Pretty Lies

In a moment of icy crystal like clarity
My wounded heart was beating so loud, in a dusky restaurant,
I was afraid that he would hear it and ask about the wide eyed look and rose-pink hot-flushed cheeks
When suddenly I saw my own fear infused, ever expanding, like a stain of blue ink on a white satin sheet, insanity.
What I was trying to achieve, perhaps not what, but how, it startled me, stabbed me to my core with a pair of cold, stainless steel scissors
By betraying my own tired heart, by going for something that has never been true for me which I knew right from the tangled-web-like start;
I hurt myself like a bird fallen from the sky that didn’t spread its wings and violently crashed to the cemented ground.
This wasn’t a life anymore, but pretty lies to me, my soul and I.
Running from my own truth. Lacking the courage to ignite a fire in my jaded heart. Not allowing myself to believe, not allowing to love.
Except that the lies weren’t pretty anymore.
And even though, out of marmite ridden guilt or maybe fear, I’ve still tried, the convincing, ghostly blindness which used to be my friend,
Didn’t have that hypnotic power over me anymore as much.
The truth has pierced its eyes wide open. It made me feel the flowery drops of dew in early morning on my thirsty skin. It’s slowly steered me towards a clearing in the bleak and shapeless day, perhaps it’s impelled me in the direction of love.
I was left alone. Again. To figure things out.
To choose yet another voyager sailboat in the stormy ocean, no, not even on solid ground.
Well, either that or stick to something that I’ve known – the pretty lies. The ones that I’ve been using to betray my own heart.
And all I needed to realise the truth was a conversation with the perfect stranger in a candlelit restaurant with casual yet stylish deco,
Where waiters smile at you and treat you like a king;
In the city restaurant filled with hope and expectations, of multiple hearts looking for home – to belong, to feel safe, to run wild and to accept themselves.
The arrogant stranger who shook me to my core, I thank him.
He tossed a shiny golden coin onto darkest ground and disappeared into his granite castle. And in that way he’s perfect. Never to be seen again yet never forgotten.
I picked up the coin with my cold, trembling hands and promised to my heart that I’d pay the price to listen to my soul until the language that it speaks to me feels finally like home.

A Fellow Londoner

Have you ever looked at a stranger and felt like you really want to talk to them? Have you? And how often has fear taken over?

It makes me think of the many times I’ve spotted people (especially on the tube) that I would have liked to connect with, but did’t dare to open my mouth. Why? Because of fear, of course. You know, just in case they don’t respond, laugh at me or look at me like I’m a complete nutter. And just think of all those masses of people in the same carriage who will get to see it! That’s pretty scary, right?

There have been, however, some other times when I did overcome the resistance and said hello, which led to some interesting conversations, laughs, book recommendations, feeling that we all are connected and some pleasant memories. So in light of these recollections here’s my latest poem.

Oh fellow Londoner, who are you?
Where are you going this misty morning?
I see your face so very often, on central line,
Ah, that mundane London underground commuter’s journey.

As you looked down at your phone on Monday, I saw you smile.
Was it a message from your loved one?
Or did you see a funny joke on Facebook
posted by one of your five hundred friends?

On Tuesday you seemed stressed.
Was it how you really felt?
Or was your face just a reflection

of what’s going on in my own life?

On Friday you looked up at me and smiled;
I thought you’d say hello but we both, I guess, were shy.
I often wonder why? I’d sensed we would have enjoyed a chat, yet
we avoided connection and gave in to fear.

Fear speaks to me – it has a voice.
That haunting voice, in my head, it often tells me things.
‘Stay quiet, as you may get rejected. What will people say?
They will judge. Don’t you know your place?’

Ah, but hold on. I’ve heard it all before.
Sounds just like my dad and mama teaching me to how to be in life.
There’s being good and bad, doing what you’re expected, and not talking back.

We grow up, but are we ever told that we’re not children anymore?
So when do we stop identifying with what we’re not allowed?
Oh fellow Londoner, next time we meet I hope we’ll speak.
Perhaps a brief exchange, a polite hello or maybe this encounter will lead to something more?

To find out we’ll have to overcome that gripping fear,
Risk to be ridiculed and open our hearts.
Possibilities in life are truly limitless – I know, letting go is tough, yet
vulnerability offers rewards far beyond what you and I could ever grasp.