this child was born in the wind,
free of freedom, ignorant.
bathed not in happiness, neither looking for it.
this child lives between the leaves and the skies,
silently awaiting nothing at all.
no stories to tell, no death to fear.
picture credit : tumblr
She’s throwing faeces at the wall. She’s lost her mind. You want to lock her away, give her to someone else.
She’s throwing faeces at you. She wants you to remember the same way as she does. Can you?
Hurt, humiliation, torture, agony, numbness & madness. Can you remember all this, Papa?
Can you imagine the pain you gave her?
Somewhere in her mind, you stand with her in a closed room. She screams as she hurls faeces in your direction.
Powerlessly, she tries to hurt you too.
image credit : tumblr
the first man to give me roses
never fell in love with me.
so i gave them back,
dry & faded.
You look like you’re going to leave me again.
You kiss fervently, deeply – you’re not here to stay.
You smile more, caress my arms, hold on to my waist, stare at me longer.
If you’ve come back to hurt me, look right at me,
do it quick, don’t give me time to look away.
Picture Credit – Boston Post, Massachusetts, October 7, 1920
This forest can bow and bend and shelter my nights
it can awaken in my dreams
not unlike the path of the Earth giving rise to the sun.
Art work – Winter (The Flood), 1660, Nicolas Poussin
tiny bird of despair
tiny plant of despair,
fetch your lives from beneath you,
uproot and eclipse your light.
they will have you
and they will have your goodness,
bloody beards and salty palms.
where you are meant to fly and grow,
they will have you where the sun is most cruel.
her grey hair lifts from where it spreads across the pillow,
she wakes in a sweat.
she believes in her dreams,
paying close attention to the man wielding the axe,
made of wisps, made of fear.
she moves to stand up.
surrendering to her will, surrendering his axe,
the man lies down on her mattress, engulfed in her scent,
dreaming of ashen tresses,
and of slender arms lifting a glistening axe.