Poetry

Set in

There are crystals in my heart. Each fractal

a different fiery star

that brightens every time its moment comes.

As I swim against the current,

submerged fully into the overwhelming waters

of reality, these bursts of light

are split into colours that hiss and spit their intensity

into every passion I have.

 

Poetry

Moon song

It’s tough work, drawing enough of yourself

up from the well

that has grown brambles and roses all over

to prevent anyone snatching it away.

No longer can an echo bring up droplets from its depths

to sprinkle as greetings

when greeting is the last thing you want to do.

Even the sun offering its hand

can sway you only so much,

but the moon is the one who whispers to you

urging the water inside

to be spilt only when necessary

and fully charged by its silver.

Poetry

Unicorns

Are we just displays,

faces painted on with shimmering gloss

and sparkles in our eyes?

Given tinted glasses so we can’t see the cracks

spreading across our bodies

so we never have the opportunity to repair?

Our personalities never expansive enough

to fill more than a sentence,

a breath between speech,

a second of a cursory glance?

 

Or are we intelligent minds

housed in bodies we can love,

strong, supple and up to any task we try?

Views and motivations

and goals we strive for and achieve every day.

Emotional, yes, but also logical, calculating,

creative and inventive,

deserving of respect not just from the masses,

but ourselves too?

Poetry

Doorways

I love to look across at my bookshelves.

I don’t just see slabs of paper wrapped in pretty pictures,

or titles on spines acting as identities.

 

I see doorways.

 

I see vines of words reaching out to tangle around my arms and drag me in,

whether to another world entirely,

or to a part of my own brain that I’ve never greeted before.

 

Even after I close the book

once my ticket there is spent,

I know I can use it as a wedge to return to that place.

 

A place where I will always find a home

or a friendship,

a truth, a discovery

and sometimes

even family.

 

Poetry

Vanishing Time

It can overtake you, if you’re not careful.

That little bug, that tightly sealed jar that cracks with every move

and is just waiting for a chance to burst open

and flood the carpet with alphabet shapes that form words,

sentences, scenes, chapters,

faster than you can say, ‘I’ll just get in five minutes’ work before bed.’

Oh, what a lie. A page full of typed lies

that keep you from realising the time until

the strikes of midnight–no, I stand corrected–two in the morning.

Thank you brain, for that mad dash of creativity.

No, I mean it.

The pages would be crisp and white forever without you.

Poetry

Ink

It spills out through my veins

my corneas, fingernails,

bleeding from my nose

to splash the page I’m fixed to.

I don’t find it suffocating,

only cold. But

it warms every now and then

when the words demand it

for their dinner.

I like those times.

I like to feed them.

Poetry

Upturned paint tins

Shelter; storms gather as we escape

down the grassy staircase, vines

threaten to catch our ankles.

The ground splits open on the final

step. We’re swallowed down –

or perhaps suspended – in the giant

stomach of crumbled earth.

The MC appears behind us.

‘Describe how you get your ideas.’