Why I Write

I write to put at least the thickness of a page

Between myself and my day.

 

Pen on paper is my type of speech,

And poetry gives me more time to think.

These words will serve as my script for the future,

And have acted as a scrapbook in the past.

 

My writing is fairly formulaic;

I sift through the strings of echoes

And flashing words inside my head

To spiral in and in;

Trying to increase the accuracy of my words 

To best reflect what I mean to say. 

It doesn’t always come out right,

But I think it comes out how it best should be.

 

I write to be able to turn pages on top of

My problems and begin anew

With a crisp blank page on which to scribble

Out a message or a story

Or a story with a message.

 

My writing helps me put an issue in the past;

Time-stamped, page-turned,

That I can then look back on and think:

I got through that — that’s something to be said about me

A Week of Words (Mid-Feb 2014)

Last week, I saw two lovers (teenagers)

Crawl out of a beached boat at noon.

I wondered who they were and how they’d met.

Today, I have an abstract cluster of splotches

In the centre of my palm-

I dug my hand into my spoon

When carving out the iced ice cream

I had before my salad.

This week, I grew scales behind my ears

And a textured roughness on my throat.

I looked myself in the eye without makeup

And recognised myself only on the third day.

But I learnt that people will still love you-

Still miss you-

Even with bloodied bumps upon your skin.

They are only surface wounds,

And you are most beautiful under your skin.

Underneath a Cobblestone

These cobbled streets contain all that is lost from the world
Between their cracks. There’s an avalanche
Waiting to begin under each and every speckled gravestone,
To be set into motion by a tourist’s stray toe.

Think of the creatures living beneath your feet,
The malleable soil soft as sugar under their patty legs
And the crusty remains of the family bones
Mixed in amongst the rubble.
The kingdom in which insects make their home
Is the most wondrous kingdom of all.
There is no delusion, and most of all no succumbing
To the social pressures we humans create.
An insect does not try to squeeze its thorax into a corset
Too small to contain its ribs,
Nor do they worry themselves
With the unmentionable subject
Of weight.
They are content masses under their skins,
Not wishing to shed them,
As snakes or humans strive to do;
To switch their cells around
To make a painting out of plasma
And the very marrow of one’s bones
Simply for a critic to look at it and say
That they have found true beauty here,
Lying silently in a cold, cold grave.

We all end up under those cobblestones eventually,
Sticks and stones will break our bones
Before our words can begin to desert us.
We become the earth in the heart of this Earth
And from our earthen backs, our powdered bones
Support the roots of the towering trees.

The Gods Of My Own Creation

I wish, I wish, I wished
And wanted, and they told me that it
Drew away so much from my character.
So I stopped wishing for things that I didn’t believe in,
And I made up my own gods to play with as a child does
In a make-believe castle built out of cardboard or laundry baskets.

Of course it was wrong, I was wrong; a blasphemous being made simply
In being a follower of a religion of my own making.
Gods cannot hide from the world
In cardboard castles or laundry bins,
They must seek to thrive above it.

For so many years, I looked up to the sky
With eyes full to the brim of nothing short of wonder.
I stopped believing that society would ever help me,
And so I made up my own gods instead
To help me live through my man-made Hell.

Now, I am a skidding track for off-road trucks;
People rush towards me with eyes closed
And after one quick kiss, back off
Because I’ve scared them so,
They’re shaken through their souls.
The ground-up fragments of bone
Upon my spineless, arching back
Yield only to haywire trucks,
They form a battleground
Suited for everything but love.

No one wanted the girl with
The crooked back,
And how I wished to shed my skin
And trade it into the gods of my own creation.
But even they would not make a move to save me,
Because we can’t rid each other of another’s Hell.

So this road-bump girl lay bleeding
For the longest time in the porcelain sink,
Only wishing to be washed down it;
If only to be met
With a timely surge
Of untimely death.

This is the story of a girl

Lost in the treasure trove of a monster’s house.

And how she begged her gods to save her skin,
But even they refused to stoop so low.

Ode To An Imaginary Child

Be braver than me, little sparrow.

Let your eyes open and sop in the beautiful,

Horrific contrast in this dank, dark world.

You have more than I ever did;

You have the power of an unbleached mind –

Unaffected by the surging currents of society.

You know not what opinions are deemed acceptable,

You do not try to slither your body into a mould that has a

Smaller waist, thinner thighs, bigger breasts;

You do not yet wish to shed your skin.

 

I wish there were more to tell you

About the good that lies within

Each and every person you will ever meet.

No one can ever be purely evil.

Search for something more, darling,

Within everyone and everything.

 

You deserve so much more.

Look out for the body alone with a book,

Gently lift their chin from their chest, and their

Nose from between the pages and

Kiss them on the cheek.

 

You are a Queen,

And you have so much to bring

To the world just waiting to see you stir.

You are a bubble of potential

 

But not everyone

Will leave your heart

Intact, and in fact, even I will probably

Break your heart someday.

So right now,

I’ll leave you alone my dear,

So that you can better

Judge exactly who

The bastards are.

Teatime With A Monster Called Myself

A teaspoon screeches along a china plate,

It scrapes and spits the varnished seal along its edges,

Like a chainsaw chewing plaster.

 

A bag is ripped and from within

Its armoured belly a little flag emerges,

Whistling in the wind,

Providing the royal fanfare for the

Precious uterus and within it smells and steam;

Leaves just waiting to be brought to life.

 

Plunge, plunge,

Into the drenching darkness

Of the burning bite.

 

The little bag’s pores open wide, and

Its dyeing life-blood is released

Into the pristine purity

Of this liquid’s might.

 

And around, and around

That little silver spoon goes,

Travelling in the currents

Of the rich, dark sea.

Two Wretched Souls On The Edge Of Memory

I am so far gone, I’m truly surprised you recognise me.

Your face has melted before my eyes

And reformed amid a mismatch of scars

And tears pouring out from under your eyelids.

We have no use for wretched and wicked

Bodies like ours – and we only wish to close our eyes

For the once and final time.

 

I know.

 

I know how you feel

Like everything you ever care about or ever will

Has escaped you,

Sinking and sloshing and slowly fading away around you

And me

 

Until it blurs

From the farthest reaches of your peripheral vision

And what seems like the end of the sky to me.

We are on the brink of memory,

At least forgiven before we went,

But now forgotten.

 

I have lost myself like you have lost yourself;

We are two sightless beings in a soundless stretch of plane, plain earth.

You cannot remember me, and I am not remembered

By anyone at all.

 

I tried to make myself invisible

But nothing is romantic about falling from so high.

I am not an angel,

It’s just that Hell is in the sky.

 

We can’t stitch up these wounds,

And for the last time,

No one can mend the mind

Once it has been broken so,

Shredded by our realities and the things we’ve seen

Passing right before our eyes and only stopping to be recorded.

 

Other’s eyes are burnt onto our inner eyes,

And we cannot dream for fear of watching them

Lose all hope again,

 

And again,

For the rest of our time.