My Butterfly.

You sat me down by the turquoise sea
And you set the waves on fire.
A paradox of pain to me;
Just rain on your attire.

So I imagined I was a butterfly
With wings that taught I couldn’t die...

As I prayed for life beyond your grasp,
You tightened your anguished grip.
Your grip around your line of slaves;
Around the torture of your whip.

Gravity contained my wings;
Invisibility of childish things...

These chains are shackled so permanently
The key no longer exists.
Just dust in your back pocket;
A deteriorating myth.

A silence muted my maturing mind;
My butterfly no more entwined.

You told me of a fledgling bird
That landed in your youth,
But never did it fly again;
Its freedom bound by you.

And so I saw your metaphor;
My basic freedom now no more.

You saw I couldn’t bear this thought;
A world without my dreams of flying.
But you didn’t see my light go out,
As my faith in all mankind was dying.

You didn’t just kill my human right,
You killed my mind; my thoughts; my fight.
You killed the wings that fuelled my light.
You killed me that first turquoise night.


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I'm sorry I didn't see sooner...

The rationale you left me with
Is scattered beyond collection;
The fire once burning in your eyes
Now just a flickering reflection...

I told you that I love you,
But I can’t deal with dedication.
I know you couldn’t bare the fact
You weren’t my destination.

You told me that you love me
But you said it thoughtfully.
Plans were flaming in your eyes...
So I ran from the heat and I ran to be free.

And now it’s been a while
And I can see why you despise me.
I drew the flame out of your eyes
But I’ll still run; just blindly.

I’m sorry for everything I’ve done.
Love taught me it’s best to run.
Why I wander so recklessly I wish I knew,
I’m not lost without a home. I’m just lost without you.

Abandoned Beauty.

As he lingers upon the stormy shore,
Laughter lightens the oceans echo;
A memory of a person now settled in stone
A memory of his saviour; his hero.

Nostalgically gazing up to the cliffs,
He hears her scream; her surrender.
He doesn’t care what they say; he lividly runs
To the edge that cursedly ended her.

But it’s too hard to fall to his fate and cry
When the world taught him that love was a lie.

His weathered eyes stare at the turmoil below;
The sea writhing with grabbing hands.
He freezes on the edge of the crumbling cliff
Unable to meet her demands.

The bravery and certainty she must have answered to,
Were a forgery, he realises, that he cannot believe.
The bruised sky releases a dagger of light:
Dangerous yet beautiful. How could he leave?

But it’s too hard to follow her footsteps and cry
When her cold, blind courage teaches him to be shy.

As the sky roars its anger at his indecision,
He roars his frustration that she left him alone.
She asked him to follow her into oblivion;
And he falters as he knows this he cannot condone.

He wishes the world could understand his pain.
He wishes if he cried, someone would come.
He wishes that death could be as easy for him.
He wishes she hadn’t left him so twisted; undone.

But it’s too hard to lose control and cry
When he knows his tears can’t reach the sky.

His thoughts turn to those who would cry for him;
Who would stand on a cliff edge and die for him.
But the thought makes him scream as he pictures their faces
Mortified, screaming; he needs to erase this.

He stumbles away from the edge that took her;
Away from the source of his forbidden torture.
The beauty of the wilderness will heal his wounds;
Will heal the hurt that soars when he thinks of her.

So it’s not hard for him to fall to his knees and cry
When his heartbeat, his smile, means he’s still alive.

Now he feels no urgency as he wanders the wilderness;
An abandoned beauty under darkening skies.
The mountains perceived as tyrant and lonely
Ruggedly beautiful under his searching eyes.

His steps so deliberately in no direction
Dance and leap like lapping waves.
An exhilaration which reminds him of life;
A chapter; a sunrise; a dip in his gaze.

He can’t deny tears when there’s nothing to cry;
The sun has replenished the light in his eyes.

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Music and Poetry

As I sat in class today, I overheard somebody describe poetry as music with a missing piece. They said it wasn't as meaningful because it had no rhythm; no beat.

Is it only me who disagrees with this?

I am not a talented musician; the few pieces I have composed would not make sense if heard because I can't seem to obey the laws of music.... my self-expression seems to obey no laws. But beautiful music is a gift no-one can deny; it is somebody, somewhere, directly expressing how they feel.

