Regurgitate who I am with compared to who I have become,
A shadow of them ahead was never meant to be,
Silhouette in the foreground,
Masks over our faces,
We fondled keys in the bowl hoping to capture each other’s,
A secretive affair hidden within our own lies,
Simplistic but complicated,
If a mirror was taken to our world we would recognise it for our lies have twisted our reality into a vision that does not exist,
So take my hand and face this ending,
Dance the dance of suplification,
Remind the cells of a lost hope,
Dance until the cinder block fall off this world,
Dance until the dead drag us home,
Dance until…
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Published by Matthew Tonks
People are surprised when reading Matthew’s stories that he’s a sane forty something year old, happily married, father of one, employed full time, who dreams of dark disturbing things that any sane person would never even contemplate thinking of. But it's true, he’s toyed with writing for most of his adult life, but has always found the peg a writer must fit into is not the shape he wished to be. His writing can be described as lamenting, long, concussive (yes it smashes you in the head), compulsive, and stuffed with rhythmic communication and violence, let’s not forget the violence. His own opinion on his writing is this, “You see, I don't just want the words to seep into your mind, but into your soul, showing you images of blood and beauty through, volatile language, violence, sex, love and sin. My muse takes different shapes, and every now and then you can see her shining her wicked smile in some of my stories, tempting you with her promises, but ripping your heart out instead.”
So have a look, and take a seat in my wayward ride, as you join me while I purge through, this twisted road of madness.
View all posts by Matthew Tonks
