Im convinced my chest hurts again
Heartbeat in the roof of my mouth, curled up in a ball in the center of my bed
On my ceiling are stars for me to count trying to ignore the tightening in my temples
Unclench, stop forcing your tounge against your palate
Breathe
The last word echoes through the silence
I repeat it 3 times
Breathe, breathe, breathe
I do it Until I imagined Ive pushed the panic out through my nose
This strange creature now sits on my pillow
Mocking me
He tells me that I forgot to turn on the sleeping music
Because this grief doesnt end, it touches everything, it leaves fingerprints on even the brightest of days
Smudging out the sun
my fleeting smiles are marked by its guilt, its gravity, behind every happiness I feel the ropes tightening again
Im like a marionette governed by the weight of it, seconds away from being pulled back inside myself
To the big empty in the center of my being ,where it begs me to sit ,dipping my toes into its cold blackness
July.
cold tightening
around fabric.
cotton clenched,
twisted like creekwater
seized by frost.
white cloth waits
for its undoing.
dye seeps
slowly—
like mist on the ranges,
like breath
through the fold.
indigo first,
deep as a billabong shadow.
then iron-rust,
red ochre,
the colour of dust
after the heat.
then wattle-yellow,
sudden sun
in the gathered valleys.
each knot holds a silence.
each seam marks a boundary.
colour works through it.
outside,
paddocks are stiff in the morning.
frost sketches brittle lines
across fencewire and spider web.
inside,
the cloth will not hold still.
it runs.
it fractures.
it remembers heat.
hands stain
like earth after rain,
like bark at dusk,
like something living
pressed briefly
into human shape.
unwind—
and the fabric is no longer fabric,
but aftermath:
rings like seasons misread,
threads like thaw beginning,
a map of stain and release,
winter stored in cloth.
July loosens.
not the land—
not yet—
but here,
in this small storm
of colour,
winter breaks
into circles of fire.
Eyes
Watching
A candle,
Gaze Surrendered,
Find the world
Ear listening,
Look back after looking
So you can
See my spirit
...and grasp tightening my eyes to shut
Eyes
Watching
A candle,
Gaze Surrendered,
Find the world
Ear listening,
Look back after looking
So you can
See my spirit
...and grasp tightening my eyes to shut
he is the eater of light
he will consume your soul
and
your mind
stalking inside you nightmares
he is the killer of dreams
crushing all hope and desire
weakening your will
and
your might
he is the fear running
through your veins
his rivers of darkness
flow strong
flow-with robust might
he sends shivers up your spine
tightening the knot
then call it shame
as you curl up and hide
inside anxieties shadows
his screams echo through your brain
a chorus of the insane
living inside your mind
he is the hands of idleness
the procrastinator of time
breathing ice
and exhaling the same
darkness his true delight
I am in the passenger seat.
He is driving.
One hand gripping my thigh,
the other,
the wheel.
The radio is off.
The silence settles between us.
I cannot speak-
for fear of his grip tightening.
The road curves.
I grip the handle,
silently wondering if he will curve with it.
He does.
As my breathing slows,
he laughs.
You don’t even know where we are,
do you?
You haven’t kept your eyes on the road,
though my eyes have been locked on the windshield since we left.
I do not answer,
for fear of his grip tightening.
I nod,
for I will never grow big enough,
to sit in the drivers seat.
War broke out, and all were called to fight.
Young and naïve he stood,
Fear tightening around his tender throat—
Yet patriotism spoke louder.
Thus marched the unknown soldier.
“Why must peace be born of war?”
He wondered,
His plea falling on deadened ears.
“March!” — that was the order.
And so he fought without understanding,
The unknown soldier.
He gave his blood, his sweat, his all,
Yet no one ever knew his name.
Fate turned its face away—
The enemy claimed him,
And they called him
The unknown soldier.
The old declare the war,
The young go forth and die.
And when peace finally dawns,
Those who bore its cost
Are remembered only as
The unknown soldiers.
She whispered truths she never meant,
each vow a crack in her intent;
the stories tangled, tightening fast,
till even she lost where they went.
Her mirror showed a face downcast,
a haunted look she couldn't mask;
the lies grew teeth she couldn't still,
and every breath became a task.
She felt the world tilt sharp and chill,
her careful web began to spill;
the threads she spun now pulled her down,
a prisoner to her own will.
Yet in the wreckage she had sown,
a fragile truth began to grow;
from shattered words she learned at last,
the cost of lies she used to own.
