THE COLOUR OF MADNESS
A Blog About Living with Mental Illness
Drifter
Romantasize your life oh vagrant son,
for the glass is half full tonight.
Wherever the breeze may take you, you pull out your guitar and write.
Make your bed under a canopy of stars,
as the wind quietly whispers your name.
Give up society for freedom,
and companionship for change.
Under flowering eucalypts,
in springtime breeze, I imagine you singing in the sun.
Guitar in hand, an audience of trees listening intently to your strum.
You wrote your way into my heart when we were young and fancy free,
The story’s told through your lyrics of truth,
captured my world in words and dreams
Call upon the Ghosts of Drifters Past,
to share your cheap wine and cigarettes tonight.
For Christmas is a time for family and friends,
to toast those long forgotten nights.
Leaves fall around your starlit home,
the days are getting shorter.
Until winters icy chill comes to burn the meat from your bones and you can’t find food or shelter.
Only the bottle can give warmth to those quivering hands right now as the night becomes your day. Matches wet, shoes all worn and those broken strings no longer play.
You romanticised your life oh vagrant son,
alas the glass is half empty tonight.
Under a blanket of stars you cry the world is your home while tears run from your broken heart.
Slim pickings are left for the common men,
that time has left weary and grey,
You can search for yourself again tomorrow,
but tonight your shadow’s here to stay.
10 Comments on “Drifter”
Leave a Reply
THE COLOUR OF MADNESS 
a reply
in fears swirling tide I do reside,
with nowhere else to go, how long this journey seems to be,
I long to return from the washed up wasteland tides of my mind,
LikeLiked by 1 person
Stunning, such a beautiful poignant poem! Xx
LikeLiked by 2 people
Thank you! 💜
LikeLike
cont (I hit the send button in error – god damn hand eye coordination thing again lol)
I’ll start from the beginning to get the thread of thoughts back on….
In fears swirling tide I do reside,
with no where else to go,
how long this journey seems to be,
from the wasteland tides of my mind,
yet to hear the distant heart of home,
like a past treachery I sprang like spring upon this beach,
evergreen daydreams of younger days,
oak tree’s tall fill my gaze,
bird song rings sweet within my ears,
intimate and soothing,
I’d gladly adhere,
to melt this heart with each stone upturned,
I am all that is left,
just skin and bone,
yet true love unnoticed is all around,
to greet me and be with me,
no longer lost but found,
and with Mother Mary as guide,
the mother,
mother divine,
take me,
take me to that place,
that place so deep inside,
so deep inside your womb,
where I can know nothing,
and be reborn,
reborn,
anew….
LikeLiked by 1 person
Beautiful!
LikeLiked by 1 person
thanks Kate…. I don’t really know where to put coma’s so I throw them in afterwards…. there’s a load all over the floor so I gotta hover up now…. what you writing next?
LikeLiked by 1 person
Yeah I tend to over do the old comma, perhaps I should have paid more attention in school!
I’m always writing a million things, or one of us is… some we post, most not. Been digging up some old stuff from the deep dark depths of our ‘notes’ folder, might share some of that.
LikeLike
Good, can’t wait… here’s one for you… I call it ‘Before Bed….’
crawl off this mindscape cliff,
drop off,
on to the floor,
all action is unclear,
I look for my schedule of reinforcement,
things that I now hold dear,
the routines that steer,
sophisticated exchanges of different games,
all shame, take the blame, mention no names,
consciousness is lost,
yet I am,
I am,
the boss,
self sublates,
decentre’s,
nó comprehension,
no reflection,
excluded amidst holistic life aspirations,
multilevelism as complicated explanation,
deconstructively constructive,
who gains,
automated medicine and endless pain,
substrata encounter,
uptopian function,
transitory deception,
a venture beyond all consciousness,
in this gold guilded wrapping of relief,
I look for my schedule of reinforcement,
my dear friend, please bring an end,
to end this fucking pain
LikeLiked by 1 person
Poetic agony, the endless spin cycle and quest for meaning. This one is relatable.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Reblogged this on MiddleoftheHeart and commented:
An Ode for the Play Boys of the Western World…….
LikeLiked by 1 person