Words are worth a thousand pictures.

Thursday, March 31, 2011

In the Middle of a Crowded Room

Surrounded by space,
yet there’s no room to breathe.
Surrounded by people,
and there’s nobody to talk to.

All my false friends hold me
so close
and I’ve never felt so alone.

They smile, and pretend
we are so connected.

We aren’t, of course.

It’s all a sham,
all a lie,
nothing’s real after all.

There’s a loop,
but I’m not in it.
I never was, and
somehow, I don’t think
I ever will be.

Once upon a daydream,
I was surrounded by people
who knew me,
and who I knew
just by looking at them.

But it was only a daydream,
only a memory.

Gone, before
I could suck the sweet
nectar from its

Friday, March 25, 2011

Liar, Liar

Who do you think you're fooling?

The lies that perhaps 
seemed flawless
are now decaying,
exposing gaping holes,
like yesterday's 
moldy fruit.

You're diseased,
infected with falsehoods,
until you are 
nothing more than
a precarious tower
of lies, upon which
you base your existence.

We can see through you,
to your parts.

Once, you may 
have been able to 
charm your way through life.

But now

it's only a matter of 
time before your
world crashes and burns
and we step over 
the pieces.

Black Holes

It doesn't come from other things. It comes from you. It's a swirling vortex of grey sickness that is all-consuming. 

If you went into a black hole, people say your body would be wrenched limb from limb--disintegrate in the vacuum... They're wrong. I know where black holes lead. The swirling black void leads straight into a soul that knows darkness. So people that fall into black holes lose themselves, and become part of the soul they decide to torture, pulling it in a thousand different directions so that the person becomes a tentative holding place for the turmoil within--a fragile breeding ground for sorrow, and your worst nightmares. 

Try, and try, and fail to swallow everything, push it aside, cry out every voice so that the black hole will disappear, and you will be able to hear yourself think again. People who fall into black holes aren't people any longer. They come out at the other end, in some unhappy soul, and begin to swirl and dance, a tenuous, melancholy promenade around and around just under the heart and above the stomach, pulling everything into somewhere that it isn't supposed to be, melting their carrier into a twisted mess, that no longer resembles the vibrant whole that once existed there. 

After The Turn of The Seasons

It's hard to live here. Nothing else does. Everything is white, or grey. Except the lake. The lake is obsidian glass, as dark and murky as it is unforgiving. But the worst part is the stillness. Nothing moves. The trees don't settle. The snow seems to hang in the air, suspended on a breath from long ago. There are no bird to sing, no animals to jump, no life. Just a vast expanse of endless stillness and emptiness. Not waiting for anything, simply austere and unwelcoming. It doesn't want anything or anybody to disturb it. It's a picture from a book. Just a painting. A hundred thousand paintings of the same scene revolving slowly, letting the stillness hang, and cling to our bones. 

Until the footprints. The first footprints break the crispy surface, and suddenly it is a wonderland. The snow frosts the trees, a thousand bright diamonds glittering when the sun breaks through to cast our shadows on the icy terrain. Suddenly, it is our friend. It lives and breathes for us and because of us. It lends us weapons when we need them, holds us close to it, like a friend, a warm blanket, welcome after a long day. An old friend. Perhaps forgotten, but never fully left behind.

At The Turn of The Seasons

Fall hangs in the frosty air.
The leaves have fallen,
the world waits for a breaking point.

The grey dancers loom overhead,
foretelling what is to come.

Fall hangs on the trees like
on hair like water,
on our bones. 

It stands silent, poised and 

Waiting for something to 
shatter the calculated surface.


A rose,
a whisper in the folds of time
so fragile in its
instantaneous existence

a picture of perfection.
No flaws mar the the crimson petals.
But the wind blows
            dead leaves in circles.
The once-brilliant petals
shrivel up 
and turn grey
and die.

The cold wind rattles trees
and bones
and death comes,
leaving the rose wilted.

Fragile beauty does not last.

It fades 
and disappears
and shh

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Separation Song

It starts small, slowly.
the imperceptible fissure that will
destroy everything.
It spider webs out from
its tiny origin,
slowly turning into a mosaic.

When the light hits it,
it splits into a thousand rainbows,
glowing through the gap.

One day,
something will be too much for it,
and it will crumble, 
from the weakest point,
and without warning.

The gap will be filled
with the distance between
the pieces.
The distance that was never there?
Except, perhaps, it was
always there and we were
unwilling to see it.

Saturday, March 12, 2011


My body is not your toy.

I am not your playground,
you do not get to
delve in too deep
with sweet words and
a charming smile,
and then strand me
in the cold
alone and shaken
to curl up into
the fetal position
and try to hold
myself together.

My body, feelings, heart
cannot be something
you use and destroy
at random.

I am not a doll
to be played with,
enjoyed, and
carelessly discarded.

I feel violated.
You know too much
and I feel sick.
There is bile in
my tear ducts
and tears in
my abdomen.

I'm holding myself together.

You don't get to know
these things about me.

I won't let you.

I won't ever let you
in that far again.


Poetry does not exist
in nature.
It does not spontaneously
occur amidst
the grasses
caught on the wings
of a gentle summer

Life does not flow,
not like poems.

