Writing, poetry and more writing.
They do not hear me, my voice is hoarse
I look at the mirrors and no one looks back
In the void I am empty, formless
In the silence, you lose your strength,
Your bones will break, your mind burns away
Slipping away, melting in an empty self
I have nothing left to say
Still water, I reached down
to reach the tree tops
I remember this is a dream
that’s on repeat
A lesson I’m yet to learn
I follow my dog, into the woods
The cat walks past, cobwebs in her whiskers
clearing up the cardboard boxes
I thumb through picture books and socks
I listen close and hear laughter,
from a picture of my sister, who I take after
I fold it away, reach past a button-box,
I remember, every outfit, our stilted talks
so little was said, my sister’s sick bed
her hands as cold as mine
my aunt on the creaking swing
calls to her lost cat
all the broken pottery
swept together
sun soaking my skin
so much of time
toss, toss
I write poetry for pictures
They’ll say it all,
Play it subtle & soft
Keep it ambigious, keep it safe
They’ll hide, what your afraid of saying
Up my arms
A shiver at the rustling
Sorting through the keys
We pause and smile
Shimmering in moonlight
Cool breeze swirls around the closed door
A spider with only a thread
Flying blind, I see spider cracks
I bought bright padlocks
For her backpack
A funeral, her first trip
Alone.
Sunlight and breezy leaves
paint the cat,
with tiger stripes
The crickets and
their entrenched audience
drenched street bench
dogs begging right by
the homeless man
a quiet gratitude
in their company
To me, new apartment
To them, old tenants, the past
Left behind in the storeroom
A briefcase- inside pictures,
Undeveloped rolls , fact books
Notebooks and diaries
An entire life, left behind
Tucked away in a storeroom
To be opened later, an entire life
Birds of prey
watching me
Corner of the page
every turn of my life
Birds of prey
watching me coldly
Marking me from trees
rhyming at me,
Every silver lining, spying
strife of the midwives
Archives of the afterlife
calling, wanting and watching
Birds of prey
bray grey cliches
Colour my decay
play games of dismay
