#drabble
you are not dead yet.
still, i hope to mourn you someday—
a better version of you, at least.
i read somewhere,
"i alter you
every time
i remember you".
i hope to remember you well—
not much, not often.
sometimes i hope
i won't remember you at all.
the child in me grieves and stirs,
and tantrums at the thought.
there must be a part of you
worth remembering,
or maybe a whole lot of you
worth forgetting.
something to be salvaged.
you are not dead yet,
but i mourn you in life.
guilt boils in my stomach,
and you've fallen asleep on the couch.
i must remember
to turn off the stove.
i must remember
you are not the version of you
i feel guilty for.
i try to think of her,
but think of you.
i try to think of you,
but i get her.
and i stir the *** long enough
to remember to turn the stove off.
you are not the version of you
i feel guilty for.
you are not dead—
not yet.
Dec 25, 2025
Dec 25, 2025 at 10:44 PM UTC
entre juegos, me dice que se va para alaska. que la vaya a buscar allá.
entre juegos le digo, llegaría al fin del mundo para encontrarte...
me mira curiosa y me dice, "pero si el mundo es redondo, *** no tiene fin."
con esto quiero decir, si el mundo tuviese fin, llegaría hasta el por ti.
con esto quiero decir, haría lo imposible por estar ahí.
Dec 25, 2025
Dec 25, 2025 at 10:27 PM UTC
I write your name on my cigarette, light it up, and smoke it away.
I fill my lungs with nicotine,
I taste the burn in my throat,
as I try to erase every memory of you.
I want to forget your eyes, your lips, your scent,
erase every **** thing about you, and cleanse my mind.
I take one deep, long drag,
and smoke all thoughts of you away.
Mar 24, 2020
Mar 24, 2020 at 7:14 AM UTC
We are wild things.
Feral.
As unpredictable as any animal.
As deadly as a thunderstorm, a hurricane.
As destructive as a volcano.
We are used to blood and sacrifice.
And from the ashes we continue to rise.
Like a Phoenix.
Ready to burn those who defy.
For we may look like delicate flowers,
but we have thorns.
Aug 15, 2019
Aug 15, 2019 at 11:27 PM UTC
Cup your hands to catch sunbeams.
Feel light in your veins.
Glow gold like Icarus.
And melt away into stardust.
Aug 14, 2019
Aug 14, 2019 at 1:01 AM UTC
I remember the day we first met. In the doorway of that tiny boutique with the leadlight windows on the corner of Main and Wharf. You looked expensive, all laced-up leather and felted wool, commando meets catwalk. Your friend was in stitches about something, and it was when you turned to her and stuck out your pretty tongue - then, right then - that was the moment that I decided you were going to be mine.
I put aside my embarrassment and guilt. I ignored the whisperings of my empty wallet, and the thought of what my flatties would say in the morning. I picked you both up and took you home. Two for the price of one.
Ten years later, both of you are still around. Not quite as streamlined and sassy as you used to be. Your souls - my bad - soles are in need of repair, your white stitching has blackened, and your brass eyelets are looking a little worse for wear. But we’ve walked miles haven’t we? You, me, and your mirror image - BFFF - Best Feet Forward Forever.
Jul 5, 2019
Jul 5, 2019 at 10:40 PM UTC
It was going to be the trip of a lifetime. Sydney, Cairo, Constantinople, maybe even Jerusalem if there was time and breath left in us. We came from the far-flung reaches of the earth to the bustling capitals of the Middle East. Just me, my good mates - Blue, Grim and his cousin Frank - our chaperone Sergeant Major O’Donnell, and 1,500 other lads of the 1st Australian Light Horse Brigade.
Frank copped it at Gallipoli, never even set foot on the beach. I left him screaming on the metal deck of the landing craft awash with ***** and blood as he watched his innards unfurl. ****** oath, they stunk! Like ten-day-old snags left out in the Adelaide sun. His Mum always said she’d have his guts for garters if he enlisted underage. I reckon she’d never use that expression again. She was a nice lady too, that Mrs Gibson.
