I laugh when you wonder why you can’t sleep.
Sinking, though your arched back
hovers on the cold ground.
Pretending like you’re above the world
though you hardly ever leave the floorboards.
Drops from leaking walls count passing seconds
because the clock got tired of screaming for your help.
Seven times a morning you snooze his alarm
though you lay there on your rotting floorboards
with your eyes closed. As still and empty
as the world outside your leaking walls.
I know there’s a certain irony of today,
the seas move closer to the fires
yet, they still refuse to stop burning.
Millennials sip ***** through their metal straws
to save the fish
then eat sushi to ease their hangover.
I thank you for trying
but you’ve set out for hell on a go kart with a broken wheel.
I know you think you’re preaching to the choir
with your trending reposts and Instagram stories
but you’re gushing to a world whose eyes
only ever see water.
What luxury you loan from mother-nature now is nice
but tell me in twenty years why it wasn’t
nice enough to fight for.
You waste your money on anti-depressants
and insomnia prescriptions
because you know that
the reason why you lay awake at night
is the hardest pill to swallow.
If only you could write a letter,
apologise to mother-nature
for wasting one of her children.
Maybe then, you would be able to sleep.
We are in a climate emergency. We need to act before it's too late.
There's a grey sky
over our magic garden,
the one I slept in as a child.
I remember when your voice
would bring my room to life
like the way we made
a pink butterfly in a book
when we coloured
between the lines.
My white pillow
sprouted red roses.
The shadows of the branches
on the wall swayed to
'you are my sunshine'
like the silhouettes of fairies
in the books we read
before we came here.
You said what blooms here never dies.
We coloured this world in so well
that there's no room
between the lines for worries.
There's a grey sky
over our magic garden.
When you left,
it took my sunshine away.
Now I lay alone
in a storm.
I try to sleep
to the sound of rain
that I made up
to mask the sound of silence.
Dead flowers balance on the edge
of your unmarked grave,
like time worrying about
all the bad things that haven't happened yet.
Our garden is a dead land.
I grab hold of its only sturdy root
to stop me being
swept away by the storm.
where your hands should be and
my only friends are birds. They too,
silent as they wait
for you to come home
and colour them in once again.
Reminiscing on my childhood and those who got me here.
To rule you,
an army of complacent, restrained, organised youth,
it hides truth,
picking at your brain with its lies and its gold tooth.
It blinds you,
ignorant to those dying outside your bedroom.
Ask ‘What’s new?’,
though you’re living life through only hashtags and YouTube.
Deny degrading of the world that surrounds you
while the man who ***** eight walks among you.
For the time that’s been wasted
on you fabricating
a false realization
of the mess you’ve made,
$2000 and a screen
The grave you dug? Now you’ve dug two.
We pay attention only to a world that is virtual
Like a blue raven that cries
in another language,
you whisper only to the
consoling ears of a black dog.
Your wilted wings weep
at the smallest misfortune.
Your dewy eyes remind him of
the frost that stayed last winter.
The one that showed up unannounced
and confined you to your bed.
Harbouring a resolution,
like you too long for an end.
His smile is sinister,
a black hole, slime slicked
and drooling at the edges.
To you it utters only lies.
But you can’t help falling in love.
You devote your body to him,
as you pluck your feathers one by one:
He loves you, he loves you not.
He loves you, he loves you not.
You’re devoured by a void without him,
Scavenging for hope in the one that
relents to destroy any trace of it.
He has so much of you that you’ve forgotten
you own yourself.
When the tatted feathers from your worn-out wings
break free in the wind,
you wish you too were freed.
Your fallen feathers float gently to the ground,
merely a reminder of a place you wish to be.
You became a raven for the black dog
though you never asked him to change.
Look down over the city above which you fly…
Did you forget you are afraid of heights?
Losing who you are in the process of pleasing those around you.
My conscience falls victim to a mental war.
It collapsed deciding which was easiest,
to accept I’ve drawn life’s shortest straw
or keep pretending like you didn’t exist.
Your words taunt me, ‘Find fulfilment once I leave’,
but you left me with no other choice.
I’m lost in a void so deep you wouldn’t believe,
its walls echo the curative sound of your voice.
These days I tread carefully on broken glass,
for one second too long in thought of you will drive
my mind to depths even hell fails to surpass
my subconscious waits for you to arrive.
A mother marks a loving home, safety in a world like this,
but how do we miss a loving home if there is no loving home to miss?
I feel guilty when I go to church.
Not because of Saturday’s misadventures
or the bottles that scatter my bedroom floor.
I am not burdened by the cake I had for breakfast
or the bed in which I woke up that morning.
So why do I feel this guilty?
I’m a prisoner of my own device
though the four corners of the earth sit in the palm of my hand.
When the world starts to scream too loudly
I can turn the volume down.
I can put the world to sleep.
These days I lounge ever more than I work. I fret
the number of likes on my profile picture
as if I didn’t just roll my eyes when my Mum told me I was beautiful.
I scavenge for validation as if this screen will be my best friend forever
though for now I mope alone and eat fried chicken in bed.
When the pastor tells me I’ve been saved,
hurricanes conjure their fists.
The ashes of the Amazon grimace.
The oceans and their few remaining fish wish that they could drown themselves
while the clouds above the Sahara cry the few tears they have left to cry.
I feel guilty when I go to church
because the only world I’ve paid attention to doesn’t exist.
Species raise their arms to surrender after years of brawling with extinction.
Yet, I only lift my thumb to scroll.
Beyond my screen I see
grey skies perch upon grey buildings
which tip-toe on grey concrete.
I’m lost in a grey sea.
Its currents rip and scrounge at my feet with hands that are wrinkled and veiny
I dreamt about a crystal blue pool.
I felt stupid when I saw the ocean.
— The End —