I will add to this throughout the month.
We are all carried
We are the weight of the world
It never complains
Stay the course until
you find you are going in
the wrong direction
When I close my eyes I see
Someone sitting in the darkness
I don't know if this place
is where he rests
I don't know if this place
is exhausting him
Do I need to open my eyes
to bring him peace?
Do I want to open my eyes
so I don't see him?
What's the point of writing
If your poems won't be read
Others write far better
And deserve the light instead
Even on a phone
AI can churn out rhymes
Without much sweat or effort
Its work can be sublime
They're better and they're faster
Your effort can be saved
Someone else will do it
There's little you can gain
And yet, why do they write
When they face the same fate
They push this to the side
And they choose to create
Even never read
Writing is a lesson
Art isn't for consumption
Art is for expression
When you accept things as they are
Everything is as it should be
Along my minds' desire path
Each step I take
Further compacts the ground
This ground is now flat and stable
I will not slip here
No life will emerge from here either
Sometimes I look across the field
I see grass and flowers around me
Why do I choose to walk on this dirt?
I always walk this desire path
Maybe the grass is greener
Because I haven't trampled it
In the sun the dirt is dry and stable
But when it rains the dirt become mud
and I don't want to walk at all
But sometimes I have to walk
Even in the rain
And only then do I walk on the grass
When the sun returns I can see
A new path emerging
Sometimes it leads towards somewhere better
Up the stairs of a scrappy city building
(It looks scrappy)
Each level tells a story
(The building is old)
I pass a cool new restaurant
A stylish city night club
And above all is a rooftop bar
These nocturnal institutions are closed
But this building never sleeps
The third level is awake
bathed in sunlight
And retail house music
Which Softly emanates from two clothes shops
Which offer fresh street styles
One shop for women
The other for men
Both shops young and confident
Face each other in the hallway
Where their complimentary soundtracks meet
Flirting
A third wheeling bookstore shares this level
An artists' book store offering refuge
from the playful tension of the hallway
For those wanting to read about music
Rather than dance to it
The store is quiet and sparse like a gallery
Coffee table books are hung like art work
Signs hung up tell me I can't take photos here
So I stop and take in the cover art
Thoughtfully with no intention to buy
I look with my hands behind my back
I almost don't touch the book displays
I almost don't read the covers
And the people around me do the same
There are grungy couples on lunchtime dates
Older art folk sampling youth culture
Young students sampling high culture
Browsing the same books
Retrospectives of 90s rave culture
Revolutionary 80s architecture portfolios
Abstract 70s Art interpretation guides
Each costing upwards of $60
I leave empty handed
And walk back down spiral staircase
Passing countless posters and stickers
They have been layered on top of countless others
They are on the walls
And the doors
And the railing
And the windows
And they will be covered by others this weekend
This staircase will be unrecognisable next week
Just as the rooftop bar has seen the changing skyline
Just as the night club has been rebranded
Just as the restaurant was replaced by another
But there will always be a need to socialise
a need to dance
a need to eat
and a fascination with these experiences
Despite each wave of change
This building's spirit remains unchanged
It remains forever young
As do its everchanging patrons
Down the stairs of this considered city building
(It looks scrappy)
Each level is part of the same story
(Of Melbourne youth culture)
It might even be described in a book one day
My house is a library
That holds my book collection
A quite place to study
For scholarly reflection
My house is a museum
With history, myth and fact
It tells my family's story
Through all our artifacts
My house a gallery
With priceless works of art
The creators not well known
But each work is from the heart
My house a cinema
Every Friday night
With a random film selection
And comfy seats that do delight
My house is a fine restaurant
Sometimes a takeaway
The table needs no booking
The fridge is our buffet
My house a little farm
We toil in our fields
Sometimes for one tomato
We don't have the greatest yields
My house a little church
Where my hopes and dreams unfurl
A place to pray and ponder
A refuge from the world
ehhere 
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