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.

Advertisement

Thoughts of past me trying to deal with society

Inside I bubble back all the things I want to say and do,

wondering if there’ll ever be a time

I won’t have to hold my tongue like this.

It’s so absurd that I can’t be myself

all to fit in with your pristine white glove ideas

of what is and isn’t appropriate —

what is and isn’t normal.

Uncorked

Black swirls on the brain. Links opening to catch stray ringlets of thought that otherwise would spring as solar flares from the mouth; raw, dangerous, too bright for most to look at. Stacked, formulated, ready for processing. That’s how they want it. That’s how they accept it. Are you sure? What if the sun needs to flare?