I bet her name is Lola.
After all, she fits the part,
all little girl, sweetheart,
bow in hair and storybook ringlets,
bouncing down the halls
on pretty shoes
that I would never wear.
I bet she places her small hand
on your arm when she flirts,
eyelashes ablaze
and head tilted,
inadvertently charming her way
into adulthood.
I bet her voice is sweet,
crackling with forced sexuality
as she melds childhood innocence
with the politics of growing up,
trying to get the best of both worlds
and almost succeeding.
I bet her wide smile falters
when she walks away,
as she realizes the impression she has made
and, too proud to turn back,
continues down the hall
feeling tall
and yet invisibly small,
little girl, sweetheart
in search of rebellion.
I watch her, and
I wonder what
her problem is.
I bet her name is Lola.

these lights are fluorescent
or something along those lines
i am not a scientist
but the point is
these lights bring an atmosphere
to the cement tunnels
that can only be described as harsh
and here i sit
soft and warm under the cold beams
feeling all too human
and yet not real enough
as the tips of my toes wriggle
trying to escape the cage of my shoe
and my fingers are typing out words
that have nothing to do with anything
except my inner monologue
which has been externalized
into poetry
and now it is my shield
saying
see? i have feelings
proving that
i am not as cold as these unwavering lights
there is real fire
somewhere within me
and i conduct experiment after experiment
trying to find that spark
and all i end up with
is poetry, pooling navy blue in my cupped palms
as a reminder to myself that
somewhere
deep inside the jail cell
that my ribs create
there might still be a heart
and it might still play some small part
in my life

I woke up
and things were colourful,
the blanket was warm with my body heat
and that proved my existence
so I stayed in bed
just a little while longer
before standing up
and beginning the drift of day,
cold feet
but I’m doing this anyway

I stepped in
and the water was inches below scalding,
the tiles were perspiring
and I closed my eyes
shrinking, folding
back into my mind
just a little while longer
before stepping out
and beginning the ritual of
Sunday
cold feet,
wet hair assuming responsibility
for the chill around my neck;
unsure
but I’m doing this anyway

I woke up
dead or alive
determined
cold feet
but I’m doing this anyway

i may have accidentally
showed emotion today
oh dear, oh ****
this is not good
and i laugh to myself on the way home
because what right do i have
to be so cynical?
but the fact remains
that i looked away when somebody tried
to guess and maybe almost got it right
or at least my brain thinks that if i were alive
they would be
right on, dead centre
and the idea that somebody could fumble
their way into a place locked to me
and intellectually play darts with this alienated
part of existence,
well that is a little freaky
and so i am still up, past midnight
feeling shaky but calm
because of course i know
that at this hour
nothing is real
unless i say it is

I have this visual interpretation
of the internet,
where we are all connected by strings,
nylon and shining and constantly entwining themselves
with each other,
electricity shooting through from my fingers to yours
in the space of a second,
a lifetime of words.
It’s beautiful, I think,
like a painting
or a photograph,
surreal and captivating,
probably in artsy black-and-white.
But this image of myself,
hair tied back,
one hand scrabbling at the side of my face,
waiting for an expression to take hold,
and the other chicken-pecking out the words
that is so funny
while one foot falls asleep
under the weight of 1 am,  
as 2 am falls lightly on my shoulders,
settling like an uneven blanket of dust
and I cough, ignoring the symptoms
of sleep deprivation,
rubbing at my eyes as if to stretch the sockets,
open wider the windows to my soul,
saying
here, internet,
take all of me-
this image is not quite so beautiful.

words swim
free-spirited *******, never there
when i want them to be, just
please
for once
make me a sentence that will kick-start my brain
into productivity
and i will be so grateful
words laugh
at my rigid fingers, poised
above the keyboard, swearing
in black-and-white
at the screen, as the words wait
in space above me, dangling
teasing me, **** this
procrastinating again
and the only words that come to mind
are not appropriate
for a university paper

there was a man in front
of me on the bus, sitting
cross-legged, casual with
one arm draped along the side
of the seat next to him as if
it were his long-time lover, and
there was a ring on his finger so
i guess it worked out
and he glanced back at me
and i looked out the window
trying not to be curious or poetic

there was a man diagonal
from me on the train and he looked
familiar but i could not place
his face, maybe reincarnation is an actual thing, i thought
to myself as he exhaled and turned
the other way, so
i guess not because if it was
meant to be then his eyes would have stayed
and he looked twice at me
like a stranger
and i felt ashamed

there was a man behind
me on the street and his steps were
uneven, swaying in difficult sound waves
along the cement and i could hear him
muttering under his breath but
i didn't look back for fear he might
raise his voice
because there is truth in madness and
i am afraid of that

today my poetry was
staggered and the people around me were
ragged and worn and familiar and torn and
my sentences broke off in the wrong
places, spaces hovering between letters and
i tried to explain my fear of
the human race
but this is just a poem and
the line breaks are weird and
i am sorry but
this is how my mind was today
and i am just being honest
these people make me
afraid