Poetry is a release,
of all emotion and thoughts.
Poetry is a safe place,
to escape from all.
Poetry is freedom,
to speak your mind.

Poetry is subjective,
different to each person.
Poetry is forgiving,
you need not be good.
Poetry has no favourites,
it is a friend to all.

The parks are now empty of all but the trees.
The rot in the woodwork has made itself clear:
the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

If we watch each other with growing unease,
more sinister shadows may draw themselves near.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The nurses and doctors make no guarantees;
their furrowed brows are not at all insincere.
But the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

While some may not fret at a cough or a sneeze,          
our day-to-day life shows a mask more austere:
the parks are now empty of all but the trees.

The wealthy can shelter on yachts overseas,
far-flung from the whims of our mad racketeer,
for he, too, was borne of this wicked disease.

But Justice may not brook the fraud she now sees,
her blindfold being repurposed as protective gear.
The parks are now empty of all but the trees,
and the virus reveals a more wicked disease.

Sometimes I breathe through my words
Sometimes I bleed through my words

I’ve spent so long being my own woman,
I don’t know how to share myself anymore.

- Leah

My eyes were fixed on the wall in front of me,
“The clock is broken, it stopped”
“No, it’s working just fine” he said to me,
“It’s not moving, slow down, you’re going too fast”
“Catch up with me, then”
I can’t
“I ran once” “I ran once, and my clock worked”
“Work harder, catch up”
I can’t
“I think I’ll stand here a little bit longer”, I smiled.

what is it called when you write
but never want anyone to understand.
am i selfish-
elitist
a fraud.
or am i-
a coward.
the human heart.
is a poem
i am not.
an author.
i am not
the ink.
not the curves.
the rhyme.
do not read into me-
i am simply
alive.

You and I are vintage
Unfit for a modern setting
And at best a distant memory