The state of it all – A poem

we stumble home through
dully lamp lit streets at 1 am
hand in hand with wobbly feet
cool night air cleansing fuzzy heads,

sometimes we sit on the edge of
the world (or it feels like it),
the city glitters, it’s colourful
even in the darkness,

window glows and street lamps
are mere scintillas of light
trying to mirror the stars,
and if they look small, then what am I?

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Can the truth be a lie? – A poem

A candle tells of air that never smelled so sweet,
And perfume plants fragrant flowers on my skin,
But with candied scents, she’s a liar, liar.

Reflection flips perception, I’ll never know
What your eyes see, my distorted vision vignetted
By my trust in a piece of glass, inevitably a liar, liar.

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Cocooned – A poem

It’s a relieved-the-party’s-over empty
That will leave me pruned and ready
To return to my roots,
Where I will always go back to trying
To write beautifully about
Un-beautiful things.

I wrap myself in a cocoon of blankets
That pat my hair dry.
Here I go to sleep a caterpillar
And awake, a butterfly.

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Poison bottled for later – A poem

you think bottling emotions will save you
but it’s only collecting poison for later
that will rot and spoil in your neglect –
it will eventually force down your throat
or inject into your neck, your hands will fly to the wound
to try and muffle the agony, but it’s too late.

to ignore is not to dispose, even hauling the bottle
overboard into a heaving ocean is only
a compromise or a suspension,
delaying the consequence to a later date

don’t you realise to suppress is to stifle?

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The end of the world – A poem

When exactly does the world end?
When it shatters into fragments of glassy particles
sharp at the edges, asteroids now feeling like pebbles,
with the explosion of shrapnel piercing space? It still exists,
just in a different shape, so does the world only end
when it has become the lunch spiralling down the digestive tract
of a black hole?

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not every silence is silent – a poem

an utterance is the heart’s way of shouting
but it does not rupture the enigma of a liminal space,
I am not waiting on the brink of a question, I am only
listening to a smooth swell of musical crescendo

As murmurs become a gentle nudge to fall out of almost-asleep
and into a dream that fills the night silence, not
with noise, but an explosion of colours
and stories we would never think to tell,
infused with (only-imagined) sounds.

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