Poetry

Imposter

The pages of drafts and edits could decorate my walls,

each finished book a paperweight, a door stop,

decoration for the shelves

and hideaway for the mind after a long day.

Above all, evidence.

 

Surely I can’t dispute clear fact?

 

The voice of blank bears down on me,

drawing up every negative:

comments, remarks, comparisons,

the scattered and scribbled notes in my journal,

scratched out because they weren’t good enough.

 

Weren’t good enough. Weren’t good enough.

 

Do I prove it right? Or plug my ears,

gather my notes and map them into sense

just like I did last time?

Poetry

Ongoing Green

He stepped into the suit and it never left.

Carved its mark into his life,

coloured his hair, his words, his dreams.

And when the seams became unstitched,

he spent all his effort patching them over,

making the suit new for future eyes and old.

The passion keeps him going, he drinks in its hold.

Poetry

Set in

There are crystals in my heart. Each fractal

a different fiery star

that brightens every time its moment comes.

As I swim against the current,

submerged fully into the overwhelming waters

of reality, these bursts of light

are split into colours that hiss and spit their intensity

into every passion I have.

 

Poetry

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.

Poetry

Blockade

The wall of brick and bone and sweat

stands before me, blocking my path

to the end, the finish line and the emptiness after,

for what is after

I’ve achieved all my dreams?

Will it be enough to come to that finality,

the conclusion upon which I linger most,

or will the fire inside

continue to burn until I pass the herd

to stand on my own,

hearing my own trumpets and roars,

my heat beating its celebration

not of my ego,

but simply that I can still go on,

still progress,

still do what I love

and not let boredom brick me up

inside my own head.

Poetry

Response to the Dead Poets Society

If you squash them,

if you bend them,

if you project your face onto theirs,

their minds will break:

reflections shattered, a mass of cracks and holes

where a person should be.

Their bodies will rot, bulge, blacken, weep.

Kindling that longs to ignite

if only to prove that it has some self-worth left.

And at the end of it,

still it will not be your name you see,

but theirs, as it only ever could.

You failed them,

yet stand where they still should.