by Chris Chant

Pain and suffering

An invisible epidemic spreads through human life,
Known but unseen
Casting shadows internally
Polluting the brain.
Suicide and pain seem a way of life
Shocking but accepted.
When did we as a species, start acting,
As taking our own life is ok.
Shocking, cruel and unbelievable
Until time passes and shock value
Depreciates,
Becoming recognised as part of the journey.

No it’s not normal for an individual
Full of sense, emotion and love
Choosing to kill themselves cold.
To get to this state should send waves
To all that breathes.
We are evolving to see suicide as an option
Adapting and planning self torture.
This needs to stop
And start believing in the values of breathing,
Dancing to the blood pumping
Through viens.
And value life as a gift
Not a burden to survive.

The higher charge in every country,
In every race and language,
Need to see what’s in front of their
Privileged eyes.
People are suffering with standards
Of life.
Poverty, pain, combined with weight of mind
Brings the soul to drip
Of helplessness.

Self-halm to the extent of death,
Planned and executed in advance
By an individual
Who sees no other option.
This shouldn’t be behaviour of the sane
Suicide is spreading and rising
Unnoticed and quiet, until the blood drains.

by Chris Chant

Three Ghosts

Anxiety the past,
Praying on memories of old
Turning joy toxic
Parading doubt in front of others.
Questioning becomes an obsession
With the conscious gods.
Rewriting history through imagination
And doubt.
Feelings of guilt and regret
Cloud truth and innocence.

Depression the present,
Creating Insomnia
And tireless days
Mask slips in lonesome moments
Reappearing with others,
Painting a fake smile in company
Swapping faces to suit situations.
Forever Praying for, and fearing, isolation,
A bittersweet time of clarity
And relief,
In a day of celebration
Where the crowd mood is red
The depressives is blue.

Fear is the future,
Projecting thoughts
To unknown happenings,
Maybe Death or incarceration,
No positive or warm to hold onto.
Uncertainty a devil of the mind,
Imagination the keys on which he plays
Silencing voice of reason.
Rationality plays part of advocate
Though fails to satisfy or reassure
Peace and calm.
Noone can predict what the future holds
Though my accurate twisted depiction,
Is feeling alone and cold.
Many are visited always by these three ghosts,
And Christmas occasions can prove too dour
An Understanding voice can sing like a Carol
A true gift given, in a much needed hour.

by Chris Chant

Justice

We support the stalker who talks
The criminal who openly commits and walks,
While the victim, who is now free in body,
Is bound by invisible chains.

Perpetrator allowed to seduce and slither
While Victims belief dies, and withers.
A monstrosity carried out by a coward
Who thrives on toxic environments,
And plans constantly to move forward.
Receiving choice and chances
Of new identity with mundane history,
A lie to cover the new strangers mystery.

Victim has to see same scarred reflection,
Alone, wanting, helpless and useless,
Forever tainted and painted as damaged.
Meanwhile perpetrator smiles next to their uniformed entourage of protection,
Their defence paid in advanced, and managed.
Worse case scenario housed with a collection, of equal law breaking colleagues,
And looked upon with affection, and admiration.

Victims spirit falls away with surrender,
As the soul gives in to loneliness.
Becomes forgotten and only statistically remembered,
False empathy from society replaced by false sympathy,
Eyes of sorrow forgotten by tomorrow.

Perpetrator ‘becomes’ infamous and notorious,
Glorified through media,
Released early through rights and masks of good intentions,
Skillfully acted out through reduced years,
Splashing through the victims tears.
Life relinquished from monies of the good,
Allowed to walk in the sun
While victim lives through infinite clouds of judgement,
Jumping scared from their own shadow.

Perpetrator rides high on ridicule and swagger,
Knowing ‘the inside’ wouldn’t change their character.
From authorities who know best,
Given a new identity, new face,
With an underlying feeling, this wont change,
The threads where evil left a trace.

by Chris Chant

Whispers through doors

We would be lying
If we believe we’re not dying
Best to be ruthless
Not consciously toothless
Arming with facts
How our body subtracts,
Blood steadily thickens
Immune system sickens
Thinning our skin
Fades from within,
The insides lay waste
Soon we will taste
The scent of death
Awash in our breath.

Movement Cracks bone
Awaiting final moan
Lose all doubt
This is the wayout,
Just accept,
Enjoy what’s left
Because we are dying
And very soon,
Our soul will be flying.

by Chris Chant

Ascending

Colluding to time and age
Acting Complicit, dimming the rage,
The fist of anger and damnation
Slamming down, smashing shame
With frustration,
No sleep interrupts constant processing
Of survival,
Plan A plays out to normality and failure
Premature death subscribes maps to the mind,
Once written that’s where pain lies,
Blood behind the eyes
Talking blind,

Mumble of a foreign language
Where demons understand the cry
Of a fallen Angel,
No more to question why,
Give in lawfully to the bonds
That seek havens of wrist and foot,
Just change my love, easier to submerge
With the thorns,
Accept crown of horns,
Release pain, succumb to relief,
Let eyes view stars that dance in the mist,
Sleep my dear, and life will seep
Like falling blood purifying the wrist.

by Chris Chant

Shadow

When people say my name
I’m caught off guard
In my head I’m not approachable
Not expecting anyone to engage.

Question why they’ve open discussion
What’s their motive
Is it because I’m the last resort
Or the more interesting people have left

I’m anxious but glad at the same time
Praying I dont say anything stupid,
On egg shells so they will return,
Desperate to make good impression
The circles, emotions and thoughts that rise to the surface during conversation is immeasurable.

To the normal person its every day
To me it hits the seismic scale Of anxiety
My mind takes me through the talk
Summarising if I spoke out of turn
Or brought Shame upon myself.
Will they return for act two, or is once is enough.

Maybe one day I will listen to what they say and not heighten my feelings to my own responses,
Before the questions have been asked.

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by Chris Chant

Change the Ending

The mind is adept at its own pretence
When a foreseeable ending claws at its sense
Rapid spate of change is hard to allow
Crystal clear thoughts, deviate from the brow
An uncontrolled destined moment in time
Perspectives of honesty bring up the divine
Amnesiac spaces previous and after
Brings the transition, not nearer nor faster

Change sparks defence to raise fully clad
Denial, like a sane man humouring the mad
A rapid such ending wretches the soul
Pulls what we possess to never let go
Our sleepless gut instinct, repulses the last
Repelling an echo of struggles near past
For even the efficient an ending feels strange
A limbo state not desiring to change

An unconscious, unknown steadily beckons
Lifetime of intake, although its just seconds
Confusion is ripe though doesn’t persist
Without endings your presence wouldn’t exist
On ponder a moment which presents a choice
An alternate view to retain a lost voice
Reflect to proceed, an perceptive mind wins
Determine an ending, is where a new first begins.