Amid a Christmas crowd
Amid a Christmas crowd
~
There is a rustle of voices
All complaining, telling jokes
Arguing or making plans
Its hard to pick individual ones apart
I swim slowly through crowds
Sometimes its like going upstream
With the force of the tide against me
I find little pleasantry or politeness
In the rush of the Christmas crowd
I feel a unease growing in my stomach
Thinking it’s a pickpockets holiday
Still the chatter of voices rings out
Amongst the beeping of tills
And soundtrack of phones
Its almost becoming a chore to think
Amid the noise of a Christmas crowd
I try to cut my time as best I can
Shop with a military style
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poem by Matthew Holloway
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The impatient hours
The impatient hours
~
The drumming of fingers
The ticking of the clock
Loudly fill the impatient hours
Wasteful in their emptiness
Surely there must be something better
But the wait continues anyway
Waiting on a promise to come good
Hoping its not like past promises
Which all became just lies
Paranoia stalks the mind
Reminding of the past disappointments
Why should this one be any different
Why wait in stale confines
When you could leave, walk away
Forget the promise in an instant
The drumming of fingers
The ticking of the clock
Grow ever louder
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poem by Matthew Holloway
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Poem to a Secret Love
You are the missing song to my heart
The eternal beauty of which I dream
That wry smile across my face
When I am lost deep in thought
You are the secret I have poorly kept
The muse to so many poems
The reason I believe in romance
My heart is still waiting for you
I look at the flowers in bloom
The full colour of spring
If I could take every flower
I would sow a garden in your name
The birds would come and sing
And butterflies fill the air
Yet none would be as lovely
Or as beautiful as you
I say your name and I’m smiling
I think of you and feel warm
You the secret I have so poorly kept
The one of who I so often dream
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poem by Matthew Holloway
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Picture Of A City
I picture the bright lights
Faces becoming a blur
The sound of a city not sleeping
Sirens and shouts in the distance
Trying to piece together fragments
Of a story I want to understand
Maybe making it up is easier
The hurry and the pace of the city
I’m watching perched on my balcony
Water, ice and whisky in a glass
Perfect company for a winter evening
Sat looking down on mans creations
In the hustle of the night life
Music beats rise and fall and rise again
Always with a changing frequency
Lovers stroll arm in arm casual
Looking through restaurant windows
Fantasy shopping at closed stores
I picture it all going on never ending
The city never sleeping
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poem by Matthew Holloway
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Memo Form The Mad Artist
It seems in my pensive solemn tone
I sit here quietly waiting for death
The wine does not ease my sorrow
Nor my remorseful thoughts which play
No there no silencing them it seems
Death it appears to be a career move
In death an artist is revered raised aloft
Perhaps the guilt of those around them
Darkling little thoughts are these
In this pensive solemn tone
Which sought some celebration
Passionate little soul it once were
Now embittered and distraught
Unequipped with the tools to face tomorrow
Surrenders to the night to sleep
In the hope of a dying sleep
The evil frightening idea is there
And around the cell is echoes
To be kept within a cage imprisoned
Sours the artists rage and tone
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poem by Matthew Holloway
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Selling a Poets Mind
Devoted to writing the words of poetic inspiration
I offer my mind as soul payment
Some say it’s a madness of strange conception
I claim a quiet misunderstanding
To follow each emotion with such intent
Expressing and expanding beyond reason
That I may flower in bloom a thought
Far beyond its own conception
I whore out my heart to illustrations
To better depict that which I seek to serve
A flow of endless poetic verse
Seemingly I have become detached
From a world I may never have knew
And so in my indifference
Some say I carry a strange madness
Perhaps I do, perhaps I do
For I am devoted to writing the words
Of poetic and beautiful inspiration
If my mind is the fee of creation
Then to poetry I shall cash in
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Hello beautiful
Hello beautiful
~
A Hi and a hello
Seemingly all I can muster
Never telling you, you are beautiful
Or how I really like you
I’m the cleverest idiot I know
And hope you get a laugh from this
My honest repost of myself
I really think the world of you
Because you are something special
You mean the world to me
And I say that from the heart
To you, my little honey bee
I could try to pen you an ode
To say how beautiful you are
But I’d never say those words
When stood next to you
All I can manage is a Hi and a Hello
Maybe a how are you
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poem by Matthew Holloway
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Tabloid Pigs
Tabloid pigs to the slaughter house
Tomorrows chip-papers looking thin
The hacks and waiting to be hacked
Front page headline ‘Karma wins’
The corrupt uncaring vices you undertook
On which you built your little empire
Is now falling apart around your feet
You have no friends left in this town
Now after every story you ran
Tabloid pigs to the slaughter house
Come answer to your crimes
Stand, be counted for what you’ve done
In the public interest I do believe
Is what you have always said
You were not journalists or news reporters
Just vile little piggy’s snorting around
In the dirt for what you could sell
Regardless of crime or consequence
Tabloid pigs to the slaughter house
The time has come, last edition
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Tale of a weeping heart
Tale of a weeping heart
~
A heart wept feeling cursed
While another heart walked away
It was not the first to turn its back
But the latest in a long line
The weeping heart took solace
In a bottle of angry denial
Trying to frown out the sound
Of a world it sought to forget
Then it heard someone calling
Then it heard a knock at the door
Another heart stood wanting
Another heart stood waiting
And so began the healing of the heart
And so began a new romance
Old sayings came back to haunt
‘you will never find what you seek
Until the day you stop looking’
A bottle thrown to the side
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poem by Matthew Holloway
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Key to your song
Key to your song
~
There's a song playing on the keys to your dreams
a chord rings out while you sleep as beautiful as you are
the words wait to be sung aloud to a chorus as yet unheard
let me sing with you sometime, let me here you sing
the strings will play a melody that we both know
the sound of the music carried in the air while you breathe
is the softest most gentle touch to my soul
any sonnet carried to a symphony is graceful
listen to what you feel inside of your heart
upon every key which unlocks all you are
a note plays to entertain another dream
and here is your song playing again
just as when you slept safe in a dream
there's a song playing in my eyes as I look at you
beautiful love please let it be sung
poem by Matthew Holloway
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