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

we stood there and we kissed
for a very long time
and our feet shifted
or maybe it was the earth
reminding us to breathe
either way
we were alone

and we span drunkenly
wayward, winding
in circles across the grass
then we were still
and our mouths were moving
speaking words
and spreading them through the air
whispering them
onto each other's lips

and you were late
i looked at my watch
but the countdown began at zero
so we counted like crazy
and my hands found your hips
your lazy fingers found my waist
my shoulders met your chest
and your mouth was soft
and when we stopped
we realized it was raining
and we had never noticed

string snapped, door open wide
and the night bled into our space
but the streetlamp quivered on
and i could still see your mouth
macro vision
close to mine

and i thought
i've never written
poetry about kissing before
but i think i'd like to

lust is pink
dark and cloudy
casual in its appearance
beautiful in its persistence
as those reddish waves crash upon my shore
lust is soft
clear and winding
round the bark-less trunk of my torso
rustling the leaves of my hair
as my roots begin to stir
lust is loud
quiet but growing
symphonic in its metaphoric
crescendo to the top of the page
lick my thumb, flick back to previous sheets
and try to figure out where the music started
lust is music
slow reggae from a stereo in the morning
heavy metal blaring from a passing car in the afternoon
turntable cranking out Sinatra in the evening
tape deck cracking and splitting the indie rock
that curls around us at night
lust is strange
wistful and insistent
tugging at the corners of my jacket
as i remove the layers that protect my jawline
so you can taste the soft skin there
scarf unwinding, falling to the grass
and the cold flees from our shoulders
frightened by our moving hands
exploring the obstacles across our bodies
lust is here
obvious, apparent
even to me
in my awkward awareness of the raindrops
blistering my warm skin
and lust becomes silent
as we swallow the sound of the tension between us
put the words to our lips and bite
in your mouth i find four letters
l u s t
and i take them from you
m i n e
give them back
lust is generous
and so am i

these are my apologetic heartbeats
i am sorry but i will be late
because my arteries are running behind
and you will get there before me
but please don’t take it to heart
(that’s a pun
to lighten the mood)

nothing but the metaphorical truth
because i speak better in images
and pretty thoughts
and objects replacing feelings
so i can actually hold them
touch them
prove their existence

i think i’ll take this tightening in my chest
and turn it into a rubber band
stretch it between my two hands
and snap it
releasing the tension

i think i’ll take this weakness in my stomach
and turn it into a butterfly
which is pretty generic
but i want it to fly away

i think i’ll take this somewhat guilty weight
and turn it into a stone
grey and lifeless
and pointless
and i will drop it into the water
see the ripples spreading outwards
and touch them for good luck
tasting the tips of my fingers
to alleviate the cold

i think i’ll take this weird emptiness
and turn it into a poem
so i can raise the words up and run my fingers
through the letters
so i can print it and frame it
and smash the glass
and take the blood
and stain the paper
and crumple it up
and throw it down
to prove that it exists

and see if
when i look down at myself
the words are there
the glass is there
the blood is there
the lines are there
and i have been thrown onto the ground

these are my apologetic heartbeats
saying
sorry
but you cannot make us concrete
until you write us down
are you happy now?

this is something I don’t usually say:
“talk to me.”
no, seriously, I hate it
when those words appear before me
and your mouth moves,
all serious and stuff,
no smiles.
I like your smiles,
they’re part of your face
and I like your face
and when you say
“talk to me”
your eyes straighten, open
wide like your mouth
which has shrunk
and your cheeks are hollow,
smiles pushed down your throat
and the words form
from that unnatural emptiness.
it troubles me, really
that you’d say it.
it troubles me more
that I’ve said it now,
that my own mouth has created this monster
because I know you will say “yes”
and I know I will comply
and I know the conversation will be full
of things I don’t like
like serious words
and ugly phrases
and honest emotions
(because I don’t know how to lie)
(except I don’t know how to feel)
(so I guess I’ll have to lie)
and then when it’s over,
will I feel better?
it’s something I don’t ask myself,
for fear of having the answer:
“why won’t you talk to me?”
I’ll talk to you.