Tell me, fair dinkum, what do 18-year-old, daring-do dreamers from Parramatta know of the chain of high command, a war of geopolitical strategy and stiff upper lips. The bewhiskered gentlemen who manoeuvre their pieces in imperial map rooms will live to fight another day, and yet hold their fallen troops accountable for the unpredictable tides of history.
Grim took Frank’s death hard. From that day on his war was one explosive suicide mission. In the end, he walked into a spray of Turkish gunpowder at Chunuk Bair. The Distinguished Conduct Medal he earned that day sits on my mantelpiece beside a photo of the four of us at Giza. His sister Molly, my dear sweet Molly, turned out to be the love of my life. Funny how that happens - the threads that hold us together, the ties that bind brothers, the strangers who become our saviours.
The sergeant major succumbed to typhoid fever in Palestine and that left Blue and me. We sit and remember. We laugh at the horror during the day and shiver in our beds at night. We wage war with ourselves, our choices, our victories and defeats. We marvel at the world and the territorial ambition of nations, shake our heads at the repetition of dumb history, and raise our wavering fists to those same men in their ivory towers. It’s in all the newspapers that the Vietnam conflict is this generation’s Dardanelles Campaign. _‘A vain and protracted engagement fought in a topographically hostile arena with disproportionate loss of life’_ is what I read. Yet wonder of wonders, a Yank - Blue knows his name...but I forget...Neville Someone - walked on the moon last month. Do y’reckon we helped to make that happen? Four cobbers from New South Wales, who had a knack with horseflesh and a taste for kangaroo feathers, on an adventure which spanned more lifetimes than I could ever have imagined.
Jun 22, 2019
Jun 22, 2019 at 12:59 AM UTC
They wear their bodies inside-out, some are ashes but few are dust. Vacant orbits, oblivious to the incoming tide and the percussive artillery from the heavily fortified positions on Rue de la Mort, view the world with equanimity. Their bloodied stillness at odds with the surrounding tumult.
It’s at times like these - pinned down behind a burnt-out vehicle, the sand skipping around me with the phut-phut-phut of spent rounds - that I envy them their final freedom. Not that all deaths are as elegant and instantaneous as a well aimed bullet to the head.
It is a fleeting thought, hardly even that, a whispering somewhere in the background of my consciousness, like listening to a low-tuned wireless. And with victory as with defeat - with the ear-ringing silence - the whisperings become louder and more persistent.
Right, left; up, down; stop, wait; walk, run; sink, swim; live, die. Some pray to survive, other’s yearn for the sweetspot, the one shot **** Regardless, there is no doubt that we who remain will fight on for weeks, for years, for decades and continue to live the uncertainty of the living - sweating bullets until kingdom ****** come.
Jun 9, 2019
Jun 9, 2019 at 9:57 PM UTC
_The light is dim, but I'm accustomed to working in the dark. Besides, it's safer this way. My eyes are not what they used to be, but it has become second nature to me - the pull of the needle, the tension in the thread.
I stitched my first collar when I was six years' old, sitting on my grandmother's knee in the parlour of the old house at Innsbruck. ‘Isaac,’ she used to say, ‘you have your father's gift. Use it well.’
Ah, Papa, if you could see me now. Such expectations you had for my talent, but I assure you that the occasion for invisible seams and fine beadwork is over. Nowadays I work with a different fabric. A cloth perforated with ****** fire and riddled with shrapnel. The wounds - forgive me - resemble red Venetian silk embedded with black pearls; the bone like the baleen strictures of a dowager's corset. And the red dye runs. God help me, how it runs.
As I work, Papa, I imagine that you are standing in the shadows, your frayed sewing tape draped around your neck. I am praised for my quick hands and my ability to embroider life into abbreviated limbs. And I pray that you are not too disappointed in what I have become._
Jun 2, 2019
Jun 2, 2019 at 8:35 PM UTC
I took out my lighter to
burn another bridge today.
