all is right
and nothing’s left,
it seems i’ve lost my
art.
no blood pounds in my
forehead, the seas within
are calm and i
have nothing left to say except
how lovely it is to really
smell the autumn air and
not be thinking of
how to write about it.
she’s at her ripest.
shedding rainbows from her limbs
before all turns white.
i was myself, once.
like i’ve been before;
a phoenix, fire of
autumn leaves regurgitates
me.
i find my voice in the songs
the river sings,
memory like the currents.
constantly moulting, but
keeping them in a scrapbook–
moments with blank spaces
in between
stitched together to make
a quilt.
i decompose.
sometimes i bloom with the azaleas
in the spring.
We are so eager to find home anywhere except within ourselves.
your name on my tongue
(the only fruit i will not eat)
is overripe,
no longer sweet– past it’s prime
and overdue–
my heart no longer aches for you.
hands grab hearts
only when they are ready
to be touched;
a middle ground where
nonsense forms beautiful truths.
i am speeding down
the road to
eternal madness, and
all i can see is poetry
on the horizon.
i never learned to
walk. i learned to
tiptoe
around eggshell grenades
on tile kitchen floors,
to dance gracefully
dodging projectile dinner
plates on
Sunday afternoons,
to twist and crawl from
torrid gazes, to leap
out of the trajectory of
missiles spat under one’s
breath, and amid the floods on the
kitchen tile, to land
unscathed.
My heart is anchored to you,
and when goodbye leaves
your lips, it takes my heart
with it.
i am not higher
in my silence;
i am present.
i am listening
to chatter that does not
matter, to emptiness
disguised as words.i am not lonely
in this darkness;
i am at peace.
still in my shell,
comfortable in nothingness,
as everything dissolves
into one
nothing.
where have i slipped
between these cracks
that god intended for us
to sink into?
where have i gone to?
a place between my body and the sky.
safe.
soft.i can still hear
them, though.
laughing right
outside my window.
and my stomach against
this mattress is pulling me back
before i am ready to go.i am never ready to go from here;
where poetry flows in the streams,
where a mind is at ease,
where raw hands find peace.
you won’t cry in the night anymore here,
i promise.
Silenticel 