The world around me is beautiful yet
I find it also exists as a force to be feared.
A plethora of the unknown and uncertain
Trace my every movement.
Where are you headed?
I gasp and grip for the nearest answer.
I’m unsure and I’m ripped to shreds.

Life itself is a mystery, an enigma never to be solved.
Surrounded by questions and hypotheticals,
Am I supposed to organize it alphabetical -ly
Breathe. Calm down - I hear in my periphery.
So I take a moment to finally let
It wash over me, to forget
Everything I ever knew -and to focus on the present.
Or the future I suppose, any moment other than now.
To find a place where contentment abounds somehow.

Light cannot exist without darkness.
So I accept the situation all around.
And fall desperately into unconsciousness.
To rejoice in the reprieve of thought.

Hope, ‘the thing with feathers’
I’m not so sure about that.
Hope feels misleading, or leading only into disappointment.
I feel frustrated, emotionally drained perhaps?
Maybe I’m cynical. That’s probably it.
It’s definitely a promising possibility.
I think hope acts as an anvil that crushes everyone
Praying for it to hang in the sky for a tad longer.

Hope is disillusioning.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t indulge every once in a while.
Hope is enlightening, addictive, whatever you want to call it.
But it’s undeniably beautiful, it ties you to the future.
It gives you aspirations. So here’s a list of hopes.

I hope I get to dance in the rain without a care of drenching my clothes.
Nature surrounding me with her soaking embrace, and thunderous applause.
With tiny drops of water slowly grazing my face, and
Maybe then I’ll finally know what harmony feels like.

I hope I get to reinvent my whole life and everything I know.
I hope I can fall into those nights where I barely remember my name but your arms are there to guide me home.
I hope I learn to face the light, and that it mends the brokenness of my soul.
I wish for nights where I discover a new version of myself by exploring foreign cities with people I’ve never met.
Where adrenaline is coursing through my veins,
And excitement greets me at every corner.
I hope I lose myself to find someone new.
To find the extraordinary within the mundane.
To appreciate the little things.
I want to live with purpose, to leave with meaning.
I hope I get to grow, that I get to change.
I hope I travel the world before it’s gone.
And to experience all that I can, through perspectives of empathy.
I want to impact others, to change the world,
But I suppose that can’t be done without changing myself first.

I hope I experience the feeling of being in love again.
The blinding euphoria of falling completely for what’s just a construct.
I want to find a place where I can be myself, without pretenses, without explanation.
I want to forgive, to laugh until I can’t breathe, to be brutally honest,
To be torn down to nothing and to have to begin again.

I hope I find peace of mind.
Because I know I’ve been searching for quite some time.
I hope I learn to let go.
I hope I learn to appreciate hope rather than ostracize it.
To open the curtains and to let the light come streaming in.
I hope I realize that it’s okay to not always know.
I hope I live my life before I go.

Brian the cool vinnies bloke


you see brian allan was looking for something to do, to get him from being street trash

and a very nice lady named rowena said why don’t you work for vinnies, and brian said why not

and the next day, he was given an interview with helen, who was the boss at vinnies, and

she thought it would be great to have someone to do the bins and vacuum the floor before the start

and after 4 weeks of being there, brian thought he would like to be santa claus, and had to make uo

a proper reason for doing it, so brian said, i like the idea of giving the kids, who hate shopping with parents

a treat and helen thought she will make gingerbread men, to tickle the childs taste buds a lot,but helen was

in a bind, because i haven’t got a beard and she suggested i spray paint my real beard, but my parents were against that

because it would go against everything that santa stood for, but brian got angry with his parents and told them

that if they spray painted his beard, there will be no smart alek of a kid to pull his beard off, and as brian said that

his father yelled out, THAT’S ENOUGH, thinking i cared nothing about the kids of this city but that offended brian a lot

and made him hit his father, and this got brian really hyped up on being the best santa claus in canberra, and then

when brian explained to helen that it was causing a stir with the family to spray paint the beard, helen decided to

get a fake beard for me to use, and on the first day i played santa, i offered some of the adults gingerbread men

and they said, save them for the kids, and one little girl, who had the same resemblance to my eldest niece, said

i was a fake santa, and the santa at the mall was more real than i was, and some of the vinnies ladies brought their

own grandchildren in to get their gift from santa and i did my first year of santa, despite some smart a lek of a kid

attemptng to pull my beard off, but i was too smart for him, and after christmas was over packed my santa suit away for the first time

and then i met david who did the shoes, and i found him very good to talk too, you see i said when he dies he will be the

shoe shine man in heaven, but he sounded like he hated the idea, and he liked to joke around with stephen and mable and

