People have told me
       not to look
back because if you look
back you won’t be
       looking                      forward.
     So, I’m                       forward
       facing and trying
       not to look
back because what if
         I look
back and my wheels
         start rolling
back? And what if
I look
back and I loose sight
of what is forward?
But you cannot
look forward
always. You
        need to look
back sometimes or else
       you might crash.
         Looking
back doesn’t always mean
stopping.
         Looking
back can show  you
       what is                       forward:
        who might be coming,
advancing, whether
you need to slow
down or speed up.
Sometimes it’s
        necessary
to look
back in order to go forward.

My paint swells with blisters
these white walls whimper
tears create
a vision
a pattern
paintings on the canvas.
But no matter what the poet’s might say
not all pain is beauty to the eye
and mine
blisters and burns and cracks
like my bedroom walls in my childhood house.
No matter if you paint me over and over
or place a rug over carpet stains
or add a frame when you redecorate
building a collage on the wall over time
my paint will still blister.

In wellie boots
I wade through the years.
Tears of denial seep through
and splash into the top of these wellie boots
dragging me down
one by one.

Sticky in your grasp
I cling
wishing that mud could turn to stone.
trudging through the realization
that it never was
and never would be.

With each step these wellies
begin to separate.
They fall off and sink.
They’ve drowned.
I’ve waded into quicksand.

I laugh at the belief that these wellies
would be enough protection
from a much larger situation.
I’m laughing as I am slowly sinking
at least I’m not drowning unaware
that you would watch me suffocating.

Tears meet the years old tears dried at my feet
delusion meets grief.
Now at shoulder depth
I am laughing.
As I prepare to take my last breath
I am laughing.

I get pulled out while still laughing.
By someone who isn’t you.
and I see my wellie boots in the distance
dead and floating.

Now I jump in relief. Barefoot.

At the sight of my rotten roots
people usually turn away
“you’re a lost cause”
“it’ll be a waste of time to stay”
they say.
If they listened for a minute I would tell me them:
“If you’re gentle with me
and water me with low pressure
mist me and let me breathe
those drops of care
slowly seep into me.
And if you lift me and begin to untangle me
I will love you freely
and I will grow
and my rotten roots will not be
the death of me
trust me and you will see.”
But by then they are already on their way
and my words are delivered only
to my rotten roots.

We are like bread.
Bread has three irreversible modes:
dough, bread, and toast.
many things in life, if not
everything in life
have many different forms.
we are all in the different stages of bread
and yet
we criticise and judge ourselves
for moving and changing
and needing a new environment.
The suitable storage for dough
differs vastly to the suitable storage
for bread
and yet
we do not mock it
but facilitate it.
We could learn a thing or two
from bread.

[1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 0 and repeat]

We
fit toge
ther seamlessly
like the numbers on
a digital alarm clock,
moving without hesi
tation, from one figure to
the next, a movement of time transi
tioning,  unsettling, unnotica

bly building on and constructing ourselves
within the construction of time
itself. We are the only
static constant, the on
ly reliable source:
time keeps moving
forward, and
so will
we —

To exist in the present moment
is to exist in contentment
to command no extremities of emotion
and take deep breaths calmly.

I felt content today.
Like I’ve walked along a bay
with fresh salty sea air and
the wind gently pattering my face.

I felt like I’ve stepped along a shore
leaving no trace
in the sand.

Like I’ve welcomed
the embrace of the wild wind.

And, like a child,
laughing and smiling
and tumbling in the crumbling sand
without a care in the world.

Except the present moment.

Tripping over myself, bleeding myself out
trying to confine myself
to the confines of your categories, the cages
that barricade us in. I have rapidly outgrown them and
now they splinter skin.
When should I begin to cry out?
I have seen others leave it too late —
their bodies impaled by cold, hard metal
their organs pooling on the floor, their hearts’ still beat
once, twice,
they stop.
Is it possible to shrink? tweezer out the splinters
before I am spilt
pull out my own bones until I fit.
Hypocritical to myself I encourage the cries of relief
as the brave ones
break free —
Will I be consumed? Or will I break
out

What makes you wake up in the morning?
Tell me so I can try it
sentence me to a life of living
please, in desperation I plead,
I’ll give you the lead so you can solve
the study of staying alive

be my witness
see me wake up in the morning
continuously

my sentence ends when
I’ve tried each of these reasons
there’s enough to last a lifetime
these reasons become a lifeline

the case of staying alive:
the next best love story ever told
me and the reasons
me and the seasons
me and the unread novel on the shelf
of the public library on the street
that I have yet to live on with
friends I have yet to meet
and a garden I am yet to plant bulbs in
that grow life with
and if
these reasons are ongoing and growing
what’s not to say that these reasons
are ever going to leave me
witness me complete my sentence
of living alive —

Pressed against you like paper and ink
through the rolls of a printer.
Stories read to children
to help them sleep at night.

The author’s prized creation:
solar systems of endless
chances repeated
with each bursting supernova.

We could have a sky:
habitable or raining diamonds
or the catalysts for life ready to procreate.
Chemical reactions fusing into flames.

We are a fragile anomaly
of lives and worlds colliding.
We are words printed
across this infinite universe.

Sick of each blade of grass blurring into the next, trees becoming a series of bushes, streaks of green across the skyline. Was that a cow?
“Look — some sheep!
Oh, wait no, they were just wrapped haystacks — sheep without heads.”
Speeding past flurries of road signs: ‘turn off at the next junction’
“What? The one back there?” Driving on for a few more miles before being able to turn back again.
Stopping
at the services
to relieve natural needs.
Except for rest — you can sleep on the road.
Except your sickness will persist through the night and
you could miss some significant sights
which will be gone by the time you open your eyes.
Sick of driving in the fast lane; life on play ready to entertain.
“Pass the sweets” trying to **** the sugar from the bitterness of passing time.
Sick of help lines dotted sporadically across the sideline but never quite
in reach.
Sick of this constantly churning stomach which only stops when
asleep.
Sick of momentary flickers of other passengers
before they too go on their way.
A lack of individuality; a wave of sameness
Comforting. Sickening.

Today will be lost
like all of the other mediocre days
that were not especially good or bad
and that’s okay.
One can just be thankful that it didn’t fall
into the latter category.
I smile as mediocrity fills my lungs —

A day of simple existence.
the daily routine:
shower, laundry, eat canned soup, sleep
by midday the hours begin to
slip from memory
as the day continues to unfold.

mediocrity
is a taster of a beach in Bali —
The unavoidable mediocre routine of sand:
It sticks to wet skin
and clings to every crease
of your body
no matter how idealized the location may be.

try to make the most of it —
days like this
that allow you to simply exist
are fleeting and far between.