The words just don't flow.
Like pieces to a puzzle,
With no where to go.
I have no motivation to write.
Feel like I've lost my spark.
Feel like nothing flows anymore.
The words rhyme.
But have no purpose.
I feel the same.
Trying to keep this outlet alive..
I walk with you
with only the streetlights
as our chaperones.
My pace slows down,
trying to stretch this
for 10 minutes more.
Your voice is steady,
but I hear how it cracks
like the ripples on a lake.
I pray to the stars
that the tears in your eyes
are from the smog.
We walk on the side of the street,
arguing over who gets to guard the other
because we know we'll both
walk to the middle of the road
at one point or another.
and push you closer to the side,
feeling your hand in mine.
We reach the gate.
I make you promise
that you won't talk to strangers,
that you won't walk by yourself.
Our pinkies link,
and I feel five years old.
You go home.
I pray once more
for more time by your side,
but you have already crossed the road.
I change my prayer for patience
until I can make you mine.
It wasn't that bad, that trip to the ER,
And my sickness didn't leave a physical scar,
But I must admit I got carried away
While making that soup one fine winter day.
See, my friend went and dared me to make the stuff,
And to this day it could've been a bluff,
But when I am dared, it's a serious matter,
So I started to whip up a little bit of batter.
Right into the fridge, my hands were busy,
Making that soup really got me dizzy.
A fish head, salsa, old dried beans,
Mustard, spinach, and coffee creams.
That glop must have boiled for hours and hours,
And that kitchen, I swear, it needed a shower.
At any rate, I don't yet feel regret,
But I'll tell you right now, the key word is yet,
Because I still have a big medical issue,
And on top of that, no social life, too,
But the occasional heart attack won't make me droop,
Because I loved making and eating that soup.
Pray for me
In life I still need to excrete
Not only faeces but thoughts
Just like food in my mouth
I chew possible sounds
Until they are… reproduced
What I thought was art
Is now a bit bitter on my tongue
The saliva must be tainted
With odours I’ve inhaled
Because this rubbish I taste
Is too flavoursome
I know this isn’t appealing
But neither is the finished product
Unwrap what you can
Of what we toss down to you
And swallow what you think is sweetest
You know it will all be… sour
What I thought was lasting flavour
Turned out to be flesh
And even as I write this
I feel the unpicked hair in my teeth
So that when I create
I am secretly painting in words
From the inside out
I am closer to you in this way
But in that way-
Not so much.
Pray for us
In life we must run to you
But in living we must wait
Amongst the rotting peels
We left in our backpacks
For too long
We’ve learned to speak
About the smell
But in doing so our breaths
Stink up the air
And our legs are getting stiff
Sitting cross legged and festering thoughts
Bubbling images we wanted
God, this is a witch’s pot
But she forgets to stir it on hot days
And we decay
Faster than you do, I swear
The curses don’t become me
I know, the curses
Must be me and them.
Pray, and still listening
I’m sorry about the foulness of everything.
To the man with the comb-over,
I resent you.
For the way you talk about women,
Speaking of us like property,
For taking away our choice,
Of if we want to conceive.
To the man with the loud mouth,
I ignore you.
For shooting down people’s words,
Putting a lock on their mouth,
And interrupting them with your nasally
To the man with the twisted morals,
I abhor you.
For the families pushed out of the country,
By the wall in your heart
And the one you want for your country.
To the man with all of the power,
I fear you.
For the lies you tell,
You reek of deceit.
For how you make war,
Or peace, if that’s what you want to call it.
There’s a pile of orange cat vomit on the sofa
whose back has been stapled and thumb-tacked
onto the framework it’s, where it peeled.
There’s clumps of dog hair like dusty black clouds
clinging to the stairwell corners. Dog vomit, cat urine
and miscellaneous other stains splotch the gray carpet.
There’s windows coated in years of gunk. There’s a child
whose life has been shattered and carries on with a
tablet. Chickens roam and shit on the deck.
I don’t emerge. My room is half-painted, hot, and dark.
I don’t emerge from my cage. Litter boxes overfilled out
there. Hate out there. The air is heavy and thick.