Poetry

Mirror Pool

The tea in my cup is a mirror pool,

a pensive place of comfort

to gather my thoughts at the end of the day.

 

Why is it so hard to show passion?

To have dreams that are bursting from your body

invisible to everyone but you

and those select few

you trust and take into your heart,

who have no expectations

because they simply enjoy you

being you.

 

Why is it necessary

to fight the urge to fall into those few,

even though they’d catch you without hesitation,

and you’d easily do the same for them?

To see the look that says they will

hold you

if you need it, at any time,

and still not dive?

 

Why is love so difficult to express

in front of others,

to hold hands, touch nose to nose,

have that same solid certainty in our eyes?

None of the passers by care;

half

haven’t even noticed.

But there’s still this poisonous awkwardness

lingering in my bones.

 

I gather my thoughts at the end of the day,

reflecting in a pensive place of comfort:

the mirror pool in my teacup.

Poetry

The looking glasses

Books are mirrors, some say

and I know that some of my

friends, when they look in them,

always see their reflection

staring back, as they’ve seen

since they were kids. Then

there are some, like me

who only see their reflection

when it’s blown up to such a size

that every pore, every pimple

and every uncertain smile

is visible, the words

behind the mirror irrelevant.

I even know people who

have never seen their reflections

on the mirror pages.

They keep thinking their reflections

don’t matter, maybe they’re broken.

But I know better. It’s

the mirrors that are broken,

and one day soon, they will

all be replaced with new ones,

so everyone can see themselves

in those precious tomes.

 

Poetry

Know, friend.

The sofa in your attic room

is a long slab of dough;

I sink into it every time

I visit.

 

I melt into the fibers

and hide there

until the storm

has passed over our heads –

 

the rage of alcohol

infects the whole street,

though the radiation-green trail

is a red-handed print from my house.

 

You tell me I can’t stay here

forever.

They’ll find me anyway,

better to turn myself in.

 

Part of me thinks you’re right.

Maybe my years of hiding

are over.

I’m supposed to be an adult soon, anyway.

 

Do adults really run

from their family?

You say you don’t know;

you’ve never had one.

 

I look at you, confused.

An empty room

stares back.