Poetry

Mood traffic lights

I’m tangled in a web of thoughts,

caught in the spark between my own synapses

sometimes bursting, firework like,

into brilliant greens that form wings and carry me for hours

or fizzle crimson into a statue, vacant for the day.

If only I could learn to tightrope walk

on healthy amber thread.

Poetry

Simulacrum

I cry rainbows at night when I think no-one else is near. Flower skeletons decay even more in my mind and silhouettes of birds turn out to be no more than shaped words. Carefully chosen, trimmed to perfection like a prize bonsai tree. My wings have been clipped. I’ve been pressed against pages leaving only an imprint behind. I am not myself. I am the person someone else wants to see.