwards instead.
By Fuzzy
Down my road, behind my house, a garden can be found,
grown with love and devotion, in a warm and fertile ground.
In a bed of flowers, there is a tulip, pretty and sweet,
it’s petals are dark brown, looking smooth and very neat.
A slender stem makes it tall and I watch it as it towers,
yet it holds itself with pride, eyed by the other flowers.
Its aroma fills my head and makes me dizzy and delighted,
I hold its splendour in my mind, blinded and excited.
If I pick that tulip, is it mine to pluck and have it in my home?
Is it wrong to steal its beauty and to keep it as my own?
Would it radiate my soul, would its perfume still deliver?
Or does it not belong to me, would it droop and start to wither?
Its place is in the garden so I must resist temptation
so others can admire, and acquire its inspiration.
By Fuzzy
DIY, DIY, you really make me want to cry, I’d do it myself if I was so inclined but I know you want to take my mind. Filling in and rubbing down, my face contorts, you make me frown. The scratching, the scraping driving me insane, sucking dust into my brain, suffering pain, the anger burns like acid rain. I find the strength to carry on sanding, but as I do, the room starts expanding, mocking me, laughing and poking fun, “You are NEVER going to get this done!” So I find a space under the window sill, I know now I have lost my will, my hand finding the electric drill, up to my temple, held very still, I smile a smile of the mentally ill and CLICK……………SHIT! I knew I should have paid that bill.
By Fuzzy
When she speaks your name, I feel pain
You took my wife, my life, like a game
You stepped into my shoes and cast me aside
You don’t know what anger I now have inside
I want to hurt you, to cut you down
And now I fear to walk my own town
For when I see you, there is so much hate
Your selfish actions have left me in a state
Sometimes I cry to release my emotion
Sometimes I drink, like a magical potion
Hoping the pain you have caused will release
And once again my World can be at peace
Sometimes my heart feels like a sieve
and as my strength drains I cannot forgive
Then the anger comes back and I want to kill
Dark emotions I never knew I could feel
So I write these words to console my soul
For I now have nothing but a large black hole
And though I know you can’t take her away
I have less time to play on my single day
And when I am on my own, all my time goes
On meaningless words and irrelevant prose
I hope that one day I can be happy again
But for now, I can only wish to see my daughter again.
Note: the day after I wrote this, he moved in, but it released a lot of built up anger, allowing me to accept the situation better.
By Fuzzy
I am torn between using this blog as a creative outlet for my humour or for my anxst. I have an equal amount of both but I prefer to give you the humour, after all why the hell would you want to read about me having a bad day? Well, I am thinking perhaps I should publish my darker writings and you either like it or you hate it, lets call it “art”. You need to know where it is all coming from and though I am far from being a comic genius, I hope I can interest you a little with the inner workings of a “Fool”.
Did anybody watch that documentary about Spike Milligan the other day? The story of many comedians is very much the same, Peter Sellars, Paul Merton, Kenneth Williams, Stephen Fry, Jim Carey, Lenny Henry, Jack Dee, Bill Oddie, Tony Slattery, Caroline Aherne, Russell Brand, Hugh Laurie, Martin Lawrence, Richard Pryor. Not to mention the various poets, composers, musicians, artists, actors and authors – blimey, so it seems my love of the creative word comes with a price!
I am not depressed and do not suffer depression (though I have done), but I do suffer anxiety, mainly due to some issues I am currently having to deal with regarding an ex wife and my beautiful daughter. It was for this reason my brother created Rhymeonyoucrazydiamond so it is for this reason I shall be publishing some words from the dark side.
As if you are not convinced, here are some great quotes on the link between creativity and madness (I prefer to use the word madness because its funny) -
The depressed writer, or actor, or painter asks, “Without the highs of mania or the lows of depression, would I still live a life of creative intensity?” The question also might be “Without the distraction of mania, would I be free to make the most of my gifts? Without the shackles of depression, would my work soar?”
Writing, painting, acting, singing may help you feel a little better, for a little while, by siphoning off some of the painfully urgent emotions of mania and depression. If the internal pressure can be channeled artistically, at the very least, those around you may be spared some of the emotional fallout from your anger or your pain. The result doesn’t have to be “good” by any objective criteria; all it needs to be is a release. If it is also well wrought, ask yourself, “Is that because of or in spite of my illness?” and remember that it is the artist who created the work, not the depression. – Kathy Cronkite, On the Edge of Darkness
I think wanting to write is a fundamental sign of disease and discomfort. I don’t think people who are comfortable want to write. – Kay Redfield Jamison
Some of the very greatest gifts bring an inevitable downside which you cannot “cure” without curing the gift at the same time. – Stephanie Tolan
Among artists, writers were found to have the highest lifetime rates of mental disorders. And among writers, poets exhibit the highest rates of mental disorders. – Silja J.A. Talvi, “Study Links Angst to Creativity”
I am a creative alchemist, I make gold from coal. - Tim Furlong
By Fuzzy
If I was paid to think, I’d be a millionaire,
I’d close my eyes and ponder as I sit upon my chair,
The real World would melt away and a dream would appear,
But my money would be useless, it has no place here.
By Fuzzy
Round, red, rubber, on the ground she found
Another and another she finds all around
“No more!” says Mother at the red rubber hound
But she sniffs out more without a sound
Soon she has many of these red, rubber hoops
and if I had a penny for every one of these loops
I would be a happy man and watch as she stoops
for more rubber bands with her hands she scoops
I love my little red, rubber band locater
even though my walks get later and later
I have the choice to chastise and berate her
but I choose a smile, for her happiness is greater.
On the outside I'm a seemingly normal family man, your friendly neighbour, bloke down the pub, general good chap kinda guy. Inside I'm tormented by my recurring childhood nightmare featuring two grotesques: Wiggly Worm and Crocodile. These creatures have played nemisis to my sanity, driving me to the edge of madness and paranoia throughout my 36 years on this god-forsaken spinning globe of stinking chaos. My only way out is this blog, which I use to exorcise my inner daemons through poetry, scribbles and rants. Humour me. Help me.