Poetry

Ink blot

My heart is an inkwell, each beat

sending rivers through my veins

that stain my nails black, every

second nearing me to the moment

I’ll run dry; full colour pages

getting fainter and fainter with each sheet.

Every time I am naive enough

to believe that I’ll never exhaust myself,

that I can keep up the image

projected in front of my face,

my fingertips blacken and all that I am

drips off them to the ground,

trodden down and kicked easily

aside by those who are so trained to follow along

that they never even notice I’ve crumpled.

I want to speak up, but my mouth

and my brain are so disconnected

I can only do it when someone takes the time

to give me a pen and paper,

and I can let my blood pour out and form itself into words,

hoping, simply hoping,

that they’ll finally understand.

Poetry

Pure imagination

That mossy frog carved out of sugar,

clinging to the rocky path by the chocolate lake

is staring at you, my friend.

It’s watching you devour that flower

cup made of wax, yet plucked so readily from its stem.

Your purple coat affronts it,

as do you witty jokes, but it does

enjoy the children despairing over who will be

the one the blowing gum chokes.