i vacuumed the floor and then went outside to empty the clothing bin, and i did this all the time, ya know every day, and i had ken and brian

to help me, but brian thought it would be cool to bang on the clothing bin, while i was still in it and i told helen and she said

you should speak up for yourself, because i seem to let people walk all over me, and really i can’t be bullied by this so called brian

character, and then i started something new, you see i thought, it would be nice to to cook lunches 3 days a week at the new mental health

building, called the rainbow and i learnt how to do creative writing as well as meeting the messiah and a man named barry, who was a

really cool poet, sort of reminded me of my father, mainly because of his poem sounding like banjo patterson and henry lawson, and barry

was a lover of fitzroy, and supported the brisbane lions afl club, and i went to the club i do the bbq for, to watch the game with him and

he left before the end of the match and, i continued to go about my merry way, cooking meals at the rainbow and going on trips with the rainbow

having sing-a=longs and one man, warwick, swam 45 km at once and helen got a fire engine and i sat in it, and a star canberra raiders star

came to vinnies and signed a ball for me and my second year of santa claus went well also, i wrote fly burgers also that year, which was

funny and when i read it out, everyone was laughing along with it and they clapped it, and i read out the fact i missed scott macdonald also

and i went to queensland that year also, and when i got in my santa suit, i was visioning i will tell the kids i am an australian santa and instead of

living on the north pole, i lived right here in canberra but my parents who were strict on keeping kids imaginations flowing, hated me disillusioning

the kids minds, you see here is a poem about the aussie santa

ya see g’day mate i am the real santa

i don’t live at the north pole

i live in canberra australia, ya know the hot place, around christmas day

ya see ya know christmas is great as i do my gigs at vinnies

and as a treat i give out gingerbread men and lollies

you see christmas is fun for all ages dudes, yeah it’s fun oh yeah that’s right mate

i hope you don’t do ya santa gig way to ****** late


you see i thought i was given this gig, to bring the cool into santa

and one year i was doing my gig with an orange soda

who loves orange soda, i love orange soda

is it true, oh yeah it’s true ooh ooh ooh oh yeah

and in the following year, i was feeling fine, and my psychiatrist reduced my medication and that pushed me straight to the psych ward, where i thought

i died, and the psych ward was the gate to heaven and that ended the cool vinnies kid reign but i came back and i was more interested talking with david

and doing santa claus and that year i was checking tapes, but that only lasted 5 months, because there were getting more tapes coming in, i couldn’t keep it up

and santa was the thing, and because i was a good worker, suddenly everyone wanted me, but that was because of my manly charm, and helen left and glenn

came in and he had this little jingle, brian brian brian everything is fine, brian brian brian he’s a friend of mine brian brian brian makes the carpet shine?

you see his name is brian brian brian, and glenn sang that song to me every time i did the vacuuming at the shop and then after a few more santa gigs, glenn left and

paul s came in after vinnies had no boss, but i was still santa claus there and paul s was the official photographer for my santa claus gig, and that made me feel cool

and now, i am not santa anymore, but i really enjoyed the attention.

I stop in my tracks,
          Listening

  A hollow clinking in the darkness.
In an alleyway, somewhat familiar,
Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours
Except for the lingering cigarette smoke
And the scent of frigid, dehumanizing hate

  And a clink
Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark

  A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death

  A clink
And another clink

                           There is a man sitting near the end of the alley
                           At the back of the throat of Hell itself
                           He has his head down
                           But through the thick black smudge of night
                           I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth

He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort

                                    He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time
                                    Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void of apathy that looks back.
                                    He smiles a knowing smile, and slams the bottle against his teeth.
  


              It does much more than *clink.

no i can’t change you or her
God’s wrath is disillusioning you
from hearing yourself or me
or all death’s friends

you think you can fix her
a thousand times like each plate
she’s thrown at you and each fist
she’s swung at you

and i’m telling you God won’t remember
the woman that she used to be
and the counselors won’t help you or her
but you’re a fixer man

can’t fix your back from that one time
she hit it with your old baseball bat
but you’ll fix her one day, right?

I remember when I was a young girl, lying on my bed, with the oversized pink comforter, and reading.

Reading romance novels.

Novels that always began with a girl, to which I immediately identified myself, who was alone.

And out of nowhere, this mysterious, incredibly masculine, charming, and great looking man, would sweep into her life, and she would fall in love.

Most times she would not admit it, but rather, play hard to get, and misperceive some action of his in the wrong way and think him a pig, but still love him anyhow.

They ALWAYS ended , however, with everything working out and them both professing this larger than life love for each other, and THE END.

Ok so now I am all grown up... and life hasn't even slightly resembled any one of the novels I read.

