Month: May 2025

HINDSIGHT

Hindsight
is just as hungry to be heard
as a mouth without a tongue;
hidden behind a glossy pupil
are all the words it lays claim to

MAGIC CARPET (HAIKU)

Heights reached, and still flying;
your arms, my magic carpet once more.
Sleep now, and carry me.

VOID

Starving for love
might feel like hunger
but feeding oneself
morsels of
acceptance
fills any cavity

OVERSPILL

If there were ever
a barrier
around my heart,
its purpose
would be only
to contain the overspill

DAUGHTER

The way your lips wrinkle
when you are mad,
they become drawstrings
tugging at my heart
and pulling my insides out
through my throat,
choking my airway
with the density of the package
that leaves my body.

The way your eyes crease
and vacate their sockets
empties my chest
like a plug drawn from its bath
while the water gorges upon itself
through a hole so tight
that if not already liquid,
it would soon,
thusly,
pressurised,
become.

The way your ears deafen
and your back turns
is like running a marathon facing a wall:
the distance
expanding between us a window
that not even light could escape
– a black hole
within which I am steadily descending,
yet,
my pinpoint of focus
remains only on you.

The way your feet bury themselves
into the floor as you leave
is like the tick-tock-tick
of an urge
to counterbalance those thuds
by breaking into pieces
to fall everywhere you are not
for fear you might walk deep an ocean
and sink
– perhaps I can be your everywhere raft
and build myself around you.

The sound of your smothered crying
finds its way into the cavity of my ears,
into the bones of my chest,
and into the lungs
that as autopilots,
empty,
only to fill like oceans for your tears
in fear they rise
and you drown
and I drown
before I reach out my hand
in time to save you.

The hours you burn alone in your room
is like fighting your fires inside me
only to self-char on the outer
like an over-engraved parent
carrying flesh coloured wishes
of how I might take your flames
and turn them into flowers
that bring colour into your
otherwise
darkening
facade.

MONDAY YEAR BY YEAR

The end of my week has arrived, but I am still battling the Monday blues.
It’s true what they say about loneliness, and how it can follow you, wearing your shoes.
I can’t seem to pick myself up when I’m down, and it’s dark in this tireless mind;
I long for direction, but my amputised purpose seems harder and harder to find.

I’m full with an emptiness and hungry for love but I’m drunk on a silent regret.
I’ve spiked my own drink and I drink to remember but I only forget to forget.
The cure I am missing is suddenly absent and only presents in my dreams;
I walk without frame for my burden is heavy and depression is bursting my seams

I’m sure that I’m noticed by people I pass but not one of them cares to converse.
If only they’d ask why I’m always alone, I would tell them I’m feeling my worst –
but I’d share that I’m patiently seeking intention, distraction, affection, and more,
although I’d not voice that I’m crying too much, and my self-love has gone out the door.

I’m poor in more ways that I care to admit, and bad habits have met me, revived –
my bank account dwindles from playing the slots but they numb me and keep me alive.
The scales are too honest, and I do not appreciate the numbers it flashes so cheaply:
it only declares what I fail to admit, but I continue the ritual weekly.

The fault is my own, and I own my mistakes, but, unwelcomed, they came without leaving.
The past has now gone but my present is filled with the memories I’m constantly grieving.
I did not expect to grow old in this life while still searching myself for more time;
it’s Monday forever for me, it appears, but at least I can say it is mine.