Sunday, 28 December 2014

The Sea (poem)

At the edge of the sea was everything seems so still.
Pull your fingers away from the water,
You'll disrupt the calm.
It looks so calm.


I wonder what's underneath
Are there several thousand kinds of creatures
Who'd rush to kill,
Or run away to hide?
Will I find an oyster,
Or a ragged old ruin of a ship?
How old are your scars?
I want to dive and drink in these waters
Submerged like a yellow submarine,
Swallow all the pretty shells and the swordfish
And all the things that sit still at the bottom.
I will swallow it all.
And wait till it floods me ,
And then leaves me thirsty.
And wait till it floods me ,
And then leaves me dry.
Why wouldn't you leave me dry?


I see a bizarre water monster
That will take my soul.
It's so far away,
Hovering just below the watery surface.
Preparing.
Steadying its move
To attack,
To drag me with it underneath.
Please take me underneath .
And then, and only then, tear me apart.
Because some things are indeed inevitable,
And even though my lungs will fill with water and no one would hear me,
And all there would be to hear would be your silence,
Your unresponsiveness.
And my silent screams, battling.
And then my body floating of its own accord.
But I'll know that you know that I found out.
I found out about you.

Tuesday, 2 December 2014

First September. (poem)

And it's raining outside.
7:20 am and I've been awake the night before.
I'm locked in my room;
Curtains drawn.
I hear the thunder,
The sound of rain falling on the grass, the asphalt, the roof above me.
I could dissolve in it right now.
The rain murmurs now,
It tells me I don't belong here.
I never did.
The state of my room like the shadowy crime scene,
Little light through the curtains makes it appear haunted.
Everything bathed in a mixture of shadow and slight light.
Breathing becomes conscious as I inhale the air that still reeks of him.
No, my dear, he still hasn't left.
Will he ever?

A bird sings.
I am much too disconnected with nature to know which bird it is.
It sounds indifferent.
It sounds oblivious to the world's unhappiness and contentment.
Oh, the thunder returns! It doesn't hush them.
The birds sound indifferent still.
Don't tell me, little bird, that I project myself onto you.
I do not.
I have my own worries.

The thunder sounds like the passion that is almost forgotten,
The passion that flowed through me so easily.
So easily.
Oh! But it burned me good.
I am much too afraid to touch it now.
It's only a fire that looks virtuous from afar.
It is not my territory anymore.
I do not belong there.
I do not belong there.
But I also do not belong here.
I never did.