A Collection of Emotion

Photos and Words by Paul Snell.
No Editing and No Post Production.
It is what it is.

It’s a long journey now, but not like before
The new buses don’t smell as safe as the old ones
The lights hurt your eyes like K-Mart
Just like the old train windows expressed freedom
You no longer see in your air conditioned cage that sways like the sea
doesn’t judder like the memories of your youth.

It’s a long journey now, but you’ve come so far
_ and it’s only just begun
The crowds please you no longer, longing for peace
Peace you no longer find in the clinking of glasses or in the boxes or tubes of steel
Instead you steal those quiet moments when no one is looking, to shine
Not hiding, but growing
A sign of the time spent finding all the wrong ways
A seedling under Autumn’s frozen detritus
Peeking through.

It’s a long journey, but murkier than before
Now there’s danger hidden behind every unopened door
More doors close than before.
Or so it seems.

The new buses don’t smell as safe as the old ones.

Omokoroa

Omokoroa

The sea breathes a deep sigh
As the wind cackles quietly by
Summer blooms begin to wilt
As colourful leaves jerk and tilt

And the thoughts of death make your soul shiver to life
A soul released by nature’s nature
But why did it shrivel and die?
What did they take from you?
Why?

The earth warms the souls of her feet
Her soul butterflies about in the smiling sun
Once was shrivelled and waning
Now from inside comes out
What did she have to give?
What did she have to lose?
How?

And so we see the natural beat of peaks and dips
Emotions felt, words spoken from lips
Like the sea it flows and ebbs
Souls bloom, shrivel but never die

Wellington

Wellington

She smiles a smile so sweet, but the bleachedness of her teeth set her aside
The sparkle in her eyes so vivid, but shadowed by her frown
Her laugh a titter, it sounds
Bitterness impounds her words like a car clamp
As she clamps her lips to yours, as soft as plastic that has turned brittle
Her heart shatters when she doesn’t look
But he looks so happy without her
Her falseness continues
And she spews forth a titter tatter
Her heart a torn rag, paint splattered
Her words elegance lost
Conversational track creates commotion
And she’s precariously balanced between loneliness and insanity
But it’s all the same
Her verbal salinity is mixed with her fluid grace as she moves across the floor
Still he doesn’t look
Her eyes are hooks
And he’s hooked – by her charm
It’s a sham, she’s a broken woman
Her voice trembles and his is a treble
Still he never looks
But her cloth heart is tattered
And she’s still fishing
Her heart is metal, rain battered
Her eyes are hollow, her soul is itching
When he walks from the room
Her life gets a little darker

Roll the Dice

Roll the Dice

I’d sell my soul 9 times outta 10
But I already sold it,
And I aint getting that back again
So I give my pound of flesh
again, again and again.

People got a soul doin’ worse things than I am
Never had a hand so calloused
While the others couldn’t care less,
it’s callous.

And there’s jubilation in my illation,
for I
Couldn’t create a creation -
Without a soul.

And in drawin’ my conclusion we see…
I’d sell my soul 9 times outta 10
Be who I don’t wanna be.
Again, again and again.

Gisborne, New Zealand

Gisborne, New Zealand

He sits quietly in a near deserted airport

Echoes of wheels and squeaks of trainers punctuate his musings

The space age scene makes him see the ceiling like a floor and he fears he’ll fall from the roof he lays upon

But he’s stuck fast.

Children run through wide open spaces

Not in a joyous playlike way like in a park

In echoes so sinister he fears he’s in a horror movie.

Sleep won’t come easy, but soon it must.

As he sits like a cockroach in a corner

Collecting dust.

.

The tannoy breaks his rest, a piece of glass

Staring at him like a face

And the rows of regimented chairs like robot soldiers pen him in like a prisoner.

The oppressive heat makes him itch like he’s covered in insects sucking all sustenance from his body.

His mouth is dry.

Slowly but surely streams of people come through the doors of the terminal as if they are ill as it is

Pasty white, like a hospital.

His eyelids grow heavy as the lack of dust confuses him

 Indecisive, lost in sleepy thoughts.

An environment so sterile, he feels like filth.

.

The hustle, the bustle is a scene from a disaster movie as he sits up

The rush, the sound, a different horror to the night before

Despite all the people the ceiling still looks like the floor.

He sits, lost but sore.

.

The back of the man opposite oppresses his view of the girl whose face he glimpsed and he thought he knew.

The insidious outsider stands out as still as stone, he doesn’t move like the rest of the crowds, but instead stock still

He expands –

And contracts.

His tight muscles not as tight as his shirt so tight his back threatening to burst through and cover him in blood and bone and the odd chunk of lung.

He sits still and sore

The noise a drone, a clamour, more.

His mouth is dry and makes a ‘tat tat’ as it opens and closes

Like that of a dying fish.

Hunger pangs.

.

Walking through the neon glare, his luggage an intravenous drip making movement difficult

Like walking through an apocalypse, the floor so bright and hot that his soles are melting into the tiles

The building needs a soul, it takes yours

Walking like an inmate, the smells and sounds a torture for his thin wallet

He sits, his eyes close on a future that costs too much for him to bare.

.

Echoes of wheels and squeaks of trainers punctuate his musings

The space age scene makes him see the ceiling like a floor

Another tortured sleep, another revolving door.

Omokoroa

Omokoroa