I was sitting in a blue chair,
rough against my skin
but strong and soft against my body.
I felt supported,
weighed down by the knowledge that I could stay here
if I wanted.
And I felt pulled,
compelled by the idea that somewhere
somebody
was waiting for me,
tapping their foot in time
to the seconds that passed,
counting down
as if they really truly cared
about being on time.
And in turn,
I tapped my fingers on the arm of this chair,
in time to the steps of others passing by,
in rhythm with the music that played in my head,
still echoing from this morning,
when I stepped off the train
with buds,
incognito,
stuffed in my ears,
and I was playing a song that made me happy.
I tapped out the rhythm,
deep into the confines of this solid chair,
still happy,
and finally ready to stand up.
One last tap,
one final fear to go;
and I pulled myself straight,
stretched myself thin,
breathed in the oxygen of a new day,
arranged my scarf around my shoulders,
gathered perfection up around my arms,
set my smile in place,
and made it there on time
just for you.

The idea crossed my mind
as my fingertips touched yours
and I pulled,
ever-so-slightly,
trying to create a new gravity field;
and I think it might have worked
because the air shifted
and outside our oxygen cloud
everything went grey
and we floated.
So maybe I have killed science,
or maybe I have created it.
Either way,
the idea crossed my mind
as this image crossed my heart
(this new science,
gravity sideways and
smiling always)
the idea that perhaps
I should reach down into the endless confines
of my bag
and pull out a pen,
clear plastic betraying the dark ink brewing inside,
uncap it,
and put it to your skin.
I thought of marking it up
with my name,
once,
twice,
three times,
scrawled across the joints of your thumb,
hidden between your two longest fingers,
neatly tucked away when you make a fist
as the letters disappear
into the privacy of your hand.
But it's too soon to sign my name,
too late to ask
or blame the changing times;
so instead,
I leave my weapon where it is,
concealed
within the confines of my pen-and-paper heart,
and I keep my name to myself.
The idea crossed my mind
as the world shifted back
to normal,
colour draining from our little scene
and bleeding back into the solid bones of real life,
and we began to move again,
freed from a slow-motion scene
in which my name fell apart
in the spaces between us
and mended itself
as we moved closer
and closer
together.

i am
aware of the air
enabling each step
and counting each breath
with the effort it takes to exhale
i could almost just sit down at the side of the road instead
but i won't
because i am
seeking out new people
new faces, new mouths
to give me new words
aware of the air
that falls from their lips
and catching the shapes, each lovely
small part of them
for my pocket
and i'll take these out later
edit the context
to create a compliment
to make me smile

want

to touch something,
anything.
to feel surface, electricity,
rough, smooth, endless,
anything.
to be somewhere,
outside or inside,
somewhere with light.
to feel a knee touching mine,
to feel the movement
of somebody else's breath.
to connect,
eye to eye
and palm to palm.

need

to be there now,
in contact with clothing
or skin
or both,
to be moving in time with the rest of the world.
to feel a knee touching mine
and staying there,
to have heat pass through space
and join us.
to connect,
eye to eye
and soul to soul
and palm to palm.

reality*

i am floating

part 1 (this)
**** this
i say to myself
hoping the harsh words will strike me down
for i want to feel the cold pavement jar my bones
just
**** this
i say out loud
hoping the sound of it will hook into the back of my sweater
and reel my mind up to join my body
i say it and turn round
to see if anyone has noticed my efforts
and yet
i still feel the same
shock me
please change me
please bring me back
find the strings that connect my soul to my body
and tug
pull
bring me down from the cold blue sky
because
****
i want to know
if i'm happy or not

part 2 (search)**
and so i searched space
space bar
enter
an easier world
and i looked for myself amid the definitions
and questions
and stars
and i tested myself
without thinking
answers automatic
yes i know what's happening
and this is how i feel
but almost
not quite
and now i have a diagnosis
i have ten
one for each time i tried to define it
letting someone else do the job
and yet
i can't seem to label myself
and the screen lights my face
but not my heart
no
i have not yet been found
so i tap out the pattern
of how i think i would feel
if i felt
on the keys and i press enter
enter space
space bar
search
where am i

I am not innocent,
not by a long shot.
Then again, who really is
innocent these days?
It's a ***** world,
and I try to stay clean,
waterfall once a day
to wash it all away.
I keep my mouth in line,
saying only half the things
that come to my mind,
and I don't swear.
Surprising, really,
to some people,
for they seem to be overdosing
on those words,
grandmothers' hands over their mouths
in shock,
callous and defiant,
rebelling
and making these ***** things a norm.
You'll laugh,
but to me,  swearing is like love.
It's special;
it means something.
Fall in love every day,
and the meaning fades;
just like that,
those coveted four-letter words
become just adjectives and nouns,
nothing special at all.
So I save up,
like love,
waiting for the right moment,
so that when I need to,
the shock value is there,
the anger is real,
the truth is apparent,
and I am exposed
bare.
So that when I tell you
this ******* hurts
you know I mean it.

