I am from a Saturday afternoon living room overflowing with the sounds of Fleetwood Mac, John Lennon and Bob Dylan.
I am from home cooked meals, roaring laughter at the dinner table and short tempered Italians.
I am from Frank Sinatra singalongs, Lifetime movies and swimming lessons from my Mimi.
I am from my Pop’s war stories, tomato picking and ***** jokes.
I am from the grandparents that didn’t want my dad and the grandparents that did.
I am from the stoic grandmother that wasn’t involved in my mom’s life and the deadbeat grandad that didn’t seem to exist.
I am from the ten years of Catholic school, plaid skirts and polo shirts.
I am from spoon-fed customs of Catholicism every day except (coincidentally) Sunday mornings.
I am from rose scented mornings because of regretted whiskey words from the night before.
I am from words muttered impulsively, apologizes not offered graciously and too many family nights turned into family fights.
I am from cigarette infused hugs, plastered smiles and “I’ll quit tomorrow”.
I am from twenty-six years of handholding, couch cuddling and kitchen dancing.
I am from goodnight kisses, chocolate chip cookies in my lunch and red heart emoji’s in a text.
I am from love and anger and happiness and remorse.
I am from memories in the making and a future unknown.

i'm not writing, more or less simply knitting, a jumper -
which is more than just a mere poem.
the comfort allowance, listening to delta goodrem
      and i love pop,
                      more than a rugby
player aged ~20,
                       mind you,
sometimes labouring over one
selfie with 20 Chinese to match
makes you feel oh so good -
                   it took those 20 Chinese
the same effort - pretty white girl
and blonde syndrome,
                        eastern Europe gets a sniff
and simply says: well, that' ****, isn't it?
                      the days that came with
the motto: we need astronauts more than
tourists...
                     days like these i rather take selfies
of the sleeper than write something...
                and i do...
i fiddle on the roof
                                          and cartoon the rest...
                   because that matters.
                            pristine Australian and the gimmicks
worthy of South Korean singalongs....
                                          next in line
***** duped Jews...
                                     whenever the gentleman
lost hist top-hat and the confectioner glyph typo -
                       me and an audience?
as in a day job?
                                  i don't mind...
                        d'ah la la la...
                                              and the piano....
                these days are rare....
                                                having enough words
in-tune with all others...
                                                     of such days
i say: sometimes a picture revitalises the lost words....
               and when encouraged
                                         a slip-up of beckoning...
readied for an avalanche -
                                   to make writing into
knitting a jumper or a scarf...
                                           equivalent...
in a society that deems Japanese culture
                  inquiries
                                     as the righteous standards
to avoid the jobs of nursing and dentistry -
                        well...
                               ­         we're in sure need of robotics
to ease off stress that our societies have
themselves halving demand...
                   sure, she's still there,
crazy naked and starving a kaleidoscope hope
                    of reminiscence
                             concerning a fear of spiders:
that do not weave webbing...
                                        the size of your palm...
        those ones, scary...
                                          that context of x,
between agoraphobia minor
                                                (in an urban setting)            
                            and agoraphobia major
in an countryside setting -
                           phobia: or the intricate fear
when an antidote is due because of too much rationalism -
                           agoraphobia minor:
              fear of being in an open space with too many people...
agoraphobia major:
                               fear of being in an open space
anticipating a congregation that never comes...
                       i'm enthralled by these compounds:
kindred of: lithium salts - or other compounds.
                     sometimes just a day with a selfie...
or a poem like this: an exercise in utilising language
                                  to no grand scheme of making a profit:
rather an indentation, and nothing more.

Skimming and scanning
the grammar of the riverbank’s
brown leaf, new shoot syntax
a bold type wren,
like the old bouncing ball of singalongs,
led my eye to read the waterline
and yet I still couldn’t discern
if smiles or tears were written
while the branch tips still scribed

two floors below me
someone's turning seven

to the sounds of beanbag slaps,
updates on cousins,
spanish singalongs,
and a dog stealing cake.

i freeze myself in flyby squealing.

i cough into my elbow.
my coffee grows cold,
afraid that if i'm here too much
it may just float away.

Always busy, I keep busy. Don't need another mystery. Half broke in my pockets, will always make the best of what I have. Don't need love, don't need any help.  I'm better off by myself. I'm a work overtime, I'm a make this work worth my time. Checks half way gone but oh well, I'm ready to start a new journey as well. Two different worlds, plenty of singalongs girls.
Always got knives in my back and I've got trust hanging in the air. I'll always be ready to let this take me anywhere. Not going to search, I'm sit here and work. If someone is interested maybe give it a try. I've got nothing to hide.