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

Slumber

We wouldn’t all fit in a bottle, some of us would

inevitably come tumbling back out the moment

the stopper was loosened. Flowers

of certain bushes only bloom at night,

so only those few who stumble, wakeful,

alive, at that hour, may appreciate them.

Are you tired? Have you ever been more awake?

A simple mark of spilled ink

will never erase a broken heart.