I don't feel
present
in the moment.
Looking from the outside in
and yet
trapped
inside my body.
Handwriting,
familiar;
voice,
silent;
thoughts,
ignored.
A few steps behind;
a few steps,

and I'm right back where I started.

In this past year I have become dormant,
confidence
invested somewhere safe
and then left behind,
no trail,
no evidence.
Only me.
Now, among these tall trees,
emerging buds
and flowers,
faces tipped toward the sun,
I lie down.
Eyes closed,
I surrender
to who I used to be;
almost willingly,
with an ease that scares me.

And I'm right back where I started.

"That's a dancing shadow,"
you tell me.
"That's a silent song.
Listen; can you tell me what you hear?"

I guess
I can hold your hand now,
after all this.
So I do.
It's warm
but distant.
They tell me that
no one surface in this world
ever really touches another;
something,
electricity
or air
or energy
will always keep them apart.
Or something like that.
The point is
I can prove this,
for I have held your hand
I have heard your words,
Ethereal,
meaningless to my ears,
but beautiful.

"One more time,"
you ask.
"Where are we?"

"Here,"
I answer,

and this seems to satisfy you.

the moon
glinting
onto the once-white wing
of an airplane
now dusted with darkness
and bathed in new light

coming in for landing
under a sky full of stars

poetic, i know
but this is my arrival
and i want it to be beautiful

in truth, it's mundane
just another passenger
eyes peering out the window
feigning disinterest
after all, i've been here before

in truth, i feel empty
waiting to be filled
like the real part
the important part
will come with time
after all, i've done this before

but this time it's different
and i want it to be beautiful

the moon makes it beautiful

I've just been
reciting the lines of that one bite,
one or two
or however many it took
for me to pull away.
In my mind,
it was a choice I made,
to end that soft embrace;
in truth,
it was that one cold
hard
bite.

So unlike you,
so strange.
You surprised me,
but you felt nervous,
shaken,
wary,
uncertain,
not ready,
not confident,
in your own ability to draw blood.
I pulled away,
just enough to tell you
I'd remember this.

In my mind,
it was a choice I made,
to wait until I could not see your mouth,
those teeth,
before I cut the string.
One string,
one quick snap,
and that bite was nothing but a few words in my mouth,
a few chords with no song,
an embarrassment to the idea of pain.

In my mind,
you tried too hard.

In reality,
I tried too hard
to try harder
to feel that bite,
until I felt it,
and it didn't feel right.
Sometimes, though,
I recite the idea of your teeth
sinking in,
and I am reminded
that in my mind,
it was a choice I made
to pull away.

Bite or no bite,
I would have done it anyway.

I wrote this on the spot,
without a thought
as to who might read it.

I wrote this on a whim,
sink or swim,
I told myself,
trying to catch my thoughts as they floated by,
grab on
and make it to shore.

I wrote this sitting there,
on the rocky bank
of my escaped fate,
dripping with grateful water
and empty.

I wrote this empty,
trying to fill the space left over
from the thoughts that did escape;
I caught a few
and saved myself

but of course
I wasn't satisfied.
Sink or swim,
I told myself,
you knew how it would go.

I wrote this sitting there,
ashamed
and childish
and wanting more from myself.

I wrote this on a whim,
sink or swim,
I told myself,
write it now
or you'll forget.

