I cry a lot for myself.
I think about myself as a toddler. With a blonde,
choppy bob, and a mouth as big as my face. Those
little rows of perfectly aligned teeth grew to be
wonky in the centre.
Those bright eyes that held so much happiness,
somehow flood towns and rivers now.
That picture of my sister, mother, father and I,
huddled around a pub table. My cheeks are flushed,
my small red top so bright next to the blue and yellow of their shirts.
They all smile while I just stared, afraid;
Knowing something about the future I could never quite
Today I saw a photo of myself as a child and begun to cry. I could not quite fathom how something so small and sweet grew up to be me.
Stiff bent fingers like roots of trees,
disfigured and bent to sunlight,
clasp gently to the pine box soon to
burn up and in the end,
your skin is still thin like slices of paper,
your thick, wormy veins travel through
soil like flesh, sunspots like kisses
or lovers names or history span the range
from fingertip to toe,
gold rings like auburn leaves and diamonds
like raindrops on winter days, nails like
petals and knots like knuckles,
roses like knocks on wood,
and kisses like knowing what you do now,
doveri farla finita
così possiamo essere completi.
inspiration from a photo.
sit and think. very still in that chair.
your feeble hands can almost touch the
memory- if you tried.
that freckled hand. the white bed sheets.
you can almost see her awake in your head.
well after all she is still there.
that drop of blood. her white lips.
in the night it's harder. you can see her
in your room- just for a minute.
wrapped in those bed sheets. hospital room.
you can still smell the flowers she held.
those pink lilies. her small hands clutched.
stiff and unloving.
that rigor mortis. those closed eyes.
you can smell her perfume.
it wafts towards you in your dreams.
that vanilla scent. that hint of dirt.
you can almost touch her- if you tried.
sitting still on that chair. thinking hard.
in love she never dies. not even a little bit.
not even at all.
her music still lingers if you listen carefully.
black glassy eyes staring back at mine.
double reflections. doppelganger.
a hawk with spread wings,
attacking a nest. Its claws arched
aimed at a chick.
Stuffed and basted like it's Christmas without the carols,
it is still.
unmoving in the glass.
the chick, too, is frozen in time. or fear.
or stitches or reflections.
crown of feathers stuffed in my pillow,
I think of the hawk at night.
those talons and that eye.
that little eye
staring back at mine as if to say;
museum trips make me sad.
Our love is like an echo at the end of a hollowed-out tree trunk;
Catch me if you can or not at all.
However much you told me
that this was home,
the feeling of being grafted
leaves an impression
on the skin.
The story could never find a final sentence,
The poems are half-written
The words are never given.
I wonder if you understand how
Odd it is to stay up,
writing about people who actually live their lives
Whilst we are still avoiding ours.
Our love is like a car that has veered off the winding road,
and crashed, headfirst into a
It refuses to let us leave
because it fills us with warm water,
and hope of salvation,
with smiles and girls nights in,
with beers and old
fond memories of us in class,
And I wonder if the river ever thinks
About the relic’s it hides below it?
The people drowning.
The buried treasure and pure gold
Waiting to be drained and used
Like a doll to a child to a check to a businessman.
Our love is like a bottle of wine left unopened.
The sweet turns to sour-
The bubbles turn flat,
The cork is soggy and the red is a mess.
Sometimes I wonder if you even see this
How the pillows droop
And the flowers are dead
And the candles have melted
On the wooden tabletop in dread?
Tears stain the skirting boards like
blood splatter on the floor.
I just don't think I can do
My memory fails me.
My head cannot contain these
People tend to look more and more
the same every single day.
Sometimes I don't even recognise myself in
My face sags down at the cheeks.
My lips no longer full or pink.
My eyes grey.
No more green.
My world is in this room.
The odd ornament brings
me back- I think.
These brown carpets.
These blue dressed nurses.
These white sheets.
This room is no longer my home.
This world is too confusing.
My family don't visit anymore.
Even if they did I wouldn't remember
what they looked like.
What they smelt like.
The way it felt to hold them.
My hands can't touch as well
They shake and spill.
I don't know what's happening to me.
My mind doesn't work anymore.
Once I was lost I turned up here with
a suitcase I didn't pack and
a promise of weekly visits.
They forgot one week.
They forget the next.
They forget the next.
And they forget the next.
I can't remember what it was
like to feel loved anymore.
I can't curl up in bed.
I'm too stiff.
I'm simply too old.
Please visit the elderly. Sometimes being alone is the hardest fight.
i sit and I ache
waiting for something to happen.
for anything to happen.
sometimes I wake up and the
room is spinning
and there's something in the
i just want to experience