it’s humid in the theatre
and we dance to a song about a circus
wearing character shoes on a slippery stage

between breaks we sit across from each other
she holds sylvia plath close to her heart
virginia woolf on her tongue

i feed her a peeled orange
while she looks out the window with languid eyes
where a bright blue sky waits for us

tomorrow we’ll have to come back again
but this time, a red picnic blanket
on green grass is when we’ll be alone

she’ll read me dickinson
while i feed her strawberries
and together, we’ll look up at the cloudless blue sky

2 Months before School year end,
And 2 days before our possible end,
The Pressure is high,
And the Hope is low,

How can one survive the one final blow?
Two last?
No Three last,
The Four Humps on the Road,

Either we jump towards the challenges of life,
Or fail to do so as anxiety runs with us,
And Hope is, flickering in the air,
But hopes only that flicker would be enough to light the road,
To see the hurdles quickly,
To guide ourselves,
For us to live our life fully in the future,
How can one survive the final blow?

A Childhood Memory
Early Training for Arborfield

I used to bicycle to school when I was young and on the go.
And in Winter time I mind it wasn't nice.
We kids, we'd ride our bikes through slush and often through the snow
On surfaces made treacherous by ice.

I'd put my bike together with parts filched from ******* pit.
Parts I'd garnered, here and there, to take back to my home.
I washed them first in kerosene, then soaked in oil each bit.
Once assembled, then the World was mine to roam.

Although it looked quite battered and it rattled every ride,
And the wheels, they wobbled and it had a squeak.
That bike was mine, all mine, and if you classify by pride
I'd reckon RollsRoyce wouldn't stand a chance, well, so's to speak.

But the brakes on that bike they never worked,
And its metal handle-bars were bare
And in Winter it was pretty scary stuff,
Because of brakes, and ice on roads, and never having gloves to wear.
.
And at school (with bike stowed in racks) I'd join the queue,
My runny nose and hurting ears; numbed hands and finger tips quite blue
With cold; shivering before the class room door.
Waiting for my turn at taps and running water, and for my hands to thaw.

Everyone says it gets better after middle school but
High school isn’t much better
In that stage of their lives
Everyone cares way too much about other people
What they’re wearing
What really happened on that school trip
Where she’s sitting at prom
Why they haven’t broken up yet

And college isn’t really better it’s different
We’re less concentrated
Physically and mentally
We’re filled on the inside so there’s no room
For other people’s lives
The difference in college is that we care less
And more
About different things

I don’t know if that makes us better or worse.

magnified
the power of love is magnified by those who receive it
yet some souls that I've talked to have been deprived of this love
each breath they take involves a wheeze
they cry and ponder life and wonder
if there is more than this empty feeling
the feeling of sinking and going under
holding their breath hoping for relief
wishing for the privilege that other people have
the privilege to exhale
without feeling every emotion spring up
without shaking and crying on the floor
without wishing for a way out
in life there are two kinds of people
those who can't exhale
and those who can