Post-it

There’s a note on my bedroom door
Tacked up with some old blue tack
Filled with reasons to keep on opening
That door and not turning back
Sometimes it’s easier to nestle into silence
And the darkness with the curtains closed
And melt into the comfy covers and act
Like nobody knows you’re in there
But that’s the consequence of love
There’s always a shadow protruding under
That sliver of light under that door
Someone waiting with another post-it
Of reasons why life shouldn’t be ignored
And sometimes you wish you could fall
Out of love so that no one would come
And you could be left in the fort you fashioned
Yourself with dreams filling your heavy head
And sleep calls in soft tones and what does it
Matter if you sleep through the hurt because
Every day is a painful experience and sometimes
You just get sick of the resistance and it seems
Futile, like you’ve run a mile in someone else’s
Shoes and It hurts like hell and tomorrows just
A whole other obstacle course but as long as there’s
That little note you land on your feet you turn that
Brass golden knob and walk and crawl and run and
Fight and struggle and fall and scream and life
Isn’t something that you can simply rewind,
Though you wish it was, like there was some kind of
Pause but the only pause there is, is in the punctuation
Of that stupid little post it note

Today is waiting, get up and go.

Advertisements

The Ice Cradle

Her arms were cold and feeble but
I was not strong enough to fend for myself
So I endured the Arctic storm until I could
Crawl the distance on my own

I ran wildly on thin fawn legs
In an effort to escape from the blizzards
Now mixing with frosty words dripping
From tongue tip-icicles in my pride

Defiantly I challenged her ways determined
To find a spec of warmth and hide from her
Frozen embrace, yet the cage of arms always
Found me and trapped me once again

As I grew I shouldered the responsibility of
My own perceptions, she was distracted by
The mountain of herself and didn’t pay attention
To the suffering of her kind

The others-they grew in the dark and didn’t
Blossom the way little flowers should and I
Flourished in their shadows as they rained
Sunlight on my petals

And as they wilted hatred sprung inside me
For the mountain which blocked the world
Jealous of my coloured petals hatred sprung
In her too and she tried to freeze me out

But her arms were still cold and feeble
And I burned with a fire of might
Once too weak I was now too strong
So I carried the others with me and
Left that dreadful cave

Wrath

She arrives always like a train in the station
Ear splittingly loud and too proud to quieten
Even when the babies begin to cry
She was never good with children

Everything spirals around her now in the
Wake of her footsteps and cities crumble
Until there is nothing left but ashes and
Dust shaped fingerprints as she tasted

The destruction made by her own two hands
It’s an art form of violence that us mortals
Don’t understand, because it is in her very
Own definition: undefiable.

Her execution is admirable, the way she
Steals the whole show with the tantrum
Like waves of a six-year-old who didn’t
Get to play outside while the weather was

Good doesn’t play a factor into her self
Her character is something more of a
Globe on the shelf, only revealed once
Shaken and taken off

Every once in a while to show a wide
Eyed customer this new prize on
Display, she never saw it that way
As magnified irises could never

Pin her down, she fashioned a crown
From glass and brittle bones, took
The latter from the towns she visited
First, quite poetically in a way

She records it all, like Acts in a play,
Act III Scene II, In mid-May the
Young woman walks the streets
Dropping bombs like they were sweets

And when cited she takes delight
When you ask her name and with a
Drawling long laugh she whispers the
Word and asks you for your own in turn

Self Portrait

My creator looks at herself in the mirror
But does not see anything she likes
On the days I am the mirror
I know she would stitch herself
A suit made of my skin

My siblings powder their faces
And draw on new body parts
With fountain pens and sticky
Markers, the ink doesn’t easily
Come off but I think that’s the point

I try the practice, using ink instead
Of love and make myself look more
Like a monster than I ever have before
It’s a fine art to be comfortable with
Changing ones self every day

I was born in these sleeves and well
Fill my malformations, and the crooked
Smile on my face is a uniqueness I’d rather
Not replace, yet I draw on a new face
To understand it, but I do not

The mask weighs me down as it
Weights them and I see now why
They are always looking at their
Shoes, instead of at the stars
And that’s where it starts

Until they are nothing more than
Sacking tied with cord, full of
Misconceptions and harsh words
To describe the process, of rearranging
Their worth

And that is why my shoes are hanging
In the sky, and my mirror is broken
And I don’t mind that one bit,
Cause at least the pair I have
Is one that fits