I wrote this on the spot,
without a thought
as to who might read it
or why.

all my life and all my goals
fade away
in your presence, dear doubt
i falter

all my time and my efforts
slip down from my shoulders
in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down
by the future

dear doubt
i ask you
to spare me from the harsh light
keep me in the soft dark
asleep

painted on, this mural
time and time again
referred to as history
i'll live within those lines
if only, dear doubt
you'll spare me

all my life, all my goals
all my time, all the tolls you hake taken
i have paid

all my efforts, my breath
all my cries and my threats you have taken
i have paid
time and time again

in your presence, dear doubt
i am only weighed down by the future

in your presence, dear doubt

i falter

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re drunk
i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain

this half a heart becomes a whole
whether or not you know it
out here i am never alone
spent most of my life
in places like these
and i’m always looking for more

recount the gossamer threads
because i love those words
and the nonsense means nothing
but i love nothing
it feels like home

there’s nothing like fire and stars when you’re sober
it’s not the alcohol that makes the scene
it’s the scene that makes the alcohol
obsolete

i sleep
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i drink
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i breathe
to crickets and coyotes and rain
i believe
in those gossamer threads
fire and stars
alcoholic words

i love nothing

it feels like home

Well, I’m putting it off,
the part where my brain actually does something
useful
for once.
And instead I’m dwelling
on my mind,
in my mind
and out of it,
twirling through each day
on a slow fade
away
from what,
I don’t know.
But pulling me close,
this shadow,
it gives me what I want,
just that moment of contact
(warmth without electricity,
heat without fire,
lust without love,
a little less than desire)
and I’ll be fine.
I’m putting it off,
the part where I step down from this cloud
and step into my body.
Instead I’m dwelling on
in
above
the spaces around me,
moving through each day
on a fast train
away
from what, I don’t know.
But pulling me close,
this shadow,
it gives me what I miss,
just that uncertain rush
(warmth without electricity,
heat without fire,
lust without love,
a little less than desire)
which is a funny thing to say
because I think I desire it
after all.

I already miss it,
the lazy crawl of time,
hurried waves across the water,
fast cars glinting under the yellow sun.
I miss the easiness of good-byes,
with the knowledge of their flimsiness
in this drawn-out frame of time,
long days
and warm nights,
the flight of feet across pebbles and sand.
I’d live there forever,
memories replaying,
never growing tired of those colours,
only tired from the day;
and yet
two or three hours will do it,
curled up with the imprint
that a warm body makes next to mine,
and if they’re there,
really there,
that’s fine.
But summer is when I don’t mind
being alone at night,
because I’d rather be perched on those rocking slats
of old wood,
water lapping at my heels
as they tease the water.
You could plant me here,
roots digging down through the cracks
and around the ancient tires
that keep this dock afloat;
you could plant me here
and I would grow.
I have grown
in these months,
as I always do,
mind, body and soul
drinking in the new words I learn
and the songs that repeat endlessly on the radio
and the lyrics I find in my head,
only to dig up later,
much later,
and put to wistful chords.
Bare toes,
freckles emerging,
hands seeking refuge in each other,
tinted glass peeling
to reveal more of the interior;
the leather seats
and empty bottles
and eyes lined with smiles
that show through those perpetual frames.
I’ll sit and wait
for as long as it takes,
until that shimmering sun takes its leave
and the only light comes from the old lampposts
that stick out of the water like totem poles,
protecting their darkness.
And when it’s over,
I’ll sigh,
summer escaping from my reddened lips,
you
escaping from my carefree arms,
sand washing from the creases in my old denim shorts
and trickling down the drain,
and I’ll move on.
I always do.

If I’m not mistaken,
I saw you today,
pale but golden,
flimsy
yet rooted to where you were standing,
neck bent,
looking off into the distance.
I know I am mistaken,
seeing you today,
so many miles away from where this could be true;
but the truth is,
I keep seeing you.
Reflected in every dark head of hair,
shining through every silly, crooked smile,
every turned back
becomes your broken one,
and I am scared
every time it happens,
skirting around the corners
with my eyes trained on your shoulders,
waiting for them to
snap
and turn towards me;
scared
of how wrong I am,
to see those shoulders turn with someone else’s face
held aloft on that neck;
scared
of the strength with which I pull the door open
and escape each facsimile of you.
It’s sad, really,
I know this,
involuntarily shrugging it off,
excuses ready-made,
for I know this will fade
in time.
It always does;
the shock of a new place
makes me run back into old ways,
and soon you’ll be gone again,
no more shadowing me,
no more appearing in every face,
no more escaping
each metaphor,
each reference made;
soon you will fade
and I will move forward
into that sunset,
the one that you see when you stand like
a cowboy,
crooked,
bent,
head tilted,
eyes transfixed.
And I,
unable to help myself,
am transfixed too,
even as I move on.