We keep buying things to stay alive-
She tells me I'm full of ****
but she's always been my favourite skeptic.
It's not that I feel empty, I'm just waiting for something
to hit me, I explained to the train tracks.
In the end, we're all just passing by.
I wonder if God
feels lonely.
May 17, 2019
May 17, 2019 at 11:00 PM UTC
Children only grow up
when adults
aren't watching.
Father dear-
*(I learnt how to ride a bike without your hands keeping me steady.
I’ll learn how to live without your name on my conscience when I’m given away at graduations, at award ceremonies, at marriage.)*
-it's far too late to
want me back now.
Oct 21, 2018
Oct 21, 2018 at 6:35 PM UTC
Words have always come to me,
As easy as the air I breathe,
And now they turn their heads and flee,
So I can't write my poetry.
Don't ask me to write pretty words,
They're gone as far as I'm concerned,
They've flown away like little birds,
And now there's nothing to be heard.
I've used up every single rhyme,
A new hobby would be sublime,
I'm sick of always keeping time,
Like breaking it would be a crime.
But even when I try to write,
It seems my flowing thoughts are tight,
The silence gives me quite a fright,
Like darkness in the dead of night.
It's time to say goodbye to day,
So it's good the words have gone away,
I didn't want them anyway.
It's good they didn't want to stay.
Those words have never done me good,
Or gave me solace like they should,
I wonder if they ever could.
Perhaps I have misunderstood.
But anyway the point is made.
I can't keep up with this facade.
The race is done, the game is played,
And now my poems have to fade.
So now my life is up to fate,
To leave you this is what I hate,
And one last poem would be great.
To say goodbye and then- oh wait...
Have I been rhyming all along?
Did I really write another song?
I thought my words had said "so long,"
Now they've come back to prove me wrong.
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 11:30 PM UTC
Empty my mind,
My perception of time
Is skewed and I’ve lost myself
Somewhere
But I can’t see it
or feel it anymore,
My life shifts so slowly,
Or is it quickly?
From under my feet and
As the stars and planets
Rotate, I feel alone
Small
Fragile
And unnerved,
Please tell me where I am
And who I am meant to be
In this cavernous hole in reality.
Aug 17, 2018
Aug 17, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
If I ever to do anything to excess,
I hope that it will be kindness
And not its antithesis.
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 7:21 PM UTC
i remember your hands around her throat
and how she mistook it for love
and how she thought it meant you’d never let her go
and i remember your words and how you chewed up any kind ones you possessed and spat them
as if they were dirt on the bedsheets as if to tell her she meant nothing
that she was as impure as any kind thing you had ever done
as if to say you meant none of it
but i heard your heart break
and i saw you try and bury it beneath your ***** words
but the cracks poked through and i am sorry
and i remember your feet and how much heavier they sounded leaving, and that sound became my heartbeat
and every time your feet hit the ground i felt them in my stomach, but i took the violence because if you weren’t going to stay at least the bruises would
and i am so sorry i can’t forget
and i am so sorry that sometimes i am still stood alone at train stations, or pressing my nose to frosted glass, waiting for your distorted figure
and i am sorry i am still bruised
i am sorry that i am sorry
i am sorry that i cannot forget
but i have forgiven you
i swear
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 5:58 PM UTC
Love is a lot of things:
A feeling.
A passion.
A choice.
A revolution.
A voice.
A creation.
A language.
An action.
A sacrifice.
An interaction.
A crime.
An abstraction.
A blessing.
An affirmation.
A life.
And, it's just one word.
Imagine what we could do with a thousand more.
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 4:34 PM UTC
Maybe there's no stopping it -
The anthem of the bored and lonely.
Muted melodies of drumming fingertips
And repetitive rhythms of eyes tracing
The same paths along cracked ceilings.
The same dregs in the *** for three days.
My phone battery's been dead for two.
We're all just looking for something.
And you can't find it in a ceiling.
But that doesn't stop us from looking.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 11:11 PM UTC
People don't bare their souls-
but books do.