But the rhythm; the beat; whether the music is in minor or major; its tempo...it all determines the tone, mood and interpretaion of the song to the listener. The composer, through these components, is trying to influence the listeners into feeling how they feel. Into interpreting the song how they need it to be interpreted.

This is why poetry is so beautiful to me. It is more free. The reader of the poem can make their own rhythm, beat, tempo; can decide the music for the poem in their own heads, and therefore make it their own. Poetry can be whatever the reader needs it to be, rather than whatever the writer wants it to be.

To me, music is self-expression. It is a face showing only a few emotions; the emotions the composer intended.
But poetry is just expression. It is your face, ready to share your unique emotions. Not influenced by anybody else.

Raw, and free.

This Perception of Importance

Let the rain fall on your skin,
A momentous moment,
When you let this world in,
And unleash restricted fury.
When you’re dancing in a storm
In a plight of forgiveness,
When two are forlorn;
In a bond of sacrifices.

And disaster will reach them.

You know you are no better
Than this mist, this air, this frost,
But you foresee that forever
Your battle will be lost.
Your battle that’s portrayed
As against the needed core,
When realistically it’s made
To show we don’t need anymore.

And disaster will reach them.

Think where they would be
Without all they have been given,
But they will never see
They’re entwined with other equals.
There is no other home,
No other beauty
No oasis,
Yet they destroy all that they have
For this perception of importance.

And disaster will reach them.

Of the prime and the dominant,
Supposedly intelligent,
Yet wiping themselves out.
A paradox of opposites?

So you stand alone yet strong,
Rain replenishing your skin,
Moonlight gleaming from a patient globe;
Understanding from within.

Disaster will reach them.

You know that your place here,
In a land so untouched,
Will be eternally more certain
Than with those who disrespect
The land that keeps them living;
Lets them love.
Lets them smile.
The land that’s slowly dying
Because they are in denial.

Disaster will reach them.

But you who never wandered,
And always knew where you stood,
Is standing in the starlight
Away from what they took.
The storm above is calming;
Your thoughts turn from
What they’ve done,
For your species is disarming:
No more a race towards the sun.

Disaster will destroy them
If this new world comes undone.

Copyright protected by Nioki Ray.

Real as my veins.

Skiddaw, Lake District

I’m not dreaming out loud;
I’m telling you now
That where I’m going to be
Is on top of the world.

And to see what I’ll see
Is to see dreams I’ve pinned:
As real as my veins
Yet as free as the wind.

When I wrote this poem, it was in the early hours of the morning; the sun hadn't risen and I was engulfed by darkness as I lay in a bivvy bag on the summit of the beautiful mountain Skiddaw, in the Lake District. My Dad and I had hiked the mountain in the dead of night, so Dad could help some friends on the Bob Graham Round; it was an amazing exprience!

The storm, the 50mph winds and the thrashing rain made me feel so exhilerated; so alive. So when we reached the summit at 2AM, squirmed into our bivvy bags and simply lay listening to the steady pounding of the rain and the howling of the wind, I felt inspired. Beyond inspired. I felt on top of the world....

And so I wrote this poem, and as I remembered it the next day as we decended, now under clear blue skies and a striking sun, it seemed so perfect in showing how I felt as I had lain contented in my bivvybag, on the summit of life...

Fire, pain and brief exchanges.

Cry an Ocean in the sand; nobody will ever know,
A monumental scream, never heard, never found;
The rustic depths of history carefully unveiled,
Yet erased without a thought; erased without a sound.

Life teaches love; love teaches pain,
Pain teaches hurt and denial.
Life teaches death to leave us wandering
A sentimental maze forever and final.

Imprint these hands as a symbol of eternity,
Yet refuse to accept this world changes.
A virus we spread, an indefinite scar;
Fire, pain and brief exchanges.

Life teaches significance, which leads to glory,
Glory teaches righteousness falling to arrogance.
Life teaches death; a metaphorical ending;
An insignificance never quite met by acceptance.

We imagine mysteries buried deep between towers,
Looking up to the stars as we deepen our ignorance.
Idealism never opposed imagination,
Yet it opposes everything that this world seems to flourish in.

Striving for mercy in a world of denial
Is as paradoxical as our life and our love.
Selectively learning convenient lessons,
As we aimlessly stare at the azure above.

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