Life james together,
falling as easily 
into place as
deformed puzzle pieces,
clashing, and banging,
and awkwardly clinging
to the fabric of its
own existence.

That is not poetry.

That is slamming 
a hammer down on 
an ancient piano and listening
to the crashing chord
mingle with the splintering wood.

And that is not what I
consider to be poetry.

Le Temps de Loup

A felt hesitation
as the sun pauses
uncertainly, soaking
the sky in an eerie
blue-green hue.

A silence,
even while the city
breathes and pulses.
A moment of 
stillness and 
hope and
gone, even before
it is fully formed.

Le temps de loup.

The hour of the 
wolf, shouting his
pitiful, sorrowful cry,
calling the shy moon,
breaking the silence.

The frozen moment
is over.
Daytime hides from
the wolf with the
amber eyes.

Until dawn.


you seem unhappy.
You occupy your time
evading and avoiding.

Is it just me?
Do I see darkness
because I am 
possessed by it?

You tone is bitter,
annoyed, even though
life is just happening,
as it often does.

Am I annoyed 
because in your actions
I see myself?
My own selfish motives?
Jealousy, anxiety or

your pessimism is
infecting me.

Being a pessimist
by nature,
my fight for optimism
is an uphill,
losing battle.
It is pre-determined 
that I will lose 
to it.

It makes me unhappy
to see your thoughts
squirreling around
in endless circles.

It comes far too close
to reminding me of
the tangled, confused
stated of my own.

Sunday, March 6, 2011

Maybe Not

Maybe not.

There are no bells.
No white horses.
No roses at my door.

does that even matter?

chariots, diamonds,
meaningless displays of
affected emotion. 


And, so


Saturday, March 5, 2011

not a rose

you exist,
but only in my mind.
the you I fell for,
I mean.

the real you is
if I passed you in the 
busy street somewhere,
I would have to 
call you by a
different name.

but you are 
not a rose,
you do not 
smell as sweet.

I do not want you.
I want the you 
who sends roses.
I want the you
I wish you were.

(no) Words

...and the world stops.

Sprinkler drops hang in the air,
the sun glinting upon them
like a thousand rainbow stars. 

The clock freezes at the
infinitesimal moment
between seconds.

The sun focuses on us,
a spotlight.

All I want is to lose myself
in you.
To taste you,
inhale you,
consume you,
and give you everything.

We are things,
one thing,
amidst an
infinitely large expanse.

But sprinkler drops must fall,
stars must burn out,
the seconds must tick by,
consumed in their own mediocrity.

Two things,
and distinct,
separated by an abyss
too huge and unfathomable
for words.

In The Bunker

Looking out the bunker window, it can feel like home, in a way. The dingy floral curtains frame the scene outside, reminding of grandma's house. But outside, it isn't home. Everything is still and silent. The cold stings your skin, and will eventually take hold of your bones. The brief sun catches the snow, a blinding symphony of light and silence. The frozen lake is restless under the ice, the dark, dangerous waters anxious to escape their confines. They are alive--endless and unforgiving. 

The few hours of daylight are precious, and often slide by, slipping through our fingers like sand through an hourglass, disappearing into the night--the darkness. Suddenly it is a different world. The silence is all-consuming, the darkness is thick enough to be tangible, pressing on every fibre of our bodies, holding us down. Everything is grey. There is no colour, no movement, except those obsidian waters, seeking prey, always waiting to take, unmoved by love or pleading. They twist and turn to some kind of sinister dance, calling, sighing, silently.

Once, we were a we, marveling at the light, and dark, the silence, and the clarity. You can see for miles in the sun, and everything is constant and unchanging. In the sun, seeing the ice, for just a few moments we are a we again, and this is home. Until the memories twist in, wrapping my consciousness in an icy veil, ceaselessly crushing, unyielding.

I remember that day. The silence was heavy with expectancy, waiting for something to happen. The sun was just a line of fire on the horizon, casting strange shadows on the strangely formed ice. I remember the sound of splintering, and the yell, as if I were hearing it from underwater, distant and delayed. But I knew something was wrong the moment it was no longer silent. Suddenly, the world was disturbed, touched, marked forever with blood. I tried to run. It was like running through sand. Every nerve in my body was firing, every muscle was fighting, but the dark lake was an eternity away. Finally I knelt by the water, filling the twisting black void with my own salty tears. 

He was a rose, trying to find roots in the ice, in me. Thriving in the sun, wilting in the silent stillness. He was my light, my colour, my waltz with destiny. But even a rose cannot be beautiful forever. A rose does not adapt. And there was another waltz more captivating than mine in those twisting waters, so cruel and unforgiving, even for a beautiful, fragile, red, blood-red, rose. 

Friday, March 4, 2011


I remember a golden glow
and happiness.
I remember laughing, smiling,
loving as though tomorrow
would never come.
I remember golden leaves 
dripping from gilded trees,
pooling in a glittering puddle,
waiting for young lovers'
toes to disturb it,
dipping toes and
leaving everywhere we go
a trail of gold.

nothing gold can stay.
Too soon,
always too soon,
the golden haze fades away.
leaving only cold 
and grey
In gold, we glowed.
In grey, we exist.
Goodbye, sweet gold.