Poetry

Role Play

Shuffling papers shakes up memories

into cinematic strips

that play on auto after every introduction.

Arranged this way,

how do we know they’re real anymore?

Morphed over time, nipped and tucked,

folded, welded, enshrined and entombed,

buried fast or brought forwards by warm words

from different perspectives.

We are made of stories.

We are stories.

Every Once Upon A Time

threaded into our minds through and through.

Poetry

Mind the wallpaper

Every day I write a line on a sheet of paper,

and put it up on my wall.

They overlap,

white scales with tangles of black moss,

thick like fur and with plenty of space

between the layers

for dust and insects to collect,

just to let me know that clinging

on to old things

results in an unpleasant experience every time.

So if I can, I leave the lines alone –

there to look at in times of desperation

for inspiration

but never to be touched.

The lines aren’t pretty.

They aren’t ugly, either.

They’re simply of people and worlds and war;

not the kind of war with armies,

the kind where self fights self,

sometimes using small words for big problems

and giant words for little problems.

Because who can say when a problem

is big or little

when it lurks solely in the mind?