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Thursday, 16 April 2020

poetry for thought

title: Tomorrow


Tomorrow, I will write a poem,
A poem so great that it tugs on rib cages,
A poem so simple, that it makes you smile,
A sad poem, for that single tear.

Tomorrow, never comes,
And I am stuck in this loop,
Of story lines and sentences of incomplete prose,
Of silences and memories.

Today, I write this poem,
Reminding myself of the words
That do exist,
Even when the mind aches from forgetting
And remembering.

Wednesday, 26 February 2020

Poetry for thought

title: Still


I feel like I am yours, still.
Not like a commodity,
But like you-know-parts-of-me-that
I-have-forgotten,
Parts of me that are hiding today.
A pinch of my personality,
That only you saw, then, and only
You can revive now, maybe.

Makes sense? Shall I continue?

I feel like I am yours, still.
Like the word still, in still water,
Water that stays still
Even while the sun eats it up in summer,
Still lingering and feeding organisms.
Yours, mine, ours, are the
Stories that need telling, lingering, eating, feeding
Wait, vocabulary makes no sense right now.


It’s a word jumble, a crossword, falling out of my tired heart,
Are you with me, still?

Nostalgia is a funny thing, isn't it?
A show reel of hazy memories, ideas,
Thoughts that need re-writing, re-imagining
Can you help me find the cracks?
The cracks that sent me, spiralling,
Through a memory, a sound, I keep
Wandering, like a fool, searching, breaking,
Is the map lost too? Do you have it, still? Maybe.


Are we at the end now?

I feel
Like
I
Am
Yours,
Still.
Even when the weaves of time
Have changed everything and nothing at the same time.

Tuesday, 28 January 2020

Poetry for Thought


Title: What do you think?

Loss is weightless, isn’t it?
Like a fictitious story.
Where is the documentation of loss?
Yes, a person died,
Yes, a person left,
But is that loss?
Isn’t loss what follows?

The weightless fog that has no colour,
No smell, no speed, no way to find it in this world.

An obituary doesn’t smell of loss,
It is at the period of the last sentence, of the obituary where the loss begins.

How do you explain voices in your head from a dead person?
How do you explain the smell of your ex-lover in your room?
How do you hear a meowing of cat that is long gone?

I carry loss with me,
Everywhere, every time,
Each loss having their own personalities.
Sometimes it’s a tea party,
Where we can laugh.
But does that last forever?
Ask anyone, it doesn’t.

Can you feel that weight on your chest?
Feet? Arms? Fingers? Eyes?
Is there someone holding you down?
Did you check under the bed? Behind the doors? Inside your memory?
Questions without answers, answers without questions
Is the loop of loss, I reckon.

Well, in the end, we can make friends with our monsters,
And all monsters are not scary,
A lot of them are heavy,
Like unwanted mosquitoes when you want to fall asleep,
But they come back every night.

So what do you think?
Why is loss weightless and heavy all at once?
Why do we have this loop?
How do you end this loop?
-the end-