Slidering An endless,
Sea of Stars
the Moorlands skies.
If only its quietness
wasn't constantly broken
by a floating myriad
of obsidian wings
capturing every light
to cover their bareness
on the eerie night.
Leaving the dark
and unknown winds
by their own secrets.
that once had a heart
beating like mine
such is the majesty
of their murmurous
the mirrored waters.
So they will be as my eyes
In Which I Finally Find A Good ManI tell him, if you love me, you need to stop reading the poems.
I tell him, if you read them, you will find a version of me you hate.
I tell him, if you want a future with me, you will stop reading the poems.
Because the girl in the poems is kerosene dreams
and ink stained scars and whiskey flavoured fury,
and the girl he is in love with is cotton candy soft
and summer dresses and vodka laughter.
I tell him, he can’t have both because he doesn’t want both,
no one wants a girl whose lungs are smoke black rage
even if her heart is made of tissue silk.
Girls who are both, are too volatile, too painful to love.
So I keep her, the ink stained, angry girl
inside a prison of paper and pen.
I feed her memory,
I feed her sadness,
so I can keep the girl he loves alive.
There is witchcraft here,
a kind of witchcraft
every hunted woman practices
when she finds love.
She magicks parts of herself away
to protect the one she loves.
This is why they say
that love is the end of woman,
Everything and Nothing... Silence was a sound too loud in his head, unbearable
sometimes... other times…
The only repeated melody he found... wearable.
The only unstoppable tune he could feel and hear,
not to wake up at dawning, breathlessly,
with a senseless, deep-less fear,
running through his heart, every vein pulsing dreadfully.
The Stranger Within Between myself and I
someone else rises,
a stranger (within the shells and shields of me)
to my heart (within its sculpted briar labyrinths)
yet, not to my own skin (within its petals and hidden layers)
wears my undone hair, breathes the same air, that I do
walks on my cloths, carries my sorrows
and yet, does not know the shape of my face,
or the colour of my eyes… only half of my soul.
Haunts the sun and every light
longing the shadows
over the sidewalk where I pass.
The park trees bend, lowing their branches
with their mermaid leaves
as if wuthering heights in a bottle-glass.
Then follows the Moon and eats the night
writing thousand of poems, stealing my sleep, staring at my pillow
as I do… a thousand more… my pen from the weeping-willow.
My life and death captive on this stranger’s hands
Am I only,
DroppedI tried to write them down;
all the moments she made me feel flooded with love.
I quickly began dropping moments.
Watched them hit the tiling and panicked,
as my shaking hands let slip the first time she said “I think I love her”,
the first time she opened her sleepy eyes and smiled,
the first time she asked me to stay close because I made her feel safe. Stable. Strong.
And I bit my tongue and pierced it with the jumble of words in my mouth
about how she was my centre of gravity.
These moments fell from my arms
and I winced to know that if I didn’t stop to pick them up I might lose them forever. That was scary.
But see, when you love the right girl
every second is worth saving
and I’m running out of memory.
Running out of time to write them down
because the spaces between the last time she made me feel like she wrote the earth for me,
and the next time,
is too small for poetry.
There are no spaces in between love, to memorialise love.
But don’t worry.
satellitei need a hobby and i need time and i need sleep and i need and i need
thoughts scatter like dust when you blow on it,
always a cloud to choke on-
cleaning involves discomfort, i guess,
and the whirlwind causes an inability to take the next step.
i should be growing beyond the comfortable but even the comfortable is terrifying,
masking anxiety is a powerful skill (until it wears off),
high-strung and short-wired is what broke things
but workaholic and unyielding was the snapping point
i don’t know how to repair a mind.
going to a mechanic shouldn’t end with being laughed out,
constantly convinced the world will flip over,
maybe driving an easily-flipped car is a death sentence,
maybe i should drive slower
but full-speed is to concentrate
slowing down is how to lose everything.
24/7 battle through a day to stay on track,
it’s not simple anymore, is it, it’s not
escaping an obsessive need to be perfect
like chasing a ghost
it’s hard to
GraceThe hands that cast the mould that made the plough
that dug the dirt for crops to make the dough
that makes our bread - they let us grow.
The souls who drive the trucks each waking hour
from farm to store to shop give us our power -
it makes them dead - and we devour.
Each morsel grows from dirt to plant to food
we tear a piece and sell so it's construed
we do our bit - we don't - we just collude.
And while each toiler keeps us from our graves
so we keep them trapped in their enclaves,
to tell ourselves each night - we don't own slaves.