Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Happy Home

I imagine,

I was an adequate early birthday present,

to my mother.

Materialising,

entering the air,

with a solo scream,

I became a socialite.

Infant it girl,

the name on so many lips,

the day that I debuted,

inside so many arms,

I stared into so many faces,

amazed,

that they are so amazed.

As I grow,

I go from object of awe,

to disappointment,

and back again,

but I am always forgiven.

I am always fortunate,

birthday,

or not,

by the gifts that she gives me.

My mother is a map,

that I have unknowingly navigated,

for every day,

since my debut.

I see similar pictures,

growing stronger

in the glass of my bathroom mirror.

 

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.