i race across the boardwalk and
i taste the waves,
throw my phone into the ocean and
find some form of freedom—
whatever’s left will do! I’d do
anything to find out who i’m supposed
to be, i guess that should be me,
but i’ve never met that girl
(𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘩𝘦 𝘯𝘪𝘤𝘦?)
so instead i keep running and
you might ask from what but
only the Lord knows that and maybe
my tide-worn mother too but once
she tried to tame the frizz out
of my hair but it didn’t work because
she never expected to have a firecracker
for a daughter, 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘢𝘯 𝘦𝘹𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘳
𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, but i left that all behind so i could
race across the boardwalk
and taste the waves, but now
i am here and somehow the salt
tastes bitter.

I woke up to a sky of grey
a hiding sun, a rainy day
clouds of hail - stormy what nots
rotund, dang and heavy drops

I said to them, be my poem.

Then the clouds of storm cleared
the golden orb appeared
a rainbow spilled color on the grass
the blossoms sang sweetly - unasked

I said to them, be my poem

To the poor man on the street
and the rag picker with bare feet
the cobbler and the fruit seller
the palmist and the fortune teller

I said to them, be my poem

To a new born and then, flesh on a pyre
the wind that whisks ashes from fire
to the fragrance of spring and the frost of cold
the stench of garbage and the scent of rose

I said to them, be my poem

I turned to love, anger and defeat
laughed with humour and cried with grief
traced the many fleeting expressions on a face
fluid movements and those without grace

I said to them, stay and be my poem

Then I paused, I looked within -inside
into my heart and into my mind
so I could meet myself and know
see and hear, feel and grow

So that one day, I too may become a poem

𝐈
𝐍ever
𝐅igured that
𝐀
𝐓eensy tiny
𝐔ndeveloped
𝐀ttraction would
𝐓urn
𝐈nto
𝐎vert
𝐍ausea

delicate as snowfall brushing your cheek
and wind flowing through on an open-topped peak
but when you go home, when you go home
the warmth washes it all away.

when it captures you, raptures and
seizes your soul, you feel it take hold and
suddenly
you cannot recall
what once was cold and no longer is
but still, a silent strange feeling
lingers
until you are left with your tremors, your
trembling—
the imprint, the mark of a melody.

“Thanks for asking, but 𝑰
am fine, just a little tired.
𝑪𝒂𝒏’𝒕 complain, you know?
Everybody gets a bit
stressed sometimes, what with
all that we’ve got to 𝒅𝒐.
It’s not like 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 is any different
than any other day, any other person.
𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 somewhere has it far
worse than I do, so don’t feel sorry
for me. No, 𝒔𝒂𝒗𝒆 your compassion
for a person who really needs it, not
𝒎𝒆.”