Page 4 of Fishbowl

clear.

  There is a little boy and his mother sat on the bed, taking turns of a Playstation One controller.

  This was around my seventh birthday.

  I stand by the figures and look into the memory,

  there are sounds of racing cars and chaos,

  we were playing Crash Team Racing,

  mum would always win.

  Amazed and excited by my mind,

  I begin to walk faster down the path to see what is next.

  Left side, it is a scene from my first years of secondary school.

  My friends and I are riding our bikes through the wood, Bazzy woods we called it.

  The sounds of bike tires splashing through the mud bring back a lot of happy memories I spent with that group.

  Onward again,

  to the right,

  a figure sitting at a desk.

  I am sat in an exam hall during my final school year,

  the only sound and animation is a ticking clock on the forehead of the hall.

  Further down the path I see a couple sat by a bridge,

  it is the first day I met my fiancée,

  as the sound comes clear I begin to cringe at the jokes I’m telling,

  I just made a joke about a seagull… seriously.

  Her laughter fades as I keep walking.

  The next moment must be my current state,

  my body shape is the same.

  I am working in the warehouse, putting boxes of bananas on to pallets. My first well paid job.

  The sounds of machinery and radio muffle and fade as I walk from the scene.

  Strangely,

  the next scene is the same as the last.

  However I am a little older now,

  could be about thirty.

  The animation and sound of the scene are exactly the same too.

  However I notice in the distance of the scene that my fiancée is holding a baby in her arms,

  I try to walk into the scene to get closer,

  but an invisible wall blocks me.

  I turn back to the path and keep walking.

  As I leave the scene there is a high pitch screech that burns my brain. Forced, I place my hands on my ears to dull the sound until it eventually stops.

  Now scared, I slowly approach the next set of figures.

  It is the same again,

  the same motion and sound,

  my child is in the distance of the scene alone,

  his head is sulked as he kicks a football against a fence.

  Suddenly my white figure shatters a little,

  a piece of my head shoots out of the scene.

  In the next scene I have pieces missing from all parts of my figure.

  Same warehouse scene,

  same factory sound.

  My figure is a lot older now.

  This time in the background there is,

  nothing.

  No family, no fiancée, no child.

  Rushing onward I come to the next scene and the sight makes me almost collapse, the same scene again.

  I place my hands on the wall and shrink in sadness.

  The figure stops its robotic animation and turns its head towards me.

  It stares into my eyes as the pieces slowly shatter from its body, creating a loud sound of broken crystal.

  The figure then raises his arm and points down the path.

  I walk.

  I am walking for a lot longer this time,

  maybe my experience is over and I should wake from my mind.

  Before I allowed myself to enter reality,

  one more scene appeared.

  This time it lay directly in front of the path,

  rather than the corresponding side.

  I get closer and notice a funeral,

  this must be my death.

  I see my old friends, mother, brother and sister, fiancée and son.

  I then felt myself crying,

  not because I was dead,

  but when the next scene started,

  it was static…

  and the sounds of the warehouse played.

  Golden Apple

  Golden apple

  Rotten to the core

  Metal lost grapple

  Turning hands sore

  Rich trees grow

  Blue leaves fall

  Fruit productions flow

  But tree roots stall

  Kings of nature destroy plants

  The burning roots turn ants

 

  Fruit Bowl

  Rusty apples

  Worn out peach

  Broken banana

  Eaten by leech

  Soft grapefruit

  Half eaten pear

  Swollen kiwi

  Covered in hair

  Lying in the fruit bowl

  Hands covered in dirt

  Hope is beyond the rim

  Lights are turning dim

 

  Social Encyclopedia

  Dear Mr Postman, can you help me,

  Well the problem is, can't you see,

  My little brother is stuck inside the TV,

  I'll do anything to set him free.

  Sweet little girl, do not fear,

  Because I have a present for you,

  Do you hear?

  There's a package for you,

  And one for your bother,

  But please oh God, don't tell your mother.

  One is an account on social media,

  The other is a very long encyclopedia.

  So little girl, which one do you choose?

