Weather warning

The cloud got off the bus, black and heavy

with rumbles already rippling across it.

It had started out light, peaceful cotton,

but was soon forced to drift into a haze of vapour.

Words began to weigh it down

and the darkness spread as lightning grew in its belly.

When finally it stepped through the threshold to home,

the crackles broke out and kicked down the flood gates,

roaring all the while.

 

After, free of all it’d carried,

it settled into a cosy nook of sky

next to the sun’s evening rays,

not a touch of storm in its makeup.

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Time bubble

Inside, the surfaces are greyscale,

effigies so plain they cannot distract.

The only glow comes from the tools on my desk,

the ink, the paper, my own hands.

Time is still while I work,

boring deeper into the creative swirl,

light intensifying

until finally the filament goes

and the clock’s ticking rushes in

with all the colour,

vanishing my focused, serene world

while replacing it with the buzz of everyday life

and the knowledge that hours have passed

in my absence.

Imposter syndrome

The first wall is set.

Its kin wobbles in the breeze –

Shadows shroud the skill.

 

And now, the weather

At night came the time for rain,

for rain to trickle through my brain.

All day the sun had roasted it dry;

I’d stared absently into the sky

trying to chase down my thoughts

that flitted around, avoiding getting caught.

But now their wings are wet,

and in the direction of my head they set

just as I snuggle down to sleep,

causing my imagination to take a giant leap.

Restraining a meltdown

Let me scream, let me go hoarse,

these emotions want to rip out through my body.

Crossing sounds and smells, yellow light shining in my eyes

 

and people all around

expecting me to speak in a calm manner

and diligently do my job.

 

My brain is on fire,

my mind just clinging to the vaguest comprehension of what I’m doing.

Voices turn into a babble my ears cannot take,

 

but I’m bound by this uniformed chain

to fulfill my role

so I keep my meltdown locked within.

A struggle covered over with a smile

that is kept from bursting out

 

from the fear of how they’ll react if

they see it fully formed.

 

Your attention, please!

And standing, I take a breath

and place the last piece of the puzzle in place.

The click shakes the ground

and reorganises the entire picture

into a montage of how I got here

and the effort it took: the hours

of studying, crafting ’til midnight,

brainstorming in the shower,

putting on armour to shield myself from every rejection

and fighting for my voice to be heard.

 

The film keeps running,

I’m not done yet.

Latched

I walked away. I did.

I failed to see the strings still attached,

the cable wired to my head

to replay

the days during the days during the days.

The smell, the ichor from inside

clinging to me, polluting my thought process

so I cannot build the pathways forward.

I have to sever this connection,

wash away the dirt

so when I look in the mirror,

I see myself and not the paint.

The Struggle of Acceptance

His dreams were chaos, the ground maggots

eating one another snap after snap after snap.

A vacuum pulled them in, and he with them,

squashing their soft, wriggling bodies against his skin

until they were pressed together into one.

Discord plucked on a silver harp, played

by her, who he’d never know again.

There was no telling what he was now,

crawling, belly low, through the neatly trimmed grass

attempting to exit the maze of cropped box.

Everywhere were deadlines, corpses of the past

left to rot against them. And he drinks from

the sullied stream where they lie.

Trouble and Strife for Seven Days

Right, my love,

let’s put away those pants,

move those bin bags,

tidy up like sturdy worker ants.

 

Come, now, dearest,

pick up your feet,

get that motor in your head going,

you’ve got time this week.

 

Shall we go dancing

under the stars,

waltz time away

and have the night solely ours?

 

Look, my darling,

I know I’ve made a mess,

my dungarees are covered in paint,

but I’ve done my best.

 

Wow, my dear heart!

Did you really make that?

Everyone will love it,

they’ll play it wherever they’re sat!

 

Oh, honeybun,

I just can’t get this bit right,

could you read this passage

and make sure it’s not a terrible fright?

 

Sugarplum, what a week!

Shall we kick back tonight,

watch some films

and then conk out like a light?

 

 

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Your legs are crossed, a solid base

to ponder the long hours we spend apart,

seeking a way to change the shape

of what the timelines hold.

 

You watch the mountains change their caps,

the saplings grow wider,

see the decay of walls

and erection of new ones.

 

Eyes stare back at you,

weary, withered, hopeful.

They think you have the answer.

They think your shoulders are right to take the weight.

 

Inside, you are crumbling.

Inside, the water is building,

pushing ever against the dam.

The clock’s ticking is incessant.

 

One day you will break,

and they will accept how human you are.

Flooding everyone with the rawness.

By then, I will return,

and mend the hurts leaching you away.