Cruel Life

Reach into your inner depths and
Pull the cord that snapped inside
Ravaged by pain and crime, white
Lines and murals of your corporal

Forms, softly tendrils tumble and
Climb to the surface of the earth
Breaking free of misconceptions, a
New kind of birth where the blood

Is metal on your tongue and there
Was no safety to begin with, suture
Up the jagged edges and feel the
Weeping of the past smother the

Present and future tense, the violins
Are playing sad songs, the monotone
Of your life, ripe with rejection and
Refusal to accept what has been-this

Is the real disease, flowing through
Your shredded veins these mindless
Games and bitter truths, cruel life
Is trying to make a man out of you.



I made a list of all the things I
Want to do before I die, because
Mortality is just a social construct
And we’re just waves in a never ending
Ocean, devoting the hours to walking the
Lines and feeling rebellious when we don’t.
I made a list starting with skydiving because
Fuck gravity. That’s why. I’m hurtling reasons

At the sun daring it to sear my wings and start
A fire only my heart and soul can rival, I wrote
‘skipping stones and skipping out’ because
Concentration should only be allowed in small
Amounts and if we were able to float freely with
Mind and thought I’m convinced we would be
Better people, I climbed church steeples to shout
At God, asking him if he is ready for my arrival,

To have the red carpet glossed with flowers and
Wine, and a screen to show my life line caught in
The hands of time, feeble and calculated, I burned
Pictures to free spirits and donated every morsel I
Had, starving people need more than food and
Imagination is in short supply these days, my mind
A hamster wheel stuck on auto pilot I drink myself
Senseless and allow serenity to catch my unusual high

Before the fall, the dulcet tones of a telephone and the
Call that marks the beginning of my time upstairs, playing
In old children’s rooms recreating stop motions of the
Past where Barbie’s shoe size and Action Man’s heroics
Were the only things that mattered, and stuffed animals
Had voices and individuality before they were locked in
Plastic bags the terrible end to Toy Story they never
Really explained, before the weights were tied around

My ankles and I sit here, under the slipping moonlight
With a blank canvas and a single 50 cents pen writing
Down a list of things to do before I die because this whole
Concept of, being alive, doesn’t fit in my hamster wheel anymore.


Dear Me

Dear me, you’re learning things
About yourself. You wear hiking
Boots through rivers and count
Stars instead of sheep. You’ve
realised individuality is


Wrapped in paper sat in a box, bow
Tied and name in cursive on the front,
Your box is a little worse for wear but
At least its worn, like the unofficial
Uniform of life, you strive in sun


Which is ironic because winter has
Always been you’re favourite season
But maybe the fireplace was simply
A surrogate for the pace of productivity
All along, you’ve admitted you can be


Wrong. Now there’s no going back
You slide your feet through sand and
Attempt back-flips, drive North instead of
East and forget to eat, you wear sunglasses
At drive through spaces so no one can see


Your face, like the open book it always
Was, cause for alarm that the world might
Catch you and toss you like a paperweight
Your box the bait for insults and slander
The blander words falling from tongues


So, I end with one solitary request
That you never let that box go, tie the
Ribbons to your wrist, shake away the sticks
And stones, show the world you have the bones
To take its weight, and keeping dancing on your way


I wish someone had told me
when my mother would hold me
minutes after birth that the umbilical
cord of life was wrapped around my
throat, no matter how much time I

devote to greatness, I will always be
reeled back, blood on my hands,
dragged through the sands, kicking
and screaming reenacting my arrival
with a bigger departure, nurture and

nature only leads to disaster, earthquakes
my knees shake and vulnerability means
skin rubbed raw, harsh and burning the
chainsaw has picked pieces of my soul,
mine is old and frail, locked in an internal

jail my therapist tells me I’m too hard on
my self, reaching for the top shelf when the
cord holds me back, destiny laughs and
I resist the urge to smear my script, I am
Not the protagonist, or antagonist, I’m

At risk as my character cries out in the dark
With an oncoming train and the promise
Of an end, because after all, there is no

Restart. Not to life.


They opened the door.
Chains rattled and clanked
Terrified, I don’t know what for
Sunlight grazing wooden floors
Paralyzed like an infant child
Watching with saucer eyes
The pressure finally subsides
And I see trees

Just trees. Fluttering in the
Breeze. Butterflies. I take my
Time, crawl hands and knees
And wait. Demise and Life on
Alternating sides I’ve only known
One and surprise is not the visitor
Late at night. It’s fear. Fear that
They finally opened up that door
And the world beyond is an alien
Thing, I’d rather be back at the brink
Of never being free. Then be
Overwhelmed with possibilities

I was done. Counting hours and marking
Days, convincing myself I’d run far away
To a castle, this castle is a tower and I
Was not prepared for the climb this, they
Tell me is life. I’ve just been here for a while,
I’ve forgotten. My memory a rotten remnant.
What the hell is this? This room had four walls
Now there’s none at all. Latch creaking. Deep
Breathing. They opened the door.