When my kid asks me:
Mama, where were you when the coronavirus pandemic hit?

Well, sweet child, mama was out there exploring the world. I climbed mountains, sailed seas, and fought pirates. Mama was a warrior. She was a healer. She was something else. Mama was making history.

Really, Mama?

No, baby.

I stayed inside trying to finish schoolwork. I put together every puzzle at least 3 times. I ate the same meal twice a week. Baby, mama was robbed. Mama never saw her friends, mama never went to prom, mama never fought a pirate.

Was that all, mama?

No, love.

People died. Too many people, too many people died. We were too stupid, we were too busy, we were ignorant, love. We were destructive, we were killers of our own kind. We were monsters, love.

But, sweetheart...

Yes, mama?

There was beauty in it. Such beauty. We died so the world could live. Flowers bloomed, fish swam, and nature thrived. We could feel the sunshine, we could feel the rain, we could hear the birds, sweetheart. It was beautiful.

Weren’t you scared, mama?
Weren’t you lonely?

My child, yes, I was once. I was scared and I was lonely, but I learned something, my child. In fear, nothing grows. In isolation, there is solitude. But In hope, we flourish. In solitude, we find peace.

My child, my sweet child, we were just beginning to awaken.
Now, we’ll never sleep again.

Why am I embarrassed to help myself?
No wonder people stay ill,
When the world cringes at positivity.
Positivity makes my toes curl.
Positivity makes my face snarl.
Remind myself to breathe,
I can feel you laughing down my neck.
Can’t handle my problems,
Without mocking myself,
At every self care measure I take.
You ruined my integrity.
I hate what you’ve done to me.

Magic Flowers

There's a bug in the house
and a big one too;
has our tummies curl up
and us running to the loo.

I wish I had flowers -
magic ones of course -
then I'd brew us a tea
that'd shoot the bug out the door.

I read so much of herbs
that can heal anything;
flu, pox, diarrhoea,
broken spine, lost limb...

But they grow in deep woods
where sunrays don't touch the floor,
and the books don't speak of maps
or if they exist (anymore).

So till the enchanted woods are found
I'll stay safe at home,
and drink rooibos tea with plenty o' honey
and write another poem.

Every day as I drag this body out of bed
It speaks in ways I cannot comprehend.
“Tired.” It says but its eyes are awake
With a defeated look it closes them again.

Its weight on my back tires me enough
To sit at intervals, places smooth or rough.
Sometimes as I get back on my feet again
It pulls me back sharply, darkening my brain.

Somehow once again, I know I’ll adapt
To this routine of falling and getting back.
Through these days there’s something to gain,
The truth in its eyes when I see in reflection, its face.

Something.

The qualling moldwarp seeps.
Crude and distinguished.
Outcasted.
For and lived full.
Of rot in the crimson wave.
Veined
And insecure.
No high or lowering end.
No result in castled eyes.
Or mothered neutrons of the sick.
Sick.
So.
So.
Sick.
Too sick to rest.
Been gone and too many killed by thought.
By the drowning of the subliminal courage.
By the spinal departure in the sands.
And without welcoming of the azure.
Footprinted only to be pulled into red.
And entombed into onyx.
Never to receive the final wail of grief.


Garrett Johnson.

Since young I don’t really get it why do people cry or get disappointed when they’re are sick
Isn’t great that we can skip school or not work?

Until I realise mine own sickness it’s life threatening and I’m here praying to god everyday, begging for help and forgive the sin I’ve done.

Gasping for oxygen, trying to walk,
Trying to be normal again but how?

Walking was the easiest but now it became the hardest.