Focus

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I don’t want to spend money

I want to spend time with you

playing games like they use to

in those movies

from the eighties

when a song and a hairstyle fixed everything

~

I want to drink wine and talk about the wind

temperature

taste

how it feels against your face

I don’t want to spend money

I want to spend my life looking

around at all the places

zooming in

focusing

on all the smiles that we made

 

Witness

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There is a bravery that comes from being able to look at yourself in the mirror and see what the world has done to you and you, in turn, to the world. Too often people spend time pretending they’re perfect. They lie to their mirrors and tell their eyes that they’re ok. Eyes are the biggest liars in the world. They see only what they think you want to see but they do not show you what must be witnessed.

Witness the homeless man on the street corner without drugs you presume he takes.

Witness the children, starving on television screens and don’t convince yourself they’re actors in some Oscar winning scene.

Witness the lie of those whose mouths curve upwards, when you make a joke at their expense.

Remember that pain is not often witnessed, by indicators you have grown up to believe.

 

 

Beauty & Starvation

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If you have nothing at all then you have nothing to lose.

This is the flawed philosophy I carry around like a tonne of bricks tied to my back. I don’t believe I willingly choose this state of thinking. Sometimes thoughts simply become you – a result of all your experiences.

Are we not the total sum of everything that made us? (or unmade us?)

I saw a picture last night of a young boy. His skin was practically touching bone and his eyes were deep black pools. It was as if no soul existed behind his face. Like it had been sucked away by circumstance.

We are all born into different circumstances.

I was born into a circumstance where food was given to me as comfort, and eyes were given to make me uncomfortable.

He was born into a circumstance where food was rarely given, and I’m sure that is more uncomfortable than the unhappiness I feel when I look into the mirror.

I think about food and what it’ll do to my hips.

For a long time I never truly considered the millions of souls dragging their hips along the dirt, gasping for breath.

I wonder about the tears they would shed if shown my local grocery store. I also wonder about the reflections I stop to stare at in every mirror of every store. How I examine every curve, every line, every fold.

And lastly, I think about how I never stop to consider, the beauty of a nourished soul.

 

 

 

 

Sisterhood

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There is a joy of sisters

who know both the Sun and the Moon of our soul

and the constellations of our mind

Who breathe the light that radiates from our eyes

and grieve with us the death of a smile

Who know the beauty of a teardrop

falling gently on a naked shoulder

The salty sting to bind them in

an embrace only felt by sculptures

 moulded side by side

Neighbourly

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There is this human predicament

that grows in a place

we believe our hearts to live

It’s that sudden impulse

to turn away

when the fear of lingering eyes

and another human’s thoughts

force us to retreat

as though we are so sure of defeat

in this war of concern

~

The myth of standing out and being seen

There’s a cat that cries but you do not comfort

because you never paid the money for it

It’s the myth of money in exchange for ownership

and so I let it cry

~

Once again I retreat inside

to the comfort of a couch

paid for with my very own fantasy

The ultimate lie, I think

is that we step on stones

afraid to move one from its place

Multi-coloured minerals made into a multitude of shapes

admired for the difference

and yet I shudder as my feet kick them

from that comfortable place called “next door neighbour’s home”

just as I shudder to pat the cat

following me down the road

The Poet

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If I do not write

I will die at the Devil’s gate

waiting for him to scold me

like a child

the wooden spoon given as a gift

from one who has decided not to breathe anymore

I write as one gasps for air

after lingering under the waves for too long

wading through the ocean foam

my hands carving letters into the sand

before the tide takes them away

I long to etch them deep

so that these words will stay

a maddening dash of pure expression

along the shore of some nameless beach in Wollongong

9 ~Aromas~

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The walls smelled like peppermint tea and dates. It would have been almost pleasant, if not for the overwhelming stench of rotting flesh permeating from the wooden floor below. Droplets of dark red blood were spattered in a mad array of quick gushes. So dark in fact, was the blood, one might mistake it for black tar.

My face remained plastered against the old floral wallpaper, ripped and decaying in many areas. The old scent of peppermint and dates was fading fast. My hands were firmly clasped behind my back. An old, itchy rope tied them together in an unnatural position. The throbbing in my fingers was surely caused by the build-up of blood, blocked by the tight restriction of my vulnerable wrists.

The small room, hexagonal in shape, was dark with only slight rays of moonlight escaping through the boarded up windows. It broke through like laser beams, highlighting small particles of dust. They danced around wildly and slowly like tiny stars riding along invisible waves. There was a meditative beauty about it, as though I too could ride the glittery waves to safety.

The force that pinned me to the wall was invisible. Invisible and strong. So strong in fact, my breath was swiftly leaving me. The pressure against my chest was agonizing. I could feel my ribs slowly cracking as though this cruel entity intended to break them in slow motion.

Perhaps the cruellest thing of all was my desire to scream. It was a gift not even god himself could grant me. Not a whimper was able to escape my throat. Oh how I desired to cry out. A small gift it would be indeed.

All I can do is pray for my end to arrive quickly. My eyes dart downwards, glimpsing the bruised and bloody hand at my feet. It was as though he had tried to reach me. One last touch before the end.