Poetry

Shoulder-hugger

Dot. Stamp. Dot. Stamp.

Tapping lightly,

the marbled paper bleeds. Rivulets

of perspiration; precipitation from the mind.

Tick. Tick. Cross. Tick.

Scathing, scarring acid nails

scrape the skin. That little demon.

Shrug it off. Away, down the river.

Beaten with adrenaline.

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?

Poetry

Circular Breathing

A spinning top spins

on the edge of a cliff,

gradually wearing away the chalk.

As the last bit crumbles,

the top falls, plunging

at such a speed

that it doesn’t have a chance to stop

rotating.

On its way down,

it disturbs the breeze and sucks it in,

tasting all the places the air

has traveled,

knowing that the particles

are much more than just

what they are.

Then the top hits the water,

and the knowledge is gone.