Basket Cases

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There are baskets

juggling on the heads

of girls

carrying too much

of what is grown

in someone else’s garden

 

Aching necks

break daily

under the weight of

what sprang

from the dirt

you chose

 

So specific in your decision making

as though purchased

with a particular design

in mind

 

And when you

trip over their

broken bones

and feel the instantaneous

crack

that crept upon them in slow motion

will you finally know

what it is to be broken

brick by brick

cell by cell

under your heavy words

and poorly framed eyes

 

The angriest girl in the world

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I see your face

and wonder about all

the messes you make

when walking the world

asleep

 

The pain in your eyes

has hunger pangs

as you slowly starve

in Perfection’s demise

 

What is it that makes every day

a life worthy of snaps

on the edge of your tongue

 

Like whiplash

you walk in

flicking storms in the path

of those expecting soft rain

 

It is hard to be near

your field of pain

when mine is so permeable

like a sheet

sewn from clouds

 

And I fear

one day

these clouds

will turn grey

and rage as you do

washing everyone away

Thoughts on Meditation

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On my way to meditation class I felt the urge to drive into a tree. On the way home I just wanted to drive.

Some days are like that. It’s like experiencing blindness with too much visual stimulation. Walking around as the ultimate contradiction.

Meditate. Strip it all away. Peel back all the pieces you thought really mattered and stop to feel the ground beneath your feet. Don’t just know that it’s there like some concept you can analyse.

At least once a day, find the truth behind all the ideas.

At least once a day, find some time to find you.

 

 

Perhaps in a Cafe

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Perhaps in a cafe in Rome

I will suddenly be a ‘Romantic’

swept up in black coffee

and cigarettes

like glamorous women

on old movie screens

~

Perhaps in a cafe in Rome

I can willingly choose to be ‘me’

as though I was only a ‘look’

a ‘face’

waiting to be found

beneath the mirage of so many places

that have graced this skin

since I first glanced at a magazine

~

Perhaps in a cafe at home

on some ordinary street

I’ll accept my fate with grace

and leave no concern

for pictures

or an age

stamped upon my bones

like a countdown clock

reeling me in

strangers in a sea of cameras

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the world has made us strangers

lips without lipstick

and I am without a name

~

what will they call me when my life is spent?

when I am buried

or worse

burnt

cast out into the wind

~

for there are no mirrors beyond the time of death

no facebook

no instagram

~

the earth cannot validate this mind

that cries out for a compliment 

~

the wind cannot caress this face

when all I am is ash