that incur international shipping rates
while buying skirts
and three dollar shirts
from op shops down the street.
For all the times you’ve held my hand
I know, you have a strong grip, your spirit
never ceases to brighten, or radiate
warmth from your fingers, to mine
Of secrets, I have one worth hiding
One mark on pale skin
I can trace it from my forearm
lacing the edges of my mouth
the corners of my lips
Their words make small incisions,
cruelty sleeps between my bones
I trace invisible scars to feel
the rise the fall
I’m taking a brief departure from my usual slosh of poetry, prose and odd diary-like entries to write more plainly and probably less effectively about feelings. Specifically, the process of having them and then turning them into art. Or at least trying to.
Also, just a disclaimer, I’m using the term ‘art’ to describe all ‘creative practice’, not in any way to imply quality or merit to what I do here, just as an encompassing term for making stuff and honing in on creativity. So let’s get down to it. Continue reading Emotions are very difficult and my thoughts on this are not so profound
i cannot pen my thoughts
if the silence echoes words
to vulgar for this century.
i dress today in blue
in alone in mind in space
i cannot be but half of me
if the truth will not will out.
nights spent in sadness, cocooned in blankets, hands clasped, close to your chest with shallow breaths, clinging to the edge of your rib cage, clawing at your throat
in and out, in and out again, your dry and evaporated breath, air to lungs, fingers shaking, lips trembling
skinny light edges through your windows and birds wake up before you do and you, you let your feet swing to the edge, maybe slowly at first, your heavy still, but not anchored
toes slip from the bed to the floor, sinking into carpet, into socks, into slippers, maybe boots, your move next, and you move