And I guess after all this time it is easier not to believe....I mean after all...they were all fiction.

Where is the non-fiction romance section at the bookstore?...oh I know there isn't one.

Shame on all these authors for disillusioning me and so many other young girls.

And somewhere in my sick little mind...I am still searching for it...and think that quite possibly I may have found it...there is only one problem...my courage has been wore down after all these years and I fail to act.

Can I write a book about that?

I stop in my tracks,
Listening

A hollow clinking in the darkness
In an alleyway, somewhat familiar
Vacant and forgotten in the twilight hours
Except for the lingering cigarette smoke
And the scent of dehumanizing hate

And a clink
Low and somehow beneath the dense, dank dark

A sound disillusioning and honed to a fine point, like that of a blade meant to harvest death

A clink
And another clink

                                    There is a man sitting near the end of the alley
                                    At the back of the throat of Hell itself
                                    He has his head down
                                    But through the thick black smudge of night
                                    I can still see the base of a brown glass bottle tap the bottom of an upper row of teeth

He stops, and looks up at me with eyes that resemble mine a little too much for my comfort

                                    He brings the bottle down, and lowers his head, gazing at it as if for the first time
                                    Suddenly he snaps his eyes up to mine, instantly staring into the deep void that is my soul
                                    He smiles a knowing smile, and thrusts the bottle against his teeth one last time.


              It does much more than clink.

I
Am
Too
Lazy,
Crazy,
Scared,
Foreign,
Solitary,
Lethargic,
Despi­cable,
Disgraceful,
Hypocritical,
Lackadaisical,
Disillusioning,
­Incommunicative,
Incomprehensible,
Indistinguishable,
Compartment­alizing,
Moschellandsbergite
















19 years
Years to go: n/a
Change possible? Yes.                                                 Go.                                                                              Do.

my mind will finally be hollow when explosive entities of its existential warfare finally self destruct.
until then,
Recondite rifles are ruthlessly reloaded with unanswerable questions regarding the purpose of seemingly non purposeful things;
lack of resolve wrecks me.
Unanswered ammunition degrades cerebral cells, intercepting normal neural connections:
I cannot think properly in the midst of pellets of panic

until then,
Selfless soldiers employed by future uncertainty battle against selfish soldiers of MY physical being, employed by my diminishing desire for sanity.
They engage in trench warfare: digging desolate ditches, hammering holes, all of which eventually collapse and contribute to the constant compression of my cortex.
But Compliments and Hope fracture into particles of sand that are ****** into the openings in my pupils by amorphous wind which is structureless anyway
these particles are vacuumed down my optic nerves and pile into pillars of petrifying plant-based picket fences that try to guard against the existential warfare plaguing my mind
But more explosive entities enter through my ears and reproduce in my temples waiting to self destruct

until then,
Forces convolute: existential warfare compresses my cortex into inevitable flat nothingness, while pitiful pillars of disillusioning dust collapse because the wind that whisked them inside NEVER EXISTED ANYWAY
Eventually i will implode

Until then,
numbness gnaws at my heart to balance the bullets
waiting to implode
until then,
Existential Warfare bombards my brain with bullets of black metal

My world
is shrinking
I'm sinking

old age
doesn't covet desiring
time is punishing

dreams
are disillusioning
hopes are disappearing

love
is mocking
my life is fading

sunset
is descending
farewell I'm bidding

no more
thinking or doing
there's comfort in dying.

The world feels different in depression. The walls are suffocating, the corridors are cold, people are desolate and lonesome. Drowning. Everyone is drowning, but everyone is good at disillusioning themselves that things matter. And your mind is walking the tightrope between sanity and insanity.

Your mind is striking a match, lighting a flame of hope again and again and again and you’re tired of trying, tired of surging, tired of forging, tired of fighting. The flame goes out again and again, again, a meagre flame that could light up the path for nobody.

And you’re comforting, reassuring but you’re footsteps are faltering, you’re stumbling, yet you’re catching yourself and you’re tired. So very tired. So tired you just want to close your eyes and sleep.

I’ll just die for a while. Just a little while. Just to shut everything out.

The trying, the drowning, the black water. The suffocating.

Just a little while.
Please, I want to go.

And it’s real.
The place is real.

Everywhere is a dead end, and you’re tainting the world with trauma.
Every street, every room, every person, every thing you hold and touch, painted with pain and fear.

That is depression.

Feeling like you’ll never reach the end of the tunnel, but only because your vision is failing you and that pinprick of light evades your sight.

