Though the world may rage,
like gilded nightingales caught in a cage,
our souls can still sing softly.

The earth may crack with no footfall to faucet,
the fault doesn't always fall with the wind,
sometimes, the storm begins within.

This is why the search begins,
beneath the surface, where the silence knows our name,
where the echoes go to live.

I wake up every morning,
Filled with life,
Flowing with vigor,
Beaming with enthusiasm.

The day is here for me to create,
A total blank canvas for my own creation,
An open page of endless possibilities,
Just ready for me to make the first move.

I could...
Paint a self portrait,
Create a new dance step,
Model something out of clay,
Write love letters to myself,
Endless energy for creative play.

But first, let's get the basics out of the way.
Breakfast, cup of tea and the news,
Teeth, ****, then shower,
Some light housework and errands,
Decide what to cook for dinner.

I do a quick run to the supermarket,
Pick up some lunch on the way home,
Put on that load of washing,
Send that email I need to write,
And get my dinner prep done.

Exhausted by all this running around,
I need to recharge.
Brew a quick cuppa,
Put my feet up to rest,
Take a quick 10min power nap,
And then the day is mine to create.

...What was I going to do again?
Oh yes! Spontaneous day of creation,
Harness my relentless optimism for the day,
Surrender to the flow of magical possibilities,
Channel it into active, positive modes of creation.

But the time in my day is getting limited,
Enthusiasm is starting to wane,
And my momentum is being lost.
I start to think about all the mess it will create,
And the thought of cleaning it up.
  
....All my creative enthusiasm is gone.
Silenced by my default daily activities,
Routine and discipline are my trauma response,
Fear of being judged and labelled as lazy,
Pleasure and creativity gets lost along the way.

I get stuck in my need to present perfectly,
Making sure everything is in order before I can start my day,
Chores before play,
Hard work before reward,
Vegetables before dessert,
I am pre-programmed that enjoyment is a bargaining chip.

But that rule is a silly made up illusion,
A trauma response inherited from our parents.
Humans are naturally creative beings,
Creativity, joy and play are our default,
Our true catalyst for feeling alive.

Life in its beauty is all about creation,
It flows through our veins as magic,
Unable to be captured or stored,
It needs to be embraced in the moment,
Regardless if your bed has been made or not.

Creation is something I have to commit myself to,
A nourishing practice that fulfils my soul,
A rejuvenating outlet that brings me back to life,
A daily non-negotiable for my well being,
A purpose greater than working the 9 to 5.

Because if we aren't creating,
What is the point of life?
Eat, sleep, marry and pay taxes?
That isn't the life I expected for myself,
This won't be the life I create for myself.

i wanted horns, i wanted a tail,
i never wanted wings
because i grew roots first

ruffle my hair and maybe i will fall asleep
do not strangle me for calls i forgot to return
because i will always do that
i must
i'll write love poems when i wake
and like i once did before
remind you that your lap is clouds pillow
i mean i know
that you do not know
how to make me feel those slippery chaotic feelings i make you feel
but do not love me like i do, i might hate it, love me just how you do
don't shy though
do not hold back, grab me, ***** me
or lull me, whisper to me, stab me maybe
how is all and any of that hard
do you like me more when i am insufficient?
for i can light myself into silver flames to do better
but i am tired

so let me just sit for now
breathe,
but i am afraid to knowingly breathe
what if i suddenly don’t know
what if i only can knowingly breathe
and i forget to


i like the windows open but i like the curtains closed
i like the curtains lifting slightly in the wind
i like the little i see through them than when it's open
i'd rather watch the world out as the curtain lifts for a few seconds

The Straw You Harvested
Let’s make a doll
Just like everyone else in the village.

But you hid it—
The part eaten by insects,
Deep inside the doll.

I volunteered
To become a scarecrow.
To protect the precious rice.

Rain doesn’t bother me—
I’m bound tighter than the others.
Birds don’t scare me—
I feel no pain; I’m just a doll.

In the blazing summer,
The other rice stalks rejoiced.
Insects swarmed,
Birds came to feast.

Before I knew it,
My shape was no longer my own.

And then I found it—
The place you had hidden.
Tears fell—
From both relief and hatred.

A traveler from another village passed by.
“You’re not a scarecrow anymore,” they said.
“Look down at your feet.”

My gnawed branches had split into two.
“The pattern on your chest is beautiful,” they said.
“Now, try making your own legs.”

And they left behind
Everything you had hidden—
Laid gently at my feet.

She said to look away
From the body that made me

I burn the flower in my chest
before it can blossom. see:
I know what it’ll look like,
I know what I’ll be

like the roaming packs of
kids on the street
the ones that think
too much like me
their brains set aflame
the blossoms again killed
for the sake

of making them into what we think is ‘normal’?

I think, “I can't be like them.”
I won't. Not here, or there,
where the pyre is strongest,
our sins laid bare;

so when I see her in the mirror,
the flower’s how I breathe.
at once, reality fissures
for a glimpse of what I could be