My hands are manic, I think I might fly.
This elation in my chest can’t help but come out
like how it’s near impossible to hold in the face you pull
after tasting something sour.
If I flap any faster, I’ll end up in the sky.
Tag: feeling
A serving of shells and gems
On the table in the quiet inn
are spent bullets, spelling out the words
‘You are empty’.
You stare at them;
everyone you’ve spoken to before
seems to reinforce
the message as true.
Then in the palm of your hand
a warmth spreads out to your fingertips.
You look up to see the barmaid
grinning at you mysteriously, motioning to wave your hand
over the bullets.
You do so,
and before your eyes
they turn into gems
polished so brightly
that their brilliance overshadows
all the scars the bullets left on your skin.
‘You gave me this power?’ you ask the maid.
‘No,’ she replies,
‘it was yours to begin with.’
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.
Splice
If my heart was a jigsaw puzzle, every
piece would be a different colour, and
there would be more than one way to fit it together.
Some days the greens would take centre stage,
the days when I’m doing what I love and spending time
with those I love. Warm, cosy, satisfied.
Then on days when I’m alone, but still content,
blues and aquamarines would drift in and nestle neatly,
peaceful days spent in a book or in the woods.
Reds and oranges for those anxious, frustrating times,
and then yellow, my least favourite of all,
barging in at the most inappropriate of times
to bring me down into a world of doubt, depression, decline.
But I have to remember, all it takes to shift it
is a simple switch of the pieces.
The Waiting Room
A kettle boils somewhere in the house.
Cold. Distant. An echo.
A woman in a black veil falls
into the wash of the waterfall.
Whispers in the front room,
a herd of puppets
knocking in to each other:
frequent looks to the wooden case on display.
Tink, tink!
The herd’s attention is drawn,
as the kettle shrieks,
to a single speaker whose vague body
just about distinguishes itself
from the bled-out decor.
Dry words. Pale words. Words said with a wry grin and frail voice.
Lost.
All at once, the herd vanishes.
The kettle gets poured.
Waves in a teacup
I have this feeling
in my chest.
Like those soapy-water bubbles
you make as a child,
trying to blow the biggest one you can –
a lot of the time,
they pop
before you can release them,
but once or twice
you get one that works.
Proudly, you watch it float away
until you’re not sure
if it’s burst
or simply gone out of sight.
That’s the feeling I have.
It’s warm and cozy;
a squishy memory
you cling to
as long as you can,
snuggled up in a blanket
with a book
and a blissfully hot
cup of jasmine tea,
wishing for nothing more
than that moment to last
for as long as it can.
I don’t have a name
to put to this feeling,
but if I had to choose one,
I think
I’d call it:
hope.
