A boy taken from his Mother too soon becomes a wounded heart.


A boy left too long in his Mother's embrace becomes a wounded man.
c 2d
night to sun
whichever one
i am constantly smiling
a barrier around
to remind the strangers i too
am alright

growth underground
i've found out
it is neither journey nor destination
as i am stuck dancing
in the same rain
as once and each time before

i see the sun but feel no heat
the time slicks by slow as a drain drip
pattering me into childhood--
what're two grown hands worth without
an axe
or intent to wave

sleet underfoot
the earth has made enemy of me
and everyone else

where do we float from bone to dust?

do we conserve love once given
or does it go to soil
as well?
There's some joy in getting old.

Broken bones and snapping hips.

Wrinkled skin and falling hair.

Wasted days that aren't spent wasted;

Coughing lungs and swollen hands.

I've seen the seas of sorrow high.

I've loved and been loved by.

I saw a war and guilt and pain.

I've bled and cried and mourned again and again.

Now I have more years behind me than ahead.

I'll continue on living, but I'll still end-up dead.

There is little joy in getting old:

But it's still there,

and I'm still here.
Ash Mar 5
The sand crunched beneath our feet
as we walked, arms linked
Our smiles and laughter shining brighter than your wedding ring
I was too caught up with my life,
I didn’t even know
until you said
“Let’s catch-up over coffee” a few weeks ago
We spoke of the memories,
for they’re the only thing that can never leave
Apologies were accepted. Misunderstandings were cleared.
Mistakes were forgiven as nostalgia returned.
We made lots of promises as little kids
but now we barely have time for anything
We used to long for adulthood
but now we’re wishing for the simplicity of childhood
Hugs were exchanged as the night came to an end
and goodbyes were said once again
“Parting is such a sweet sorrow that i shall say goodbye till it be morrow”
But I know it will take more than one tomorrow
before we meet again once more.
Chloe Mar 2
songs for the plastic,
not so fantastic.

kardashian culture,
girl is like a vulture.

that beige colour food,
difficult to swallow and chew.

songs for the blind,
men obsessed with a woman's behind.

immune to love songs like an antibitoic,
can someone please change the topic.
I'm grinding
and the dirt
I'm grinding
and the dirt
I'm grinding
and the dirt

And I don't


please help me,

"The clawed hand is not for shaking,
although it has amazing grip."

"Eat a pork shoulder
dusted in granite powder...
dash of cumen, a salty pinch
you'll get over it."


    ­                                              "He is a porky one isn't she?" -ᴱʳᶦˢ

Betty, uh, Ms. Page,
didn't it bother you?

"Bother me?"

Well you know,
being a person of God,
-doing those things for money?

"Silly, I do what I do
BECAUSE I AM a believer!"
-ᴮᵉᵗᵗʸ ᴾᵃᵍᵉ
daytime rhythms
of coming and


out the door
in the car
to the place


twiddled thumbs
swivelled chairs
barked-up trees
and morning teas
and banter

on knees
and eyes to

and this meeting
and that duty
tick tock

a-flow through
time and space
and light
as the
sun turns over
in its sky
and rests its
head down on
the other side

out the door
in the car
to the place

for something quick
to have for dinner



© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
The march of nine-to-five sets the rhythm of the day, both soothing and begrudging. It causes flare-ups of activity at certain times and lulls at others.

Collective shufflings here and there make people cranky but keep them on track. And the sequence of sounds—predictable, as if orchestrated—makes music of the mundane.
All this filth, all this murk
it's all coming from me - no one else to blame,
I believed in the woods once, could see the light
through the trees, but now it is all murk in the mottled forest;

The act is an act, the mask to hide
from the world, my hollow shell, a cocoon;
this convenient hideaway, measured tone, repressed
thought, whirlwinds of desire.

So you just run onward through the bones in the yard,
saying hi to the pristine porceline girls of porno
on the way, spinning and grinning
with jawed grimace, their faces sown
in poetic indifference,
and you want to remember

That, once you were something

till you were about ten years old -
sighing, carry on, knowing that your scars
are your best friends, mutter with them,
freeze the pain, don't drown it out, Believe,
because the greatest lie is that  man is pure,
and life is not that long that you can ignore those smiles
that are ok with that, and laugh about it along with you, in words , stories, and poetry.
Will Feb 26
Remember those wooden games you would play with as a child?
Where there was a board with differently shaped slots.
You would have to fit the matching shaped blocks into them.
Circles, Squares, Triangles, and Stars.
Adulthood is like that game.
Some days we do not get any of the shapes correct.
Then there are days when get a few.
On the rarest of days you get all of the blocks in their perfect place.
The hard days make the special days so much better.
Even the two out of three block days are something to celebrate.
So keep practicing, you can get them all right.
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