do they know of the uproar,
the unrest,
the tirelessly shifting waves
of wind against the window?
So harsh, all through the day,
but it is a severity I can feel safe by,
watching the gusts and hearing the voices
while, in this alcove, everything is still.

gently, I devour
the music that you play

the strumming and the sway,
the things you can convey

subtle, but the power
of the songs, the silent way

you make the unsaid there
and it becomes

real, authentic, ours.

what is existence?
the mountain's life in mine is so very slow,
but even it sees the same, unending horizon as I do.

since i was a little girl,
i've been a very good actress
earlier in life, i was a golden girl
way ahead than my peers, a shining over-achiever
good in being too much, too much unlikeable

in my teenage years,
i played the role of misery
with grey clouds hanging over my head
custom-made puddles beneath my feet
and hand-drawn cross-stitches on my left wrist

through the end of adolescence,
i starred in a star-crossed romance
in which i was a frustrating lover
the "always leaving others" lover
the "you will only understand my action when we're in our 40s" lover

now that i am a 2 years old adult,
i am acting like a lost child in a big playground
mind spiraling down the slide
shaky judgements on the see-saw
the fool climbing the monkey-bar

man, i am such a star...

The breadline is the punchline
and the joke he tells falls flat.

Santa's back in Lapland
isolating for ten days
the elves are having none of that
and go their separate ways.

Christmas full of omicron
is like a pizza with no base,
the taste's still in the topping
as it drips slowly down your face.