When we were 17

I’m beginning to fear the absence of feeling

Because we had it all right, when we were

seventeen years old, we would love so hard

let our hearts be pierced, like our lips and nose,

our love poems,

in all different types of prose,

the symbology of a simple cut out heart

from leftover fabric of a school project,

we’d carry around, as if it were a part of us,

but chided and disregarded,

“how could you possibly know love,

you all just started,

you’re like puppies playing,

pretending you feel,

but I’m older and wiser and

you should know it’s not real,

just wait ‘till you’re both older,

and then you will know,

you’ll look back on this,

and thank me for telling you so.”

But now that I’m older, twenty nine now,

the farther away this concept blooms,

exists in the past,

love is a construct, a word for ignited delusions,

that seethe and seep deep

as a life intrusion,

I’ve felt absolutely nothing for a long time

I sit in my room and I wish I could cry,

something, anything,

I just want to feel,

I pine for the days,

When I believed it was real.

Nov. 10 2016

I need to get back into the writing game. I need the therapy. 

One.

Not sure if this is a wake up call

or the beginnings of a new

existential crisis.

My creative body has been left

for dead, while surviving

School, becomes merely tolerating

life itself.

Knots in my back have built

up to mountains.

Two.

She hums what the world needs now—

is love sweet love in the mornings.

I think its her way of coping, her way

of putting love out there, into the air.

She’s my outlet to the future, to understand

that I might still be the scared, sad, creature

I am now, in ten years time.

Three.

Computer screens, phone screens,

anxiously waiting for social texts,

my hands always occupied, my mind

always in a box, the passing of time,

the loss of moments.

Just the thought of going camping

could make me cry.

Four.

What if I regret spending the last of my

twenties in school?

What if I should buy that electric VW

and not go gentle into that good night?

Is going through the motions as

wasteful as suicide?

Roadblock

​Stunted;

My mouth- my words

The unobtainable madness

Vocabularies cannot sustain

Nor livers – nor kidneys

But tastes, a perpetual craving-

Pants too tight – shirts ride up

Ciders rerise regardless

When some quiet dawns

I see my own inevitable end

That shows up twenty minutes early to my dinner party

and my hairs still wet. 

Just Another Protest Poem

Sometimes I wonder who the hell I am.
Is this me? Or is this a person shaped,
Prodded, manipulated, and carved by
Every day bellicose symptoms of our
Chosen political system. Where slavery
To corporations is misconstrued as benign
And the irony of educational institutions as
Marxist in ideals, yet they congeal their
Pockets with coffee shop dimes and
Prostitutes dirty money, and sentence those
Without to twenty years hard labour.
Sometimes I wonder who the hell I am.
Is this me?

The Feeling of Home

I wrote this for a class I’m taking. Might as well share.

I’m in another new apartment. This one’s not as fresh as the last one. The carpet is dirty and I don’t want my feet touching it without socks. The cupboards haven’t been updated since circa 1975 and I wonder how many people used them, how many people were in and out here, and how I am just a fragment of the DNA to get mixed up within these walls. A speck of time, like a piece of pottery found in the depths and layers of the earth that archaeologists dig up.

Sometimes I lay, vacant in my room, remembering what security felt like. I’ll lay for hours in musty, sleepy sheets. Some would call it a symptom of melancholy, but I call it grounding.

Grounding is the act of remembering why I made it to where I am — why I left home — why I could never go back.

Despite all that, I still long to see my mothers reassuring face and I still crave to hear her warm sing-song voice flutter every Sunday dinner like I used to.

One time mother cooked me and my brother grilled cheese sandwiches, complete with chocolate milk, over our old beige and brown stove. She put the meal on a special serving tray we never used. I used to believe it was for a butler to serve their ostentatious master. I truly believed that at one point, that tray had been mixed up in the magic of a royal duchess’ grand life. Perhaps my own mother had once been served a spread of delicate tapenades or smoky meats.