There's a pause,
and a tilt of the head,
a smile instead
of a word.
There's a pause,

a catch in time,
less than a second of silence
during which an eternity appears
and disappears
at light speed.
It's swallowed up
in the space between our eyes,

in the slow blink of weary lids
and the sullen turn of my head,
unwilling to part with this moment.
It's swallowed up
by my hand, clenched tight
to prevent it
from reaching out;
instead, I have grabbed this eternity
and silenced it,

curled my fingers around the soft shape
and stuffed it,
only slightly bent,
into my pocket.

Just now, I took it out
and tried to straighten the edges,
tried to get a clear picture.

I'm almost there,
almost back in that eternity,
almost willing to give it a try.
I'm almost there,
too soon it seems,
almost ready to jump,
to release

my breath,
form words,
unfurl pages of this
into the air.
But I know myself too well;
I will always be
almost ready.
Even though it feels
like more

when I'm with you.

I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs
and goosebumps raining from my arms
while warmth spreads through my body,
shedding the chill
as if by magic.

Silk and buttons and pretend lace,
cheap boots,
expensive lipstick,
a night out
with confidence by my side.
There's a laugh here too;
it keeps echoing across the bare valleys of my collarbones
and finding its way to my ears.
I resist the urge to turn and share.
Instead,
I smile, taking half-part,
saving a few for a rainier,
colder day.

A shoulder bump,
warm skin brushing against thin cloth,
pulling away from the wrong
and inventing the right;
stepping to the left
and creating space,
solidifying the distance.

I walk forward,
'nets gripping my thighs,
holding onto my skirt
and letting that chill back in,
discarding the easy warmth.
I walk forward,
giving it up,
giving it away,
shedding the feeling,
shedding the idea of it
as if by magic.

Fishnets,
holes,
spaces,
filled

by warm magic.

I am not going to share this with you.
Never
going to speak aloud,
only write
and write
and write.
I will share it with the world,
handwriting in print,
stamped with my heart,
authentic.
I will share those thoughts,
the ones you turned away from,
the ones that maybe
just maybe
just maybe-

I will share the events,
every moment
or silent step
or loud heartbeat
or quiet answer
or scripted scene
or word worth recording,
though there isn't much to tell.
Still, I want to know;
can you hear me?
I'm just wondering
where you are,
what you say
when you hear my name,
what you hear
when I write these words.
Tapping,
scrolling;
I imagine your fingers
pausing and tracing
the glowing lines
and the stupid hopes
poured into these pieces.
Pieces,
small,
unique,
alone.
I'm done with this.
Whether or not
your eyes chance upon
a memory or two,
who cares?
It's all gone now,
flowed from my fingertips forth onto the paper
a while ago;
this, now,
this is the very
last
drop.

There is a lesson
among the others
that I have failed to learn.
A mother's wail,
a child's cry,
the tortured sighs
and lonely eyes-
these signs,
these misgivings,
these misguided reasons
become lost on me.
It's the pain,
the uncultured beginnings
of a slowly spreading weight
that I fail to see
in full colour.
I look to the sky
at the words;
tell me it's raining
and I will believe you,
but the water will not touch me.
I look up,
searching
for the tears among raindrops,
the carbon
among the breathable air,
looking for the cats-
looking for the dogs-
but finding only a beautiful rain.
And ashamed
for not understanding
the pain that it takes
to be like the people I see,
sitting at the window
just like me,
but whose blank stares
and sighs
mirror nothing
inside my own soul.
I have wished to feel that pain,
if only for a day,
just to understand
the way it takes hold.
I have searched
for that sincerity,
and found only the clarity
of somebody who skips through life
making eye contact easily.
But sometimes,
instead,
I look down at the ground,
trying to find what they search so hard for;
trying to pick it up again
and lift it towards the sky.
I don't need a reason why
I just do.

I have no
rhythm & rhyme,
can’t walk in time
to anything,
can’t speak my mind,
I’m hard to find,
my face is lined
with crooked vines
that tell
a story
without rhythm & rhyme.
Without structure or meter,
my thoughts peter out
halfway through
before you can catch them.
Internal rhyme,
external rhythm,
&
you can find
my soul along with them.
I try to lie
without getting caught
but I cannot pretend
to be something I’m not.
I can’t stay
in time,
in rhythm & rhyme,
in place
& in line
long enough.
& I apologize
for my transparent lies,
but hey,
at least I tried.

