Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Nothing Is True

My mother’s womb is the ocean.

I cover my dreams,

and suspicions in foundation.

I have been darker than a doomed room,

broken home that sometimes glistens.

When I listen to silence,

I am breathing in bright rhythms,

paying visits to pacific parts of my heart,

untouched by ugly aspects.

Nothing is true,

when everything is in pencil,

erasable,

escapable.

I tell my future,

I’d like to make a go of it,

taking cough medicine,

on a high speed train,

with a clear throat.

I don’t know the location.

The confusion is exquisite.

Never knowing where I’m going,

is a special sort of hell,

where I don’t realise that I’m dead,

until my bones are bare,

baring the truth.

photo of man riding a surf board

My mother’s womb is the ocean.

I washed up,

with bottles and corpses.

I am on a journey,

to a place,

that I’m not sure will be there,

when I arrive.

One thought on “Nothing Is True

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