And-just for a little while-
when I'm buried neck deep in their spines,
I don't feel so lonely anymore.
Jan 19, 2018
Jan 19, 2018 at 10:14 PM UTC
Nakaupo ako sa isang upuang nakalagay sa gitna. Pinilit kong imulat ang aking mga mata. Pero parang binibiyak sa sakit ang aking ulo.
Umiikot na rin ang paningin ko nang mga oras na iyon nang mapansin kong unti-unting lumalapit ang magkabilang dingding na gustong dumikit sa akin.
Isa...
Sinubukan kong tumayo.
Dalawa...
Hindi ko mailakad ang aking mga paa.
Tatlo...
Ilang dipa na lamang ang layo ng mga dingding sa akin.
Apat...
Hindi ako p'wedeng mamatay dito sa maliit at masikip na espasyong ito.
Lima...
Pinigilan ng dalawa kong kamay sa kaliwa at kanan ang dingding.
Anim...
Wala na akong lakas. Maging ang mga paa ko ay kusa na ring nanghina.
Pito...
Tanging mga braso ko na lamang ang pumipigil.
Walo...
Ramdam ko na ang unti-unting pagpisa ng mga buto ko sa katawan.
Siyam...
Nabali na ang mga buto ko. Tumilamsik na ang mga dugo sa aking katawan.
Sampu...
Tuluyan nang sumabog ang bungo ko. Mistulang kulay pulang pinturang dumikit ang mga utak ko sa dingding na iyon.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 2:46 PM UTC
Once upon a time,
I spiraled
Into madness and
Enjoyed
Myself so much
That I
Never bothered
To climb
Out.
Aug 12, 2017
Aug 12, 2017 at 5:08 AM UTC
You lit a match within me,
but now I'm burning from
the inside
out.
Aug 21, 2016
Aug 21, 2016 at 11:19 PM UTC
A disillusioned nightmare knocking at my door,
creeping slowly,
gaining on me,
skidding through the floor;
fragility is fractured,
hallucinations are a hoax,
and it's certain that clouds,
not blood clots, were meant to float,
so when the mirror curves,
like a dagger for the conscience,
every nerve frays like an abandoned fabric,
torn, shredded, limp and unseenly,
even night terrors are afraid of scathing reality.
Jun 25, 2016
Jun 25, 2016 at 2:26 AM UTC
Where would I be,
had I decided my fate earlier?
Changing timelines,
feeling sadder,
or maybe not at all;
would my life be nothing
like it is now,
gunking up my flow,
like a wounded baby's crawl?
Would I even be myself?
(Or was I ever really?)
Could I remember how to feel?
(Other than just dreary?)
Should I even bother caring?
(When it calls to me so clearly?)
Well,
they say fate determines all,
others claim free will,
but have they considered
compromising skills?
Because I know I caused my path,
and I made it pre-determined,
as without my desires,
my future isn't certain.
So to question what my past
may have had to offer
is to question my own
mind, self, and author.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 12:56 AM UTC
without any warning he burst into my life. delicate, detailed yet deranged. I was in awe and he was hung up on the idea that he could make me his. love never last as long as they say. He tore my heart out and smashed it into little pieces and im standing, shaking bloodily in my own pile of broken ***** The remaining sound of the distant beating is barely audible any more. he made me mindless and I grew stoic over the years. damaged, derailed yet dignified, with all the warning I could muster, I burst out of his life.
Dec 6, 2015
Dec 6, 2015 at 5:14 AM UTC
One day you will meet someone, whose eyes remind you of the river; deep, blue, and magical. He'll put his hand in yours and you won't know what to say. And the first time you kiss? That's all you'll think about it for the next week.
And one day he'll break your heart.
And you'll cry,
and cry,
and cry. You'll cry into your best friends arms and apologize for leaving her alone. You'll stay up late writing poetry and eating ice cream. You'll see him in the hallways and sigh.
But one day, you will be okay. I promise.
Feb 2, 2015
Feb 2, 2015 at 8:00 PM UTC