You
do not rhyme
with me,
and I can see that.
-even from here-
One day I passed you
-or you
passed me-
but only I know
that you did not see
me
-only I know
the difference-
you looked
but did not see.
We do not rhyme,
-you and me-
together
we make
-dissonant-
harmony,
we make
-useless-
eye contact;
we do not
-wish we could-
rhyme,
you and I.
One day I saw you
-not just looked
but saw-
and
it scared me,
the
-obvious-
thoughts
in your head,
the
-unrhyming-
poetry
written on your face,
the
-unfailing-
-unwavering-
-unrelenting-
-untamed-
knowle­dge
that side
-by-
side,
we do not rhyme.
And so I wrote
-one day-
-one afternoon-
a ballad
for you and me.
It doesn’t rhyme.
It can’t be put to music.
It can’t be
what you might expect,
-never-
but
this is how I am.
Unrhyming.
-sorry-

Dancing slowly,
tracing
circles
across the endless fields,

we dance

an endless pattern across the skies,
dancing with the wolves and

Dancing

Dancing slowly

we dance
an intricate drawing
in the clouds,

dancing with the wolves

to the tune of the birds' flight
and the light
from the moon.

We ignore

the turning of the earth,
pay no attention
to the cycles
that confine us

We just keep on dancing

with those howling creatures

rearing up
like they do
and singing to the sky.

This is why I am here
instead of there.
It’s all because of you
and your twisted neck,
turning too far
just to smile once more in my direction.
It’s because of you
and your reasons,
your forward thoughts
and backwards compliments,
chasing some dream
that I know you’ll achieve
because that’s just how it works.
It would be unfair of me
to point out the possibility
of failure.
It’s because of you
that I look on the bright side.
“If not today,”
I think,
“then tomorrow.”
With you,
there is always tomorrow.

Sometimes
I like to break,
pause the fighting,
sit down
and try to think my way out of this
instead.

And I realize
that's why I feel so trapped:
Because inside my head,

I am free.

I want to give you my feelings
in a colouring-book.
Can you fill me in?
I feel empty.
I want to give them to you
in a box
wrapped with a bow
so you can open it
and see there’s nothing inside.
I’d like to give you my heart
in a song without chords
so you can hear the echo of broken strings.
I want to show it to you
in a black-and-white photograph
so you can understand
how grey I feel.
Can you colour me in?

Tripping past windows,
turning to look but missing the image
(I’m going too fast)
too slow
I’ll never make it
not like this
Heart pierced
by each short, asthmatic breath
by each spastic, hazardous thought of you
I’m late
(for a very important date)
very important, even though it doesn’t exist
(this is all in my mind)
a silly dream I play out to calm myself
running down that road with a goal in mind,
a goal ready to leave at any moment
but because this is my dream
I make it all happen
(just the way I want it)
Maybe in real life, the train would pull away
ten minutes (ten seconds) before I arrive
but in my mind, I get there just in time
to wrap you in my arms
and pull you back.

It's a silly question
I have to ask;
it's been burning on my tongue
for days now,
sliding around,
trying to get out.
Maybe I should let it go,
let my words free
upon the world,
into the air,
and never even try to care
about what happens.
But I don't think
that I could do it.
Could I really?
Could I close my eyes
without imagining light?
Could I step forward
without a hand before me?
Somehow, the answers
never colour themselves in
the way I'd like.
Outside the lines
a storm is brewing,
words are forming
and the thunder in the distance
cracks the sky open louder every day.
Can you seal this gaping hole?
Tape couldn't hold me back
for long,
just like it couldn't stop my mouth
from opening;
stop those words from being created.
Suspense is killing me,
eating me alive
as I stand here silently,
arms folded across my shrinking body
and feet tight on the ground,
trying my best
to step on every crack;
I'll break any back I have to,
if only to stay silent
one more day.

