Poetry

Waiter, there’s a wasp in my soup

I have white noise in my head.

It layers itself over everything my brain is trying to do

and the only way I can turn the screen

to a semi-smooth grey

is impair my senses

so my receptors can focus on one at a time.

I don’t want to be trying to read while having an audiobook playing

and a graphic novel flicking pages all at once.

I want what I see, hear, smell, taste and touch

to be a well-organised orchestra performing a waltz,

not one who’ve had their instruments switched with scrapyard junk

trying desperately to tune up what can’t be tuned.

 

Poetry

Blank

Waking up to a white room, a point of no return

rumoured to be a gift, yet is nothing but whitewash.

Even my skin and blood have been bleached, only

my words seem to stay, but they don’t echo.

They float in the air until I’m not sure they’re even words anymore,

and there are times when they retreat and return

different, as if they were never mine at all.

Poetry

Different planes

It’s interesting, don’t you think

how some people can pick up a book

and get so lost in the pages

that hours pass without them noticing

while others

get stuck on the first lines, trying to concentrate

but re-reading the words over and over again

without any meaning seeping in?

How minds can differ, wired so similarly

yet ultimately different.

Is your red really the same as mine?

And why, when you say Wednesday, do I think green?

If we describe the same person,

why do two different images spring up?

Do we see different things,

or is it our focus

that’s different?

Your world is my world…

at least, I think it is.

Poetry

Little Moth Girl

Whose eyes look out from the page

two black dots

that carry so much more

than graphite or ink.

Flame red hair that makes her fellows flock to her

tugging, pulling on her ringlets

in place of flying into light.

Fluttering, her winged dress

blends with the coffee creams of her surroundings.

She is invisible to the untrained eye.