ANNOYED RAMBLE

I took my book to the lonely hammock for some peace and avoidance.

Sun dribbled thought the gaps in the leaves above as I sunk into that other world.

But then, out of the corner of my eye, I glanced the person I least wished to see.

Surely he would see my book, surely he would see my all aloneness and understand.

That hope faded as he approached some more but I kept my face buried.

Still he spoke. I sighedand mustered a one word replying, never even glancing upward.

I was expecting that to be it. Unpleasant but finally over. I was wrong.

He kept talking and I kept not replying but the other world of my book slipped away.

SHIFTY – 1

After I turn of the fourth alarm of the morning- I’d set the other alarms long ago, in an attempt to wake up earlier- I notice that my body feels heavier than usual. Strange considering I’ve been loosing weight despite my desperate efforts to eat more. 

I try to sit up, but my ever shrinking muscles can’t lift me so instead I check my phone. First my social media. That reminds me that I have some writing I need to do, writing I was exited about a couple of days ago, so why does my body feel even heavier? Thinking about it and knowing I probably won’t do it today makes my stomach hurt, so I close whichever sinkhole I’m mindlessly scrolling though and open a game I saw and add for a couple of weeks ago. It’s entirely pointless. I’ve been cycling thought the same 5ish mazes so often that the illusion of progress has long faded. 

Beside me, my man starts to stir. He opens his eyes, gives my leg a squeeze and then picks up his own phone. After he’s had a chance to shake of sleep completely he asks me if I’m going to work on that thing I told him I’d do for him. As he does some invisible force wraps a long thick cord around my body, like a python wrapped around its pray, and ties me to the bed. I tell him I’m probably won’t. 

A little more time passes when I check the time. In an instant I’m up. It’s an entire hour later then when I usually feed my dog. She must be getting hungry. 

AESTHETIC MISERY

Eye bags aside,

I’m quite pretty when I’m sad:

.

Colourful peasant skirt 

And bare feet 

Walking the dogs 

On the beach. 

There may as well 

Be a Lana del Ray song

On in the background. 

.

They fetishised my misery,

Packaged it up 

And sold it to the masses. 

.

Why strive for happy 

When sad is pretty too? 

SHRINKING

Coat hanger shoulders, 

Perturbing hip bone,

My body no longer 

Feels like my own. 

.

I’ve always been skinny

Though never this gaunt.

I have no more pride

Or desire to flaunt. 

.

But worse yet than that 

Is I’ve lost my smile.

I always did laugh,

Now it’s been a while 

DARK JOKES

A friend of mine was sent to the guidance counselor’s office because his jokes where ‘too dark’ and ‘concerning’. I remember him and I laughed about it because we thought that whole situation was just as funny as declaring loudly that we where ‘waiting for the sweet release of death’.

Looking back now, is very possible that our laughter rang hollow. Still it sounded like music in comparison to the silence that might have occupied the space otherwise.

My father though my friends and I where bad for each other because we where encouraging each others depression. I fought him on this, but secretly feared he was right.

Then the ‘dark’ jokes went away for a while…..

Now that they’re back, and my friends are oceans away, they don’t get met with the laughter of solidarity, they don’t even get met with the concern or fathers or guidance counselors.

It’s bad when the dark ‘jokes’ get met with the explicit implication of ‘no time for this kinda thing.’

Its worse when they don’t get met at all.

JUNGLE PLANT

I feel at odds here. 

I feel like one of the trees 

That’ the same size 

As all those years ago,

When it was first planted. 

.

The ends of my leaves

Turned brown quickly 

And have stayed that way since. 

But the brown decreased 

With the number of leaves. 

.

I feel like one of the trees

That’s holding- fighting on 

Just to stay the same 

When it rains 

And shrink when it doesn’t.

LOVING YOU…

Loving you means

Never really knowing

How important i am to you.

.

Loving you means

Always wondering

If i even am at all.

.

Loving you means

Begging for conversations

And settling

For three words.

.

It means storming out

And thinking

‘This time he’ll come,

.

This time is his turn

To start unraveling

All the tension and the hurt.’

.

I wonder why

I’m still disappointed

When you never do.

.

It means pleading

With a fortress to let me in,

Open the gates

And let me in.

.

And then ending

The night seated outside,

In the cold.

.

Loving you means

Writing a thousand thoughts

You’ll never read

.

And longing to read the thoughts

You’ll never write me.

.

It means wanting so much

For you to prioritize me

.

And then felling like a burden

Or a waste of time

If i manage to convince you to.

.

Loving you means

Tricking myself

Into believing

That the choice between

Happiness and love

Is a hard one.

.

It means pretending

I could ever

Not choose happiness

.

It means knowing

Deep down

That someday

Happy will win,

.

But putting it of

As long as long as possible

For the foolish notion,

That maybe

You’ll offer both.

‘PRETTY’ SAD

The flies buzz around the living room, landing on my laptop- on my skin. It’s almost too easy to ignore them. The early afternoon heat seeps into every muscle of my body, rendering me ‘useless’ for the day. It’s easier to sit around and contemplate my sadness, then to get up and do something- anything.

‘Sadness’ I guess isn’t quite right, but I don’t have the energy to try and find the words to properly describe it. Still, I can tell you what it looks like. It looks like a Tumblr dot com post from those melancholy high school days. It’s aesthetically acceptable eye bags and hauntingly hollowed out cheeks. It’s pointy elbows and prominent collar bones, dusty pink that peaks though all the monochrome. Just typing this up makes me want to put on Marina and the Diamonds- or the 1975. 

Maybe if they hand’t taught me, my whole youth, that my particular brand of sadness was desirable- romantic somehow- a pre request for great art, maybe then I’d have a better chance of escaping it. 

LISTEN

How long can a person go

Without being heard,

Before it drives them mad?

.

How long can a voice

Fade into nothing,

Until its host follows?

KEEP WRITING

I never wanted to be the kind of poet that writes about being sad- or about being unlucky in love. I never wanted to be the kind of artist who helped to romanticise the things that are difficult enough, on their own, to escape. 

Oh, the magic I used to chase only to be able to put in down on paper later. Glowing oceans and turbulent seas, healthy friendships and self love. Those where the things I sought too romanticise. 

But now the magic has run out and all that’s left to do is keep writing.