Words like rats
infest my mind.
Clawing and chewing
amongst London streets.
Consciousness is flooded,
one thousand beady eyes united.
Lost my train of thought.
Monsters rewired the system.
Ripping into the framework,
they funnel and swarm.
Clarity is not made,
it is formed…
Feb 6, 2015
Feb 6, 2015 at 4:54 PM UTC
Mornings born on a
bowl of confidence,
or grain-flavored pellets
that stick to the back of my conscience.
The day will end with a decision,
a jury and court weighing the outcome.
Easily influenced by the surroundings,
silk and cotton drapes,
one for the table and the other for
obstructing neighbor’s view.
“Why is he not married? Is he even religious?”
It’s funny how their opinion wavers
on a wafer in a building
made of the same materials as this
kitchen. Did I leave the stove on
on accident or intentionally to burn in Hell?
I never thought it was true
that we poke fun at the
things we fear most. I haven’t poked
or prodded in my lifetime,
but my neighbors sure do.
“No, Mrs. Smith, I embrace this loneliness.”
It’s almost as if they think I run
a ***** house, or
have the most questionable of sexualities.
I am as plain and inconclusive
as the toast I burnt – dry and unbuttered;
it goes down unconvincingly.
I will sit in this chair, hiding from the houses,
eating my dry meals
in the morning, under the beaming lights,
possibly reviewing this day
in tomorrow’s morning.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:28 PM UTC
Swollen walls like punched up paintings
of otherwise perfect specimen.
Ceiling cracked like an hour glass,
timing out the room with plaster.
An impromptu look towards the mirror
reflects a distorted crossed-man
with his hands
waiting to clap for sins.
Curtains torn from lungs,
smoking through the decades,
flung back violently so parents
can see hazy street lanterns
that decide departure hours.
Children screaming from a black hole,
a cosmic punishment for infidelity.
A stillness bred
while they sleep,
soundly and lovingly.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
The rosy-cheeked captured
between metal sculptures
that are positioned properly,
feng shui.
Mistaking the pseudo-corridor
as a route to the restroom,
embarrassing herself
in a new culture,
growing uneasy,
gathering steam on cheek.
Snickering from elders
loosen up her ****** lines,
realigning the room.
Guided back to her seating space,
ease comes more naturally.
Meals as important and the
affection she shares with him,
making her a cartographer,
mapping love and territory unknown,
especially this family space.
Jan 19, 2015
Jan 19, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC