Ramblings of Recovery Series 3 – a poem about strength, in sporting terms, moving from defence to offence!

The calculated chipping away at my rock no excuse is given by me as you looked the other way as your lack of actions, concreted filled ears, cotton head thinking as the world sees you struggling to tread water, as you refuse to make your way to the side of the pool.

Water placed in that pool by you and your blind ambition. Ambition without volition and in the quiet times where you lie in the dark thankful of another day where you fooled the influencers, the mirror bounces back the jester plagued by perdition.

Did you for once think that your lack of direction would lead to your election, elevation to all that is value. A shallow puddle milky with the pureed sediment of words and advice not followed.  Your time borrowed, a fact forgotten, as you continue to turn the screw into unsuspecting flesh.

I was one of those unsuspecting few succumbed to the passive intimidation viral, that caused months of spiral, as I fell down the rabbit hole, separated from my role, a role that I filled with honour as I backed your confusion, promoted your illusion my misplaced passion defiled by delusion.

For months, I fell with no branches to grab, no place to land I still fail to stand for hours on end as week by week I make my way up the cavern walls, feet finding roots, roots fixed strong by the words of the wise as they guide me to deeper meaning week on week. I feel like Alice, but this is no Wonderland, as therapists words and hands caress my carousel mind, with spirit and mind connect no longer apart as i finally lose sight of the Queen of hearts.

Yet all it takes is the venom to fill my brain before I sleep and those braved words that ground the roots to wall, disintegrate letter by letter as feet find no purchase and I fall a little further back.  The pillars that are meant to hold this fragile fabric together are simply fillers in a party parlez accompanied by the constant condiment of pats on backs as they ignore the cracks.

As I look up at the distant light, with little energy I fight as I am climbing with one hand, whilst writing poetry with the other, as they flow one after another, and you look down, head appears with no rope or hand of hope but yet you shout down asking if I will be at the top soon, to quietly resume.

To help paint over and gloss, the wreckage and people lost, due to your apathy and failure absolute, but the target is never reached as they shoot, blindly, with no eyes looking through the cross hairs, what matters is the decision to appoint, which was theirs and cannot be wrong despite the missing throng.

Does no-one talk about the people downtrodden, until their lights were almost extinguished and once positive energy forgotten?  The glue cracked, spirits hacked, and diluted by the acid of poor leadership, and corruption that the power with baggage which rains down like a shower, are joined at the hip, as their contraband goes undiscovered.

With a cut out in the walls of the well that I climb, it gives me chance to breath, to stop the heave and weight of confusion that I carry on this arduous journey.  The light no longer the goal, the light, the top, the edge of reason, with gravity my friend not foe.  Maybe the climb should be halted as I contemplate the dig, over the rope.

New ground uncovered leads to new foundations, fresh concrete to lay, one day in a fashion that I choose, as I ration my negative thoughts and moments to just 6 per day.  With miner mentality, comfort in the darkness I plan out the tunnel, and funnel the future into shoring and strength, my hope needs length.

As I’ve been short of it as late, and that is why I refuse to engage with your vacuous sentiment and your lack of age, but weight of what you feel you can take.  But you see I saw your knees buckle many years ago, and I see no days in the gym which should have led to a better show.

And this is how I see it now, a show, a circus, a stage with an unimpressed audience, but the Directors they send you on matinee follows matinee, yet they instruct from a far off land, and fail to see the empty seats, yet you write your own reviews which they read with little interest.

The failure to truly invest in the game, the play, the scene to be set or script in flames, burnt by the contradictions that have been penned by quiver and nib with ink wells filled with gasoline, and the spark that ignites the fumes being caused your trusted few as they slam the door behind them, door catch sparking in metal.

The catastrophe of that day, still plays in my brain, as I left behind all that I had built, before I could fit the front door, or alarm the windows from unwanted intruders.  I never saw you creeping through the backdoor, locking it behind you, as with knife firmly lodged I staggered out of the building only to be opened up by the bluntest of blades.

I drop the pace of this articulate array of pebbledash passion to ask….you knew it was me, didn’t you, who walked at the front of the column my troops carrying your colours, flying your flag as we , never lagged, despite the lunacy of your attempted conquests.  Not once did we falter, or lack faith at the alter when it all became dire in your thirst for an empire.

How do we get back from here, as I sit in this oasis of safety, free from the ignorance, from the lost meetings, free from you sitting in front of me head in hands asking what you need to do, when it is me that follows you.  As I reached out with my hand, you took it holding hard, then as I looked away you sliced up my forearm as trust drained from my empty and confused soul into your bowl, and a day later you looked into that vessel with confusion as to why you were sitting with the blood of a warrior.

Whilst away I have raised an army, and found allies who will rise up and crush all that you try and promote, not in your field of vision, or your drained moat but on the many battle grounds of integrity, honesty and truth, their mission.

So my fine reader or listener of this rambling of recovery where do I go from here, when the actions of my once trusted command, had left me open, violated and drawn, as my guts spewed into the street as they stepped over my writhing shell watching, devoid of emotion, as I gathered up all that made me, as others flocked to my side catching my blood in discarded plastic cups.

The wounds I keep clean with the rebuilding of my self-esteem, which you managed to clumsily unpick in a few short years which took 2 decades to build – as the more passion I showed as authenticity glowed and lit up your way, my threads they frayed, until no clothing was left and I had to leave the trenches.

You need to lose me, and reflect over the loss of a warrior who laid down all arms for your success, who crushed rebellions and took up the slack, who you rewarded with a dagger in my back. Wound is healing, with my own self believing, and with the words I have written to you as I explain where you failed. 

A page never to be sent I have now dismantled all letters from the script, melted and forged into steel thread that now holds my flesh together.  A constant reminder of the time where my trust turned my chrome into rust, with actions so course, and safe that I know that I not the one weak, but you backed the wrong horse.

Pedrobatpoet Copyright 2022

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