My heartbeat slows down, when I smell the ocean surrounding my home island.
I adore the view of the beach, and the mountains framing my old house.
The newly built orange house I left behind when I moved to the city, against my will.
I smile when I notice the little cracks, in the roads we drive our cars on.
At least on the few roads that aren’t made out of gravel.
I cannot go home.
Our guests dig holes in our lawns, and shits in them.
I fucking hate tourists.
my poetry;
cleaning tidying organizing streamlining decorating fluffing and comforting my den, my castle, my haven;
sleep;
rest (while awake);
my to do list is a
a jumble of rice
falling off a plate
trembling atop a rolling ball.
instead of asking others “please don’t ask any more from me,”
I will ask my mouth to protect my time.
(Ready?)
“I can’t right now, sorry.”
“You may never have to experience mega hard times
You are to me like what tears are to my eyes
Like heat is to my neck
Like sweat to my brow
Like weakness to my knees
You just can’t leave me the fuck alone
Why can’t you leave me alone?
What the fuck is so hard about that?
You are to me like weight is to my chest
Like teeth are to my nails
Like swirling is to my consciousness
Like silence is to my lips
Floating above myself and also grounding me to earth
Like ringing in my ears
Like pain in my hips
Like screams trapped in my lungs
Like bile gathered in my mouth
Isn’t that what a mother is supposed to be?
These bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow
and chirp, and chatter, flutter all the day,
they are a place I often love to go.
Tired life I clutch, the hours long and slow
by these a-flowing, tetric pours of shade,
said bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow.
By night ears catch the whispers and the groans,
a man, hanged child’s choked sibilance do say,
this is a place you’ll often love to go
deep where no traveler returns, the hole,
and to its haints on trees grotesque who sway
these bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow
and chill me skinned, flesh off denuded bone
and flay my scalp from forth atop my grey,
all this a place I often love to go.
Taken to death, cicadas, scarabs sweep me home,
smeared in dung, the sticky detritus of jays,
these bubbling fonts of ink where birds do grow,
they are a place I often love to go.
I walked the labyrinth tonight
unwinding my thoughts –
letting the day spiral beneath my feet
I walked the labyrinth tonight –
watched the sun set in an apricot sky
Wisps unravel against blue-grey clouds
I walked the labyrinth tonight
said goodnight to the chirping sparrows
and listened to the robins bid me adieu
i a m t o o m u c h
y o u r a n a w a y
i a m m a k i n g
a s s u m p t i o n s
a g a i n
l i e s i t e l l
m y s e l f
t o h u r t m y o w n f e e l i n g s
m y n e w f a v o r i t e
w a y t o s e l f h a r m
m y t h e r a p i s t
r e c o m e n d s
t r a n s p a r e n t c y
i a m o p a q u e
w a l l s u p
n o w o n d e r y o u
n e e d e d s p a c e
l i e s i t e l l m y s e l f