Mother presented to us what was a grand feast of cheese and chocolate to a seven and five year old. As it rained outside, the dim light in the basement added a layer of contentment as our crocheted blankets hugged our little bodies. My brother and I laid on our stomachs as Batman cartoons played on the tiny silver TV.

Sometimes I want my mother. I want my mother like I am seven and sick with the flu.

I start to feel weak around dinnertime. My knees start to ache from relaxing in the folds of a soft mattress too long. If I wait any longer to eat, I know my sickness will become authentic — rather than brushed with the pangs of restless, yearning for more simple times.

I get out of bed. Salvaging the remaining sunlight that peekaboo’s through my simple rentals blinds, I draw myself to my not-so-darling vintage kitchen. I intend to fix myself a simple sandwich, but alas, I find myself scrubbing out the specks of DNA and the layers of time.

Just Your Luck

Navigating

With a compass that never pointed north.

 

Become encumbered with dread

Dredge—dredge—dredge

Overwhelming incoherence — the cotton brain effect.

 

Doctor has to cut the phone out

Of her hand,

 

“Its like a modern day rune,

you need it for luck” he snickers, for his

luck is his youth predates it.

 

the lonley man

who followed me to the next bar.

 

please disappear

 

I presume he was pre-conditioned too,

A life of a debilitating understanding of reality,

 

Sober and somber, only idiots call it pessimism

My inner voice speaks. I know its harsh–

 

comfort of a sharp glass of wine, to unmute

this day

where I’ll wonder how I got to be this way.

Procrastinated Fear

Finals sit waiting in

boxes of calendar days,

Thin lines separate us

like tigers and cougars

Behind chain-link

Triangle’s, chain mail walls.

Stalking me, weaving in and out–

Between tree’s, between 28 and 29.

Slowly creeping up.

You still hike a mountain

Knowing there’s plenty a way to die

But it only scares you

When they’re before you

Locking you in

Eye to Eye.

Geist Zine

I wonder if I’ve ever unknowingly walked passed them,

Down the streets of Georgia or Hastings;

I think I would get star struck if I ever intentionally

Strolled by, or at the very least I’d confidently stiffen

My allure and act like I didn’t care, not even bothering

To turn my head, but relying on reflections in windows and

Peripheral vision to give me a taste of what I desperately wanted to

Immerse myself into.

 

Geist, the small literary magazine I had

Come to idealize and idolize — to associate with

Blissful breezes that carried fresh spring scents

From petals softer than bottoms fresh from the wombs

Of mothers, who practiced natal yoga and nourished

Themselves with organic produce, reared in urban farming

Communities.

 

Art has a way of presenting perfection

In a world whose politics cannot agree on the

Definition. The steaming cup of coffee icon

Signals for all to meditate in the crafted collection

of words who’s mental imagery  is retrospective

of every moment in time before this second now.

 

Because as I keel into the mind of each

Swollen brained author, I feel a beating heart

that is not my own, with descriptors so rich,

they become indistinguishable from my own

Memories, so much so that it is impossible not

to take note of my own surroundings, in order

to repay the favour of a fervent rendition–And

thus a life lived relished in the small things where

Cups of dark chocolate coffee offer indispensable pleasure

in mornings, mid day, to post-dinner, accompanied with

stories of spirit, wit, intellect and mind.

 

 

 

But the Mexican Food was Good

Thats the second time the Australian got on the same bus as me.

Every date lately has left it’s own mark, the way a dog pisses on a tree.

This one sucked on my finger at the Rio theatre while girls accused of witchery lit up the screen.

I could feel it. Each bumpy ridge at the top of his mouth.

I’ll chalk it up to a cultural misunderstanding.

Acknowledgement is always left at the door as he walks past me down the bus aisle.

The doors close and the bus moves on,

And I bet his tongue glides over the top ridges of his mouth as he contemplates where it all went wrong.