What if I wrote a poem,

that was painfully direct,

like a knife to the heart.

In which I felt deep despair,

with no beautiful words to coat it with.

Nothing to hide it.




The train across from me, can end it,

like another body my brother would find,

at the end of his shift.

Or floating in the ocean – the current,

would fail me. My body swollen like

a ballon. Floating to the jetty. Smashed,

bruised, against the rocks. Blue and fat.

Alone. 




Melodramatic general, hawk tauh girls

Making millions, while we search for

purpose. I sometimes don’t do anything

but watch the minutes turn into hours,

hours into days.




Words on paper that will never see

the light of day. Like a blank wall.

That has nothing for its guests.







July 8, 2025 3:45 pm

      

Back to Archive