The fires had laid their rages.
Each with an unbinding twist of flame, foreboding the ethereal into what should never have been, and wasn’t. Illusionary ashes rained the ruins in the minds of those contemplated by the beasts, in casuals and armored black-and-white glamour.
Their scorching gazes, the results of what we have seen in the shattered ebony eyes almost surreal in existence. Treacherous zeal flickered the dying heat, frozen, still.
The fields are strewn with the remains of withered grass and broken glass, each soul wandering, fumbling along the edges, yearning for what it felt it once had had, but the satisfaction is not material. That evades the minds every trickle of sand, fluttering away in blue skies and bare branches, the leaves long within the hearts of the green alive at the edges of the graves of those higher up along the evolutionary line.
The wooden shacks line the border in a picturesque view, the peace and loneliness too grotesque for the weak at heart to grasp. A lone gathering of trees, a shade of green at a time everything else had whitened.
Buried near the construction sheets lie metal rods. They tell of tomorrow, of a day fed and a hand grazed at the toil, for what, though - for a triumph they feel when going after a price tag everyone else with little idea had slapped onto society.
The worth lies in the essence of life of every grain of sand, of every faded blade of grass, every dancing ray of sunlight. These light up the life that binds us in a earthenly trance of tremors.
Yet few have the time to sit back, think and realize, all of us driven in haste and a pitiful greed, the golden bucket never filling, why, no one had mended, or even noticed the hole.
I can feel it trickling away, — sanity, hues of burgundy where I’d painstakingly filled with canary yellow. The dark was creeping in, my path to retardation almost taunting. Too young, we all felt.
The ink splattered walls were engulfing, almost drowning me in its suffocating embrace of seemingly warmth induced facade. Of course, in plain sight, the mind feels it slights itself, the black tears sputtering the plagued coughs, again and again. A reminder, a remembrance. And my thoughts fathom how disregard is capable, natural, even. You wonder if you’re underwater or above air, neither makes not a difference to you, you grasp for their fingers wondering whether their sanity is real. All you know is the half-insanity is blinding, disillusioning. The evolution can never be revolutionary but, it feels, your conscious can’t make out the borders. Laced, maybe, but not drawn. That much was sure.
And we all felt we needed to wake up. Or so we thought, anyway.
Maybe it’s just me swirling in this inferno, and the rest of us are ghosts of memory.
It’s a powerful thing, perception.

05.01.2020

The fires had laid their rages.
Each with an unbinding twist of flame, foreboding the ethereal into what should never have been, and wasn’t. Illusionary ashes rained the ruins in the minds of those contemplated by the beasts, in casuals and armored black-and-white glamour.
Their scorching gazes, the results of what we have seen in the shattered ebony eyes almost surreal in existence. Treacherous zeal flickered the dying heat, frozen, still.
The fields are strewn with the remains of withered grass and broken glass, each soul wandering, fumbling along the edges, yearning for what it felt it once had had, but the satisfaction is not material. That evades the minds every trickle of sand, fluttering away in blue skies and bare branches, the leaves long within the hearts of the green alive at the edges of the graves of those higher up along the evolutionary line.
The wooden shacks line the border in a picturesque view, the peace and loneliness too grotesque for the weak at heart to grasp. A lone gathering of trees, a shade of green at a time everything else had whitened.
Buried near the construction sheets lie metal rods. They tell of tomorrow, of a day fed and a hand grazed at the toil, for what, though - for a triumph they feel when going after a price tag everyone else with little idea had slapped onto society.
The worth lies in the essence of life of every grain of sand, of every faded blade of grass, every dancing ray of sunlight. These light up the life that binds us in a earthenly trance of tremors.
Yet few have the time to sit back, think and realize, all of us driven in haste and a pitiful greed, the golden bucket never filling, why, no one had mended, or even noticed the hole.
I can feel it trickling away, — sanity, hues of burgundy where I’d painstakingly filled with canary yellow. The dark was creeping in, my path to retardation almost taunting. Too young, we all felt.
The ink splattered walls were engulfing, almost drowning me in its suffocating embrace of seemingly warmth induced facade. Of course, in plain sight, the mind feels it slights itself, the black tears sputtering the plagued coughs, again and again. A reminder, a remembrance. And my thoughts fathom how disregard is capable, natural, even. You wonder if you’re underwater or above air, neither makes not a difference to you, you grasp for their fingers wondering whether their sanity is real. All you know is the half-insanity is blinding, disillusioning. The evolution can never be revolutionary but, it feels, your conscious can’t make out the borders. Laced, maybe, but not drawn. That much was sure.
And we all felt we needed to wake up. Or so we thought, anyway.
Maybe it’s just me swirling in this inferno, and the rest of us are ghosts of memory.
It’s a powerful thing, perception.