there is a road on the ocean
and it goes on further than I can see
a thin strip of pale wood
that cuts the waters in half

i stand upon this endless road
in the middle of an endless ocean

from the moment i saw it's beginnings
stretching out from the sandy shore
i stepped upon its pale worn planks -
there was no hesitation.

                                                              i watched the land grow smaller
                                                                               and stood surrounded
                                                                                by the great grey blue;

                                                                                            blue above and
                                                                                                    blue below
                                                                and a handful of blinking stars.

                                                                                   overhead and under
                                                                          the cloudy waves shifted;
                                                     a gentle kiss of foam upon my ankles.

i sit upon the path of no end
and i will wonder;

i've walked miles upon this road
but i can't go up
or under.

who is to say that there is an end
or a purpose in its presence?
how much longer will my legs carry me-
will I ever find my answer?

my heart sinks into a sea of stars
my mind is lost in the clouds,
but my feet, my feet will always tread
on this wooden road built of the earth.

there is a road
on the surface of the ocean
and that's as far as i can go.

what a strange sight to see,
sunlight streaming through windows;
the gentle touch of fiery radiance,
falling on silver pillars and plastic handles
draping over broken plastic seats
with the same ceremony and caress
inside a bus as it would in a chapel  

on this quiet journey homeward,
I have found peace

I love myself
in a world that longs for perfection.
And perfection is defined by
slender figures on shining billboards,
perfect scores on standard tests,
and a heart of gold in a heartless world.

I love myself
in this race we run against each other,
trying to be the first and the best.
Where only a few ever come close,
and many never do.
After all, we were born imperfect.

I love myself
so I won't let myself fall behind.
To subject myself to scorn and judgement,
and disappointment and anxiety,
when my efforts are too little and too small.
"Do whatever it takes to achieve your goals."

I love myself,
I promise, bent over porcelain sinks
with my hair tied back and ******* down my throat.
Because of a number on a scale,
the nausea that builds and the memories of
cloth draped over foggy mirrors.

I love myself,
I promise, as the hours tick by late into the night,
and I study until exhaustion takes my attention.
Because of a number on a paper,
the knowledge of failure and that
I will never amount to much in this world.

I love myself,
I promise, as the penknife hovers over unbroken skin,
and when the rush of traffic seems welcoming.
Because I am tired,
I am tired of imperfection, of
being unable to give myself what I want.

But eventually,
I swallow back my bile,
I pull away the cloth,
I hide the penknife in a drawer,
I step away from the traffic.

Because I love myself too much.

The bustle of wheels and shoes across marble
are muted by the high ceilings
of the great Arrival Hall.

Underneath its fluorescent skies
a long back river flows
winding around the headlands
of counters and
disappearing into x-ray caverns.

The smell of suitcases hangs in the air like
morning mist pooling around ankles.
Not quite fading with the passing of day,
but mingling with wafts of fresh coffee
-and jet fuel.

From somewhere in the distance a chapel bell chimes,
announcing that Passengers of Flight AQ284 can
board the plane in ten minutes time.

the Passengers flock to their gate with
the dependency of cattle to the bell
and trickle, single file
through a metal esophagus and into

a Silver Dragon that flies at midnight
taking off from a starlit path
and into the cold dark night
its echoing, parting roar
speaks of farewells and
bright futures
and
distant lands

so very


far



away.

the first was in a dream
a ride in the clouds
then a slow circling waltz
and when we met in the centre I
kissed you.

the second was gradual
when the pink summer haze gave way
to a cold winter
and yet the warmth lingered
between our tangled fingers.

the third was a firework
when I saw you across the cafeteria
and the way you smiled
was as sweet as
the coffee that I left with.

i wonder what the fourth will be
and I know that it will come
but yet I can't help but wonder
if one day this warmth will

stay.

an empty box and
a brimming box are
side by side

they are kept
apart
for sanity's sake

from insomnia

I am a Time Wizard
and I mould the minutes as I please.
It is at night that my magic happens
when I lie awake in bed
counting the minutes until I fall asleep
- or has it been hours?

I am a Time Wizard
but only without the presence of a screen;
a face that counts the seconds as they
trickle by in increasing increments
a constant that runs inconsistently
In the corridors of my ceaseless mind.

I am a Time Wizard
and there is only so much I can do.
The trails of my thoughts and imaginings
slip between my fingers like liquid
Oh- if only I could gather them like how
the hours coalesce until my eventual rest.

Sixty-eight more minutes to go,
an eternity stretches before me as I
sit
and wait.

This place that welcomes me,
yet condemns who I am;
I have no choice but to
sit
and wait.

I smile at people who
hold no place in my heart
this pretense that drags the minutes while I
sit
and wait.

My mind wanders to places,
I'd rather be than here,
unbound by the obligations that make me
sit
and wait,

and wait

and wait

and wait.

ah, the second hand has reached its peak-
sixty-seven more minutes to go.