The sun and moon sharing the sky
Their love radiating from opposite edges of life's greatest masterpiece

I – circular formations slide behind my eyelids and leave me dizzy, swinging like a snake in a tree. temptation comes to mind and thinking of the garden of eden, i wonder this: does it matter that it was eve? did it make any difference after all? do we really delude ourselves to believe that without eve the apple would have remained uneaten, and the world untainted by sin? i picture myself growing from a man’s dissected rib, only ever a fraction of the life i was stemmed from. snipped like a cutting and grown into a potted flower. created to belong. not to nature, as i would like, but to a man. do you think that snake just told eve to eat the apple? or did he tell her more. perhaps he said the taste of the apple would fill the empty chasm in her chest where identity should lie. perhaps he said the apple could allow her to be a person in her own right. and can we blame her? for biting into knowledge? a woman who was born into ownership dared to taste power. and we stomped her into history as the villain.

II – i become tired of this space where birds can no longer fly. i want to be free. i don’t want to have a body, i want to float around in space as a ghost. shame is such a human emotion. i want to bleed in technicolour. i want to be free.

III – and so i sit here eyes sombre and cold, and i stare out into the candy coloured skies. the clouds look so close i could almost taste them if it weren’t for the blood in my mouth. and the green of the trees calls to me in a language i don’t speak anymore. somehow i see their words echoed across the skyline. calling me home. i know it’s too late. i go back inside to fight the tumbleweeds in my head. It only hurts me to remember.

IV – i look down at my hands. for a fleeting moment i hate my petite body, and i want to be a monster with spikes and huge sharp teeth. i dismiss the thought, lay down on my bed, and dream of creation. i dream of being the ocean’s daughter. fierce and strong with salt-hardened hands and strong swimmers legs. born of the sea, running to the trees who call to me. it won’t happen now, but i can dream. i wake, and see the sky shouting in pastels to me and the trees echoing in muted jewel tones. i run out to them and for a split second I feel alive,  but it passes. but it always passes.

Healing leaves are now disrobed branches
on the edge of this wilderness.
Many tall Douglas Fir stand sentinel
over 100 foot tall amazing grace — the fleeting leaves
expose the beauty of the moss clad scaffolds
adorned with a lime-grey lichen lace
Nature is my refuge — solid ground to stand
in this harmony and peacefulness.


Jesse Stillwater — December 2018

Poetry is an act of narcissism.
Poetry is screaming into the ears of other people.
Poetry is the art of begging strangers to look inside your mind.
Poetry is therapy with the ******* cashflow reversed.
Poetry is an act of narcissism.
This poem is a cry for forgiveness.
I wish I could call It an epilogue, but that it is not.

Hi, I am the poet and I am also an addict.
I am addicted to the attention and love of other people.
I am addicted to the feedback and approval of other people.
I’m 20 and I still act like I’m the only person on earth.
It probably has something to do with my parents.
Or any other way I can shovel the blame off myself.

Sometimes I hate selfless people because I wish I could be like them.
I have not said that out loud before.
I never ******* grew up.
I have not said that out loud before.

Today I spent £20 of my Mother’s money because I convinced myself I deserved it,
Because It’s hard getting out of bed,
Right?
                                                                                 Please see my thoughts.

Today I convinced myself it’s not my fault I get jealous of other people,
I’m a blameless product of my upbringing,
Right?
                                                                          Please tell me they are okay.

Today I wrote this poem and lay in bed,
And you should pat me on the back for that,
Right?
                         ART IS DEAD WE KILLED IT ARE YOU HAPPY NOW


Poetry is an act of narcissism.
I am a poet.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.
Forgive me.

I think about car crashes,
And the wind in the grass,
Summer was just hot enough,
For our small souls to bloom.
The path I traverse over and over,
I’m coming back to now,
My life appears to be re-walking,
Re-tracing.
My heart and your hair,
Did you mean all the things you said?
When you were drunk and I was keeping you upright,
Safe from the wind?
I love you in the ways that matter most,
I’m sorry I’m not very good at it.
I’m not confident, or perfect,
I’m not easy to love.
Should I be easy to love?
I ask that a lot,
I know I ask too many,
Questions.
And you don’t have the answers.
But why is this day,
Aching at the heart,
Flesh ripped from flesh,
I never really understood you,
Will you leave me at the altar?
Am I the stars above?
Sometimes I feel like I am nothing.
Shallow
-under the night sky of influence.
Would you argue?
Would you complain?
And is it worth it, our lengthy refrain?
I keep it at a distance.
But I think I know.
At least the stars above and earth below continue to hold me,
Keep me still.
Until overturned cars,
And the colour blue,
Stop making headaches twist and rot behind my eyes.

You remind me of fresh dew on the grass,
In the morning when it’s cold,
And still dark but the sun is ebbing,
Just below the horizon.

In the sort of calm way that a heart,
Can open,
I wake up to you like snowy mornings,
Mild frost and a chill in the air,
Just enough to make me feel,
A little more alive than usual.

Something crisp, and delicate,
Begs beyond the surface.
Is it the siren’s call?