Poetry

Inner Working

Twelve keys lie on the ground, a thirteenth in my hand.

The doors, except one, have already been opened;

they spilt their knowledge over my skin.

A conclusion is not an answer, only the point at which we cease.

I could conclude here and now, and rest,

or use the thirteenth key and find the answer.

Is it really the answer I’m looking for,

or a way out of the answer altogether?

Why am I being asked what the answer is?

Because I’ve been told to find it.

That’s not a good enough reason for me.

Poetry

Monsters

In my mind after

it breaks down, the world

creeps up on me.

It’s a monster

in my head, sinking its nails in

until I bleed out.

 

Upside down,

I break through. Struggling for air

as I crash the surface,

tearing at the dark scales that cover my eyes.

 

I am a hunter, but also the hunted.

I am the monster.

I am the monster

of the world in my head.