You suddenly appeared
and showed me something new.
You told me that you’re different
and that I could trust a boy like you.

My walls soon collapsed
then I began to fall.
During my lonely days,
it was your name my heart would call.

I waited for you to arrive
but you never did.
That’s the moment I realised
You had a secret side you cleverly hid.

I built my walls back up again
But still haven’t managed to fill up the cracks
I guess if I had to be really honest
I’m waiting for you to come back.

If I could be a poet
Not just on paper,
But in every moment of life,
I know I'd keep you much happier.

I'd have no ego
To bruise you with,
For a slave of rhythm,
Doesn't sing egotistical hymns,
Like a poet, I'd be giving and kind
Like a poet, my heart would double up
As my mind.

If i could be a poet,
Not just on paper,
I would never be the heart breaker
I am for you,
For who would know better
Separation, agony and pain
Than someone who cries only
through words and smudged ink stains.

I wish I were a poet
I'd be truthful and loyal
Like poets are to their art,
Like a precious manuscript, I'd guard
Your gem of a heart.

Forgive me love, for this handicap of mine,
For being the kind of lover
Whose poetry for you either
Stays bottled up inside,
Or manifests itself
Merely on paper.

In me begins a new story. Not that I have just finished something old. That's already been done long ago, without me noticing. A new story begins, because I am that which was always there, new to understand and able to reinterpret.
This relief is so complete that I dare not forecast. I'm beginning to believe in the absence of gravity and the delicate beat of wings. In the vastness of my soul frolick hordes of butterflies. I embody spring which has sprinkled me with magnolias, waterfalls and illuminated letters.
Each mental vision would be a surgical procedure into something whole and perfect. I must be true. Gingerly I deal with the echo chambers of change. They are able to turn the smallest tears into raging rivers. And a flower is enough to carry beauty into the world. The void has taken new space - is that intellectually possible? The new story will not be the final version of myself. But it is no less important. My identity must breathe. This is the only prayer that I will speak. For now I dance alone even in the most beautiful nooks and crannies of all the seas, skies and feelings. But I'm glad if you find me.

the sirens are screaming...emphatic, shooting waves in blades over my skin. The horizon sinks in. A little too left, and I left too late - my foot pressed so firm against these brakes - but I pause in place. The river is tumbling over my thoughts are so chaotic in the wet weather i can manage to pull it together. Times and places pushed into names and faces, i remember, i am forgetting, i am hoping for obliteration. My drink is heavy and so are these door handles i can't manage to turn. They say, lessons learned. My internal clock ticks slow and aimlessly and with every single thought, it pounds in my ears. tick, tick. Out of sync with my heartbeat. Confiscating my dis-beliefs with an echo shivering every inch of my skin. GROUND CONTROL, and rest your eyes. I have felt nothing more and nothing less than everything. I have reached into the darkness and held out my hand for satisfaction, for excitement. These voices don't seem to want to quit and i refuse to give a single ounce of my energy to a promise, a reason, that doesn't enhance my being. I'd apologize but i have never felt less apologetic. Those selfish fictions thrown into the toxic air don't settle anybody's soul. Advancing through every day with these cold chains wrapped around my wrists, i have found it difficult to reach that warm cloud of forgiveness. I can't complain, but i will tell you the truth....I am sick of this. Foundations built, crumbling as fast as this rain can fall upon my sober skin. Wishes, wants, cries, desires. There is an army conspiring and no amount of ignorance can buy us new blank pages, this is our destiny. What was made for us. Lines blurred between real-life and realizations, I would like a strong dose of free will and emancipation, please. CURE THIS, CURE US. This disease. It lingers on my breath. I keep up with the mint, but it always comes back. haunting. laughing. discriminating. I have found comfortable harbor in pain. What pulls us, pushes us, scares us, binds us together. The circle inside that we attempt to ignore is the very thing that saves us. We are one but we will never win. Drive every last drop of thought from my skull before driving that pointed edge in. Before the blur replaces the bored. Because we decided to give up on thought. We chose to ignore. Dead as the sun, and dead as the sea. The circle continues.

Yiska pares her nails,
files away
along the top
in a focused motion.

Her fingers grip
the nail file,
her eyes are looking
at the Indian woman
sitting cross legged
on the sofa,
mumbling to herself.

Naaman watches
them both, standing
by the door
of the ward
his dressing gown open,
the cloth belt confiscated.

The morning sun shows
smears on the windowpane,
the kid who comes each day
in care, stands there
licking like some cat.

A book of philosophy
is wedged in Naaman's
dressing gown pocket,
a torn off cardboard lid
of a Smarties pack
is the marker,
he's on the Spinoza page.

Yiska puts the file
in the pocket
of her nightgown
and stares at her nails,
bringing her fingers up
for close inspection.

A nurse passes by
and holds out her hand
towards Yiska.

You ought not have
that file,
she says.

Why not?
Yiska says.

Some might use it
to cut open their wrists,
the nurse says.

Yiska gives up
the nail file reluctantly,
staring at the nurse,
who walks off
towards the ward office
to lock away the file.

The Indian woman
puts her hands on her knees,
closes her eyes.

Naaman sits next
to Yiska and says,
Nothing's sacred here.

She's right though,
Yiska says,
someone may
have used it
to dig open their wrists.

I would have done,
after he left me
at the altar
on our wedding day.

I'd have slit my wrists
or neck or any place,
if it had got me
out of this hell hole
of a world.

I'd not have left you
at the altar,
Naaman says.

But he did,
she says,
laying her head
on his shoulder,
wiping her nose
on the back
of her hand.

Naaman studies her feet
which are bare,
no slippers or socks.

She has folded her legs
beneath her
so that her feet
stick out at the end,
her knees showing
where the nightgown ends.
After the last ECT,
Naaman woke in
the same side room,
she after him,
on another bed.

He had seen her there,
spread out
in her white nightgown
as in a shroud,
eyes shut,
mouth open,
teeth showing.

When she woke,
she said,
I hate that treatment,
gives me a fecking headache.
Me, too,
he said.

She stared at him,
her eyes opening wide.
Sit me up,
she said,
or I'll puke.

He got off the bed
and helped sit her up.

She sat on the edge
of the bed and said,
Thanks, you're a life saver.
She kissed his forehead.

The Indian woman picks
at her toes with her fingers,
her forehead is lined,
her black greying hair
is tied behind her head
in a knot of cloth.

Yiska laughs.
You certainly gave
the nurses a joint heart attack
last week
with your hanging attempt
in the boghouse.

Dark place at the time,
Naaman says.

She nods.
Like headless chicken
they were, she says.
I tried to OD,
but I was found too soon,
she adds.

The kid at the window
turns round.
He pokes his tongue out
at them both.
Naaman had bopped him
the other day
when he pinched
Yiska's arm.
Short memory, I guess,
Naaman thinks.

The big day nurse
comes in with morning
teas and coffees,
his broad smile
and jovial voice
brighten the day.

Yiska's hand lies
on Naaman's thigh,
he hopes
it will never leave,
but always stay.