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Complex Games

Here I sit, this outer
shell dishevelled -
you wouldn’t look twice
if passed in the street.
Hair like marbled slabs
of toffee: melted,
knotted from sleep’s sure
fire hit in the vein.
All those dreams
unremembered lingering
somewhere out of reach,
I can sense them,
feel them trying
to call me back, but awake now,
in the vastness reality brings.
I close eyes and gather
the daydreams - how I imagine
my mind to be, hoping others see.

Chasing the day -
chasing the night, always.
There’s a golden chalice,
where I sip on thoughts
that flow freely through all
the rivers surrounding me,
moon’s reflection calmly smiles
as I live in night time
more often than not these days.
Can you see the light
of shining sun standing by the side
of moonbeam's guiding rays?
I feel it, but sometimes,
it eludes all the grasps
that fall from the need inside of me.
Others shine at me,
I hope that I will shine
just half as bright as they
and then I will smile.

These branches
I throw out in poetry - all lead
to the person sitting here,
typing thoughts like my life
depended upon it, maybe it does,
maybe the gathering of emotions
is the reason I am here in life,
it seems that way to me,
my whole life has been
moulded into words,
the early times
playing games with letters,
racing them down the page
as I devoured anything that I could read
to relieve the boredom times
that plague me even now -
never release from that.
But I strive, with steps long and sure,
to move into the future,
find myself briefly before watching it fade,
then the rediscovering journey
as new situations ever change the man I am.

The interest in nothing
in school really except
for Art and English,
though art eluded me at that time,
couldn’t even draw then,
but liked the teacher
and besides it was better
than religious education,
where copying from the bible
was all I ever seemed to do,
that or lines of ‘I will pay attention
when a teacher speaks to me.'
I digress, I know, but
this is me - the wanderer,
though I never go anywhere
in physical form really.
Poetry in younger years
was encouraged by teachers
after being praised
for doing a poem for class,
I was embarrassed though,
me: the hard man jester
who aimed to make others laugh while
I danced with the insecurities,
the masks placed to hide incredible shyness -
I became the opposite.
Flirting, but never touching,
too afraid to fail, one of the lads,
drinking, smoking, fighting my way
through every situation,
and the years amassed me.

Then the depression,
I lost myself in all
the complex games
I had decided to play,
couldn’t see anymore, words -
they became my saving grace,
my god, I followed them,
into the here and now.
The recluse was born then,
yet I didn’t realise at the time,
just thought I needed time
to gather myself from the mud.
But friends wouldn’t leave me alone,
I am lucky like that,
yet still, I needed to find
something real inside,
the masks were slipping,
my eyes lied to others -
of course I am happy,
why shouldn’t I be?
But I knew they could see me,
it was myself I was lying to,
all those pains scratching
at my eyes, caught up on me,
backed into a corner where
I fought tooth and claw
for survival, still find myself
pushed there these days,
but I am stronger now,
or at least I like to believe that,
I guess that’s up to others
to decide when they see me.

Well, those pains,
you really don’t want to know,
trust me on this, they kill me
just thinking of them,
but I try to convey, with all the words,
those early ones dark and disturbing,
raw, not refined like now,
they scream me across the page,
maybe as time moves on
I will type them up
and throw them out,
some are already here
if looked for, here I am,
open to everyone
who wants to come closer to me,
I will welcome friends,
though sometimes I find it hard
to keep up with demands
I do not forget and make my way
to you as quickly as I can,
dancing myself through the waltz.
It’s funny how a picture in a game
can spread me like butter,
but I’m laughing here,
despite the sadness
you may find in these words.

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Submitted on September 22, 2010

3:48 min read

Ian Sawicki Claim this poet

Ian Sawicki has been writing poetry for over twenty years. He is a Manchester born poet, who has dedicated his life to exploration and composition of poetry. His work reflects the many great influential experiences of his life, the pain, the pleasure combined to create new exciting poetry. If anyone is interested in my books then please visit my lulu storefront. All artwork on these books is by my own hand. http://stores.lulu.com/chasingtheday more…

All Ian Sawicki poems | Ian Sawicki Books

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    "Complex Games" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 24 Sep. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/68419/complex-games>.

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