I tear at my hair with the savage intent of a hungry tiger. This is not how it is meant to be. This is not… not… but I cannot find the words, they are lost in a mist of tumbling red where glaring eyes fire and vicious disassemblers of dreams lurk. I have lost myself. I am lost.
Breathe, I say. Write just write. Lose yourself to worlds and places others do not know. Throw yourself upon midnight dreams and cloak yourself in darkness. Cast yourself upon swords of your own creation and lick away the blood with false relish. They will not find you, I insist. They will never know I’m here, I try to convince myself. But, they do. I am always found.
Frustrations abound in this cacophony of me, this unsettling of self. I shake my head and scream, but nobody hears, not even me. Fingers clench until my fists turn white shaking with something… something, but I’m unsure what?
This world is a strange and wonderful place. There is so much potential, so much scope to make marvels of all that we know and all that we see. This world is a place for all people, all minds and bodies, but not mine. Like a jigsaw with an extra piece, I am surplus to this place. I find it… frustrating!
He began with every clock in every house. That took him a while, but he didn’t stop there. He moved on to bigger things: churches; railway stations; town squares; Big Ben, the most famous of all timepieces. There wasn’t a wristwatch, pocket watch or even phone display left to show the time when he’d finished, minutes and seconds all erased from living memory. He left everything and everyone with nothing but the growing wrinkles on their faces to mark the passage of time. One might have said, he’d killed it.
Old Father Time sat back in his throne of clockwork gears, pendulums and ticking cogs, took the deepest, longest breath the universe had ever known — although it couldn’t be measured — then grinned a wry smile. So much time to kill and he still couldn’t finish his jigsaw.
*To any young readers, a jigsaw is a picture cut into funny shapes that you have to put back together. It’s kind of like smashing your phone to pieces then having to rebuild it to play Pokemon Go. *
I hope that helped.
Five cats, two hamsters, one cage.
These chains that bind
They rattle and shake
Ill never be free
Not today, not tomorrow
I’ll wear them, frustrated
Dress them up, perhaps
But cold metal bites
Leaving deep, rusted impressions
One day, maybe, release
At least, in mind
For that’s one place
I’ll never be chained
But until that day
You’ll here my frustrations
A clinking and clanking
Of man against world
I am restless.
The birds fly south for the winter.
I see the their arrowheads shoot across the sky.
Seasons change and with them my mood.
I desire to feel the transgressions of winter,
Frost replacing dew for early risers.
I wish to see a December sunrise,
Fields blanketed by snow transfused to gold.
To follow whales along pacific migrations,
Butterflies fluttering away to warmer climes,
These things are what I miss, what I yearn for.
To look down from cotton wool comfort
Lazing amongst my brethren, basking in false worship,
It leaves a sour taste on my soul.
I am a God not a pampered child.
What good is creation if you cannot sample it?
I am restless.
The heavens tremble in fear at my rage.
Mortals see this as an omen, a winter storm.
They are wrong to do so.
If frustration can be an omen then let them have it.
I would swap places in but an instant.
One lungful of a winter’s night.
A moment under an evening sun.
A kiss from a loved one.
Is it too much for a God to ask for?
Know me my disciples and tremble at my wrath.
Then sate yourself in my tears.
I am restless.
Image courtesy of brighnasa on deviantart.com
Death holds no fear to such as I
It is a dark place that I should light
Battle has lost its thrill, I bore of it
The sculpting of Midgard is for scholars
Not for mjölnir and I, warriors born
I would rather rage at the nine realms
Hurl lightening from turbulent skies
Shout at the storm, laugh with the thunder
Feel the torrents wash my frustrations away
To be a God without responsibility, but I am not
And as I gaze from this rainbow bridge
Asgard at my back, my brow furrows
For the God of the storm knows fury
Not for the enemy, but for his own kin
And for that, Loki must pay!