Updated: Jul 14, 2020

I need a jug, a bucket or cradle

To fill with something of liquid-inhale

If it leaks and floods onto the carpet

The plants on my balcony can’t be watered

I need a glass, a bottle or barrel

To fill with something of liquid-inhale

Strong, not sweet, without lime or soda

To keep at bay monsters at midnight-hours

I need a box, a carton or crate

To store away objects no longer useful

Like old envelopes and rusty old keys

And that black and white shirt that’ll never fit me

I need a capsule, a drug or a cure

To store away objects no longer useful

Like thoughts, memories and old recollections

That fight me from inside a mind so blameful

I need a dust-cloth, a sweeper or broom

To clean up the mud stains I dragged in the room

When picking you flowers yellow and pink

Before end of season they’ll no longer bloom

I need a sponge, some tissues, a swab

To clean up the blood-stains I dragged down the stairs

When realizing time has forced me to stop

Blaming and framing myself with a crop

I need to behave

To complete my chores

I need to behave

In this nightmare of heartsore

108 views0 comments

Updated: Mar 4

The dreams I often recall

are dreams of dying birds

A blue-bird striking at it’s prey

Wings delayed

a scraping slip-away

A dark brown crow on my balcony rail

purple flower in its beak

A tear in it’s gaze

Sometimes the swallow

begs for assistance

It isn’t able to obtain it’s existence

To abscond. To take flight

forced to believe

a tired, dire fate above the thorn trees

Sometimes the swallow just fades away

a likeable bird

disappearing. No trace

Sometimes I’m the bird. Flapping and falling.

Fighting to stay airborne But death my true calling

These dreams always come

soaring with soot

leaving my feathers like burned putty-root

Suddenly someone starts grabbing my claws

Dragging me down an unconscious state of gore

The dreams I remember

The dreams where I fly

Higher and higher soaring in black skies

Hopeful to escape my own dreary mind

But the birds in my dreams

They always die

I must have mentioned

These dreams I remember

The birds always die. They die. And they die

With bloody feathers

scattered and scorn

carried by wind. Away and forlorn

No bird could survive

my subconscious brain

The birds in the sky will die everyday

The birds in the cage try staying awake

Chirping and screeching

hoping to escape

Instead all they are

Witnesses to pain

Grief. Sadness. Living with ache

I am a bird

I‘ll die someday

Maybe sooner if I keep flying straight

31 views0 comments

It’s never limited to just one color

The fragments occupied with you.

We both ravish the shade of the sun

But we gorge at harlequin trees too.

Sometimes when we’re blessed

We’re allowed to borrow a little blue.

That day we were gifted with a little pink shimmer

To brighten up the strenuous journey.

Always colors, trees, and flowers.

Always you keeping me grounded in the pleasant lukewarm hue.

42 views0 comments