I am

A poem in free verse, with a reading from the author

I am the dreamless night
without slumber
without silence

shadows lumber
a deafening hum
fill the walls
till it becomes
I, to it all
but never numb
enough to find stillness

a lively mind
a blessing
and an illness

tuned into the world beyond
beyond the window pane -

creatures of the night
buzz and swarm
toward the bright lights
and warm

bushy tailed foxes
dip in and out of sight
whilst the tods snarl and fight
vixens squeal to lure a mate

we animals
with beating heart
what sets us apart?
us sapiens
us sentients

we have a world
beyond the vein
which pumps
and circulates

beyond the world
of atoms

ideas percolate
free of verse
and unpredictable
knowledge circulates
imbedding in pockets
of peoples
creating culture

in the world of essence
before disappearing out of use
to a world of evanescence

nose pressed against
the window pane
letting in the wonderland
and all the Mad Hatters

a circus of characters
winding in the belly
this winded pain
that leaves one breathless

I am the restless mind
that’s wanting

ever wanting
in a sea of worry
for some unseen promise

rocking the boat
in calm waters
anxieties keep me falling

washing up on the shore of reason
soaked to the bone
I take myself home
muddled amongst beached words
thrown overboard
like an imperfect rhyme

it lingers
the worry
dropping in unannounced

the wanting
wishing it could be hung up at the door
like a soggy coat
instead of dragged through the house
into every square inch
of solid, saddening ground

I am the tarnished tale
barely legible

written in many different colours of ink
often blue
often dark
that bleeds out
when pressure is applied
to leave it’s mark
beyond the straight edge of the line
the impressions remain rough
and real


scribbled in the margin
between black printer pressed type

the books a bestseller
“don’t believe the hype”
writes the child in war torn Afghanistan

It’s an often confounding composition
for many
barely fitting in
in the confines of the page
the cage - the boundary - the box
which we find ourselves in
from birth

a story with a plot
a protagonist

drafting out
a manuscript -
conventions which skew
our personalities
likes, wants and needs
to fit
into the systems
that be -
the creeds, factions, institutions
that we
accept, embody or in their grip
and often

I am the narrative

no one child passes undiminished
of their truest self
configured continually
by their cultures

still, here we are
with all its wealth
beneath the circling vultures

who pick the bones
of the earth

but they do not have hands
to brandish the knife
which carves the oak
of my resolve

or hold the weight of the hammer
which judges ones heart
and can absolve

dexterity to move the pencil
toward where the flowers
of creativity bloom

in the darkness of
a dreamless night
tracing the shadows
of the room

filling space
with our annotations

… until the end

bending the will of our poetic voice
till the poems penned

I am the pen which writes
I am the fingers which type
I am the restless mind
I am the dreamless night.

© Darius the Mate

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Wordplay Pathway

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