  Either way, you simply cannot lose!

  Well Mr Postman, in your fine red suit,

  I think I'll be safe and decide to compute.

  I really want the book but my friends would not be happy,

  They would all laugh and make me feel quite crappy.

  Then I guess your brother is taking the book,

  Though it doesn't really suit his rebellious look.

  Hopefully his friends don't get too laugh too much,

  I'll see you both in a year, I'll keep in touch.

  One year later, Mr Postman came back,

  This time he was all dressed in black,

  What's with the suit, I asked confused,

  Well little girl, your brain has been bruised.

 

  What do you mean? I replied in shock,

  Well you'd rather take a picture than study for a mock.

  Meanwhile your brother is exceeding at school,

  He still has all his friends, who don't take him for a tool.

  Is a like on Facebook more important than an A?

  How come you seem to think that studying is so gray?

  You may think that having an image is more important than school,

  But those who enter the real world are the ones to truly rule.

  Sweet little girl, it's not too late to change,

  Pick up a pencil and start thinking strange.

 

  Golden Goats

  Golden goats are shaven

  Their fleece unable to spawn

  Still slain to be raven

  Some never born

  Wool worn by lords

  Knights bow in scare

  Shielding their swords

  Guarded by prayer

  The castle lights turn dim

  Moat coated in snow

  Harness the phantom limb

  For the diseased goats grow

  Stabled horses become unstable

  Toxic infected near and wide

  Poisoned apples lay on the table

  Throats of lords forcefully tied

  Pregnant wives unable to mate

  Heads removed and placed in a dish

  Houses around now rely on fate

  Begging for an open cut fish

  The golden goats have summoned their greater

  Magic will empower those who appose

  Kingdoms collapse into a crater

  Some never rose


 

  Poisoned Fruit

  Fruit grows

  though it cannot be eaten

  poison in disguise

 

  Loose Wires

  I need to speak to someone,

  someone not human.

  Because humans are just versions of me,

  wired differently.

  I am not sick doctor,

  my software is glitching.

  I would restart,

  but then a life I am ditching.

  My battery is low,

  but how do I charge in such a place.

  My species is disgusting,

  launch us into space.

  I chip away at the code,

  until the adjustments are made.

  Oh look an update,

  too late, the screen now a fade.

  Documents are locked,

  the files highlight and delete.

  Memories are blocked,

  but loading is incomplete.

  Anyway,

  don't worry about me,

  just a few loose wires you see.

 

  Black Clouds

  . . .

  The writing communities I first connected with seemed to favour poetry of a sad nature, a lot of authors wrote about their struggles with anxiety and depression. Due to this, my first poems, along-side those wrote in ‘The Journey’, were quite dark and upsetting pieces.

  I then gathered these poems and put them together to create a collection I named ‘Broken Souls.’ Broken Souls consists of rhyme and prose that focus on the struggles and effects of mental illness, general struggles, violence, poverty, and addiction to harmful substances. There was a ten month period in 2012 where I was diagnosed with depression, although I did not feel sad at all. The feeling was just… emptiness. During this time I was not writing, but I took inspiration from the past memories when writing Broken Souls.

  Whilst writing less uplifting work, I decided to create an epic horror themed poem, named ‘Unstable.’ I published this as an individual piece. Unstable follows the routes of a sociopath and his stomach turning acts. It was an experimental piece, but graphic horror is something I will probably avoid in the future.

  My dark poetry became the most read pieces I published, and I gained a lot of followers when writing in this genre. Black Clouds consists of those works written in Broken Souls, Unstable, and other unlisted poems that have a sad theme.

 

  Musicality

  The record is a bleak broken black bottle of bitter,

  The death rattle rattles in the rhythm of a quitter.

  The music player laughs, so much for friends,

  I guess this movement form has danced with loose ends.

  Violent melodies arouse the mind of a princess,

  Narcotized notes cause heavy distress.

  The ball stands in silence as the gentle sound stops,

  One's brain lacks vibrance as a static body drops.

  Instruments in the
Thomas W. Morris's Novels