we are waking up every day
with so many things on our plate.
Even if the whole day feels empty,
our minds are heavy like lead.

We are leaving early to live our life
but we are always arriving late.
We are ******* the air in
but we our lungs aren't breathing.

We are searching everywhere, we are trying all the time,
but we don't know what we are wishing to find.
We are living every day
but no one is feeling alive.

We are fantasising every night
But we aren't sleeping.
We are wanting more everyday
But we are gaining nothing.
We are talking about living life
But we are burdened by everything that's  coming

I sit at my desk
The window’s open,
Or it's shut. I don't remember
But I feel cold
My hands wrapped around a pole at a skating rink,
trying to keep myself from slipping
On the cool, smooth surface.

I am walking on the freshly fallen snow,
I am thinking

I stare out the window,
Partially obscured by dark curtains.
They are caught on my plants;
Never fully closed,
Never open wide.
This is what makes me think
The inbetweeness that is what makes

nothing good or bad,
But I used to think there was.
I twisted the sheets of my perception until
The bed was unmakable and I gave up the fight
I sunk into the mattress
And closed my eyes

But this monotony is getting old;
A cut spoiling behind a worn bandaid.
I hated myself for caring
But I now I don’t.
That’s the point. I don’t care about anything anymore
I am trying to hold on to the things that once mattered
But the merry-go round is only going faster
Soon enough I’ll have to get off.

I am looking out the window
Because I can’t focus on anything anymore
I let my eyes glaze over
Because it's easy
Painless.
They don’t focus on anything.
Everything is white, white, white

No need for shallow chest breath
I am safe
I can breathe through my belly
Deep, becoming regular
Soothing, smoothing, slowing

No need for organised thought
I am shielded
I can relax into this place
Calm, becoming gentle
Softening, swaying, sliding

No need for clock watching
Dali time only
I can exist, chrono-sheltered
Now, becoming ageless  
Melting, muting, morphing
Here…

A door with round window
Mellowing to Renoir-lens
Glossy, smudgy, charm
Hobbit-style architecture
Familiar, shire-y, amiable
Lit warm and soft

A brown carpet bag
Caressing the rich pile
Sturdy, salvaged, true
Tardis-like inner structure
Dependable holder, infinite
For weights and woe

Smooth, even, stone stairs
Descending in timeworn strength
Secure, bendless, cool
Delivering, guiding journey-way
To ease and mend

I tender-lift my bag
Zip open for a prize
On every step

Each stair a healing game
The bag a hungry friend
To hold my heavy goods
And bare them strong for me
As I descend

Step one is for fear
Two for screaming
Three for ache
    with blurred-out meaning
Four for panic
Five dark-dread
    that slither-twists through sleep in bed
If guilt is six
Then shame is seven
    long blame-soaked school without a lesson
Eight for pleading
Nine for weeping
Ten for wounds, and burns, and bleeding

The bag now zipped, trapped weights and woe,
is set down gently, as I go
All grateful heart, and kindess-eyed
Door opens as
I walk outside

cold, blue skies
crisp air
and sun in my eyes
breathing deeply amongst the crowd
I feel like an installation
in a hotel lobby
or a decorative vase
with dry arrangements

empty yet amused eyes
peer beyond me
while I’m duct-taped to this pedestal
nailed into a wall
the frame of a painting
sitting in a display case.

the answering machine let out a beep
with a message soon following
just words stringing together sentences
phonetics, tongues branching the space
between syllables
not a voice, a sound decorated with an accent
created by a language that has taken
all of history to form

and i slept through it all

you can hear the transmission towers
around my house
buzz if you walk underneath them
electricity with somewhere to be
shoving breakfast in its mouth
and rushing out the door
to my neighbors and their 32 inch
flatscreen TV

and i slept through it all

the DVD player will keep replaying
the film if you don't unplug it
one continual loop all night long
scene after scene, cinematic sequences
following quickly in succession
without a hitch, without fault
one actor triggering the other
one domino falling upon another

crashing and burning

spiraled far into the nighttime
i woke up
to unfamiliar noises and unseen voices
people made of black and white splotches
projected from a box aflame with static
and i decided right then
a starring role in the world wasn't for me
falling back into sleep

the movie continued on forever
and i slept through it all

who would've thought that I'd make it to 22
that my fire never extinguished after all those years of rain
my seven-year-old self would be glad to see she was preserved

who would've thought that the one I dreamed about for six years
now sleeps in my bed at night, and calls me his wife
my 11-year-old-self would never believe it

who would've thought that, somewhere along the line,
I made friends who care for me and I them
my 13-year-old self would be relieved

who would've thought that my heart became soft again
and I learned to let myself cry, and feel
my 15-year-old self might just smile

who would've thought that I made it out of my hometown,
traveled the world on my own, and decided to come back
my 18-year-old self would be astounded

who would've thought that I became a teacher
and I don't fear my calling anymore
my 19-year-old self would laugh in disbelief

who would've thought that, despite all the years of isolation,
dissociation, fear, and heartache, I emerged still me

who would've thought?

not me