In the museum of my kitchen,
I excavate the strata of days,
coffee rings on the counter like tree rings,
each circle marking a morning survived.
The clock on the wall is a liar,
pretending its hands move forward
when really they spiral inward,
tightening like a fist around memory.
I find artifacts everywhere:
a receipt from three years ago,
a shopping list in handwriting
I recognize but can no longer claim as mine.
Time doesn't pass, it accumulates.
It settles like dust in corners,
builds up like plaque on teeth,
layers itself like sediment in stone.
Yesterday exists in geological time:
compressed, fossilized, permanent.
Tomorrow is still vapor, still forming
in the atmosphere above my head.
But today?
Today is the thin line
where excavation meets deposition,
where what I've been becomes
what I'm busy burying.
I am both archaeologist and artefact,
both the digger and the dug,
slowly revealing myself to myself
one careful brushstroke at a time.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
she remembers the hum~
a gold-threaded hymn
stitching the clover,
the way her sisters
wore sunlight like dresses,
their bodies tiny looms
woven with purpose.
Now, her wings whisper
against the silence,
a dialect of dust.
No queen to serve,
no hive to heat
with the labor of her legs.
Only the ghost
of a thousand blooms
tightening in her throat~
sweetness undelivered,
a contract broken
by the vanishing.
she circles the empty field
like a comma
searching for its sentence,
her shadow the last
word left.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
God, your love pulls me
not like rope,
but the ocean’s tide~
an undertow of grace drowning my resistance.
I am a kite~
you are the wind’s rough hands~
tightening the string, causing me to ascend.
I gasp, suddenly airborne,
carried swiftly into the air~
transformed and somehow lighter.
God, your love pulls me~
every doubt becomes,
a grain of sand washed clean
by your inexhaustible current.
every fear,
becomes a leaf shaken loose
in your mighty gale.
what am I, but a found thing?
your love is the compass needle
guiding me towards true north.
Pull me again, God~
I am yours to unravel.
Make me something
I do not recognize.
Onto hope is necessity
If waiting would not profit
Growth rate of yeasty bids
Boldly into anticipating yields
For anointed oil to fill pot to its brim
Hope hurts hasty head,
Healing heart's hindrance hurting...
Higher honor's host.
Onto chance is doubt
If shaky wait looses grip
Of expected time of being
Beyond what caution's seat
Can tame to ease such tension
Waiting weighs wit's will,
Wether with weight, work wows well,
Wad weary wall's war.
Onto anxiety is probability
If due luck isn't forthcoming
Gradually brighter to dying eyes
For long viewing afar its due arrival
Building capacity to hastily bear its cross
Anxiety ace acts,
Awaiting apt adjustments...
Alive abounding.
Onto peace is accord
If faith assumes rightly
Tightening Word's interval
Which drowning sea can't sink
Timing unfulfilled drift beforehand
Faith fights for future,
Featuring failure fearing...
Fulfilling fortunes.
Onto belief is assurance
If rest solely on its scope
Trying time's ton ultimately
Search endlessly not too early
Yet assessment bids via grace
Resting relieve risks,
Racing refined regret's reign...
Rapture reserved raw.
they smile,
but their eyes flinch—
like dogs who smell meat they can’t have.
you tell them the thing you did—
the job,
the book,
the quiet miracle you pulled
out of the grease and ash of your own life—
and they start
tightening the screws on their grin.
they don’t clap.
they calculate.
because your sunrise
casts a shadow
right across their throne.
they’ll find a way to turn it—
make your luck a crime,
your joy a brag,
your voice too loud.
they’ve got to stay on top
of a ladder no one else is climbing.
so you stop talking,
sip your beer,
and let them drown
in the silence
of your contentment.
good news doesn’t need an audience—
only air,
a heart still beating,
and a door
that closes quietly behind you.
Of a cause still not known,
if tomorrow my eyes have not shown,
you will hear this ballad at your table.
I have long since been tightening the cable,
wrapping it around my neck like a dog,
my hands raised to the heavens, begging god.
For I am but a slave to thought,
thinking of all the horror I've brought,
They claim its hallucination but I know what I see.
Inconvenience when they know where to be,
a stone in the flow of all's life,
a fool who could not fathom their strife.
To & Dear those who are reading,
my heart is in my throat, sweat beading
as I write what I know may be my last words
I apologise if it feels like Arthur had multiple swords.
My final draft in seconds, my mind apart,
I beg you to abandon my bleeding heart.
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