poetry

#16 Rocket Woman

It’s lonely up here
in Lala Land,
forgotten what it’s like for touchdown to begin,
these stars burned and etched right into my skin.

I drink blood, I dance in Mars,
nothing in here fazes me,
I wouldn’t suggest raising your kids here,
Herein lives the loathing and the fear.

It’s my full-time job, Monday to Friday,
Surviving the hours, carving the minutes,
It’s going to be a long time before I come down,
There’s absolutely zero in the things I’ve found.

I miss everyone,
I just want to come home.
It’s about time.
Can someone give me a hand?

Because it’s lonely up here,
in Lala land.

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Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing, poetry, Short Fiction

#15

My new therapist is an ex-tv producer
who used to hold business meetings with reality show directors
and actors, and marketing geniuses
only to curl herself in the washroom and cry.

She would take walks,
a cup of coffee in each trembling hand,
just to get away.

She doesn’t mean to tell me this,
she always asks, “What about you?”
But I’m an expert at misdirection,
this is how I know

how my other therapist loved musicals,
but her husband hated it, so she went alone,
how she pored over two volumes of Persepolis in one night,
because it reminder her of me,
how she fretted over which rug to put in her new office,
how she felt overwhelmed by having a new office,
how she thought the panhandler outside sang too loud
and disturbed her clients,
how she thought the retirement home she brought her mom to
was sad,
how she killed herself shortly after
we stopped seeing each other.

Both of them said I’m always on time with payment.
I don’t want you to listen to me for nothing.

She loves asking me ,”Why,”
And I want her to know,
That it’s not the external that matters –
not the job you can’t have, not the money you don’t have,
not the relationships that broke you.

That’s the easy part.

It’s the living with yourself.
It’s the waking up in the morning and forcing,
with all of your strength,
to get out of bed,
to sludge on to the tasteless coffee,
to slither inside clothes you know doesn’t define you,
to look at the person in the mirror you no longer recognize,
the growing older, the years wasted
trading your soul for the practicality of adulthood,
if you work too much, you get too sick,
if you play too much, you go insane.

In this routine, interpersonal world of
commutes, and plastering smiles while out for drinks with friends,
and sideways glances that tell of wishing I am not here,
it’s the mind, my dear,

it’s the dead, unbeating heart that
performs the final act,
that delivers us to the gods.

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Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#13

Boundless energy
I want to suck it out of her
in sporadic doses of drunken hickeys and forgotten mornings,
comb my fingers through those soft, pure curls of hair
and grab handfuls of it in between my hard, worn fingers
clenched unflinchingly into fists
tearing at her virginal skin,
and scratching with putrid nails
digging out innocence I’ve lost out of her,
dancing with anxiety, the monster I feed
under my bed –
you can have him –
don’t stay with me, darling,
I’ll only drown you
in my intrepid
mistakes.

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Day to Day Poetry, Day to Day Writing, poetry

#12 Ghost conversations

I spend my days writing words you will never read –
I spread myself out in social media for you,
hoping you would come across at least one of them
and read and marvel and wonder why you wasted all this time
not wanting to get to know me –
I am but a click away from baring it all,
my body and words burnt permanently across the internet
silently screaming for you to right-click and save as a keepsake
taking up a megabyte in your terabyte hard drive that
you built in the wooden floor of the apartment we once lived in
which you abandoned so that you can enjoy this new life
I am no longer a part of.

I made it easy for you.
Didn’t scream, didn’t fight; just folded my legs underneath my knees
and kept sitting;
my fingers trembling as I continued painting a canvas
I was mentally un-dedicating for you.
Kept watching Netflix while I listened to you packing your bags in the hallway
hoping for a second of silence to tell me you’re hesitating,
that you’re thinking twice about walking away.
But like everything else in your life, once you decided something,
you stuck to it, and kept going –
not a single pause for the days and nights we spent together
holding each other like we were the only people in the world.

Are you reading me yet?
Am I getting through that stone-cold armour even the apocalypse
can’t break through?
I dig through our memories until it rings white noise in my head,
our image a sea of blurred white dots against an ocean of static –
We are old news; a corrupted save file I can no longer reload,
and yet I keep trying.

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Day to Day Poetry, poetry

#8 Dust

Every time we fight I get just a little bit smaller,
every word you say becomes a question mark
carved inside of me – an incision of doubt made permanently.
My voice, once explosive and strong, has been reduced to
a desperate whisper in a world full of noise;
and when zoomed in to our private universe, I am just static –
a snow of blurry, white dots against a background of black
that you don’t pay attention to.

I am frantic and pervasive, against your calm and apathy,
fantastical and furious, against your logic and invariability.
I don’t know how to love you. This battle has hardened me.
The ground we used to stand on is shaking;
the earth beneath us has become the jagged, yellow teeth of
a monster designed to swallow me whole,
while you sit on the precipice of what has become broken,
rigid and unchanged, stable and unhindered,
as if the chaos of the apocalypse isn’t enough
to make a dent in that armour of yours.

There’s a part of you I can’t reach,
no matter how far I stretch myself.
A gulf I keep trying to cross, on my hands and knees,
bruised to the point of collapse –
I scream for you one last time:
and
nothing.

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