I shoved that day aside
the moment it started.
Grey skies
with only patches of blue,
internal rhyming
in each casual phrase
said,
tossed,
that meant more
than at first glance.
There were too many forced alliterations,
too many under-the-breath mutterings
cluttering the belly
of every once-white cloud.
The ground was too hard,
the world shifting
too easily beneath my feet,
and the air was too supple,
too slippery to breathe.
Not just another day;
no catastrophe in sight,
but no rainbow ending either.
And no word from you.

You are like a child
who grows younger
& younger
every day,
smoothing over lines
with the sharp -cracks- of a smile,
& swaying
back & forth,
back & forth
like the swing
in an overgrown backyard,
like the child who sits
(lonely)
on that swing
& grows backwards,

(backwards)

you regress further
with every moment.

You are like the hair that grows
from the head of the child,
?wild?
& unruly
& never the same.

Like their small, chubby fingers,
you are clumsy,
s t u m b l i n g around a dark world
that offers you
no rest
from your actions,
(& yet)
unlike a small child
who is more clever,
quieter
& observing
each moment in life,
(learning,
growing
by leaps & b o u n d s , showing
that there is hope yet for them
in our adult world,)

you cannot seem to learn
from the mistakes you make.

Each error leads to another;
like a child,
you are running in a circle,
forever chasing a butterfly
that has lost its wings.

Your toys lie
scattered around you,
abandoned,
dusty,
-cracked-
& broken.

Like a child,
you grow tired
of the same old routine,
the people you see
& the games they make you play,
(day after day.)
Moment after moment
after unplanned moment
you grow younger
until one day
you will be an infant,
unspeaking.

& then
you will be
wailing & wishing
you could grow older
& make it all up to me.

and now here i am
writing poetry about you
in tim hortons
i've sunk this low
may as well keep going
extend the metaphor
except
we are not symbolic
we are real
or at least my mind thinks we were
and i'm usually right
so
who are you to say i'm wrong?
except you didn't
you just didn't say anything
and that's what makes me think
i should be somewhere else
somewhere other than this table
growing green with moss and envy
bending over time and time again
to pick up that lucky penny
polishing it off and adding it to my pocket
saving up for another drink
so i can buy more time
waiting around
for another chance encounter with you
that i know won't amount to anything
but hey
i can try can't i?
i have that right and i use it
abuse it
and all for what?
here i am sitting at a table for two
and you?
you're somewhere else
like you've always been
never there in front of me
except when passing me by
giving me the eye
or
did i just imagine it?
i think i know what i'm talking about
but my predictions all put me in the same place
sitting here with a cup in front of me
slowly emptying
but never all the way
because i still say i've got time to wait
my watch is wrong
some excuse
to go along with my own stupid games
playing the lottery and losing
but each small compensation lifts me up
i'm so hopeful one day it's gonna **** me
and i'll die here
in tim hortons
with my cold coffee sitting in front of me
saying
i told you so
you should've finished me when you had the time!
and i'll know
i should've finished us when i had the time
maybe then we never would have been like this
skirting around each other
all awkward smiles
cold coffee
warmed up
is never the same as when it's fresh

You were always skinny.

always turning away
always hiding your face
always twisting your frame

You were always more than skinny,
not quite thin,
not frail
not flimsy
but more than just skinny.

Turning to the side,
I saw you;
as the light caught my eye,
I lost you
in between the rays of sun
you hid,
as invisible as a smile
when one’s back is turned.

You disappeared,
you folded in on yourself,
you were more than skinny;
you were a magic act.

Now we see you-
now we don’t-

and that’s the story I’m sticking to.

And years passed,
and time ran by,
and seasons turned
and so you grew,
bulky
and strong
and proud in the torso,
capable in the arms,
different to the eyes
of those who paid no attention.

But to me you never changed.

Shoulders, still bowed,
like broken wings folding inwards;

Neck, still twisting,
escaping,

Face still shadowed,
still turned down to the ground

always turning away
always hiding your face
always twisting your frame

Never straight.
You were always skinny,
so easily bent,
so easily silenced,
so easily spent;
so strong yet so tired,
wired for work
but never for play.

Any day now
I expect you to turn
and disappear
between the cracks of the sunlight,
like a sheet of paper evades
real existence,
you will evade my persistence,
my insistence
that you could be more.

More than just skinny,
more than frail,
more than flimsy,
more than strong,
more than broken,
more than fixed;
more than lying.

You were always skinny,
always two steps behind;
but you were more than just skinny
in my mind.