Leaf-Bud

I saw a tree cut down today
its remains cast aside to fade away
young branches a fresh lush green, decorated with buds
their youthful beauty now covered with mud
and as I looked at them they resembled me
those leaves my dreams never meant to be
but like those leaf-buds I ignore the pain
and put my hope into the rain
to sprout some roots, grow and transform
to become a tree unwavered by storm

 

A Writer’s Confession

Nothing infects me more than hearing you speak about your work.
Or the silence you express when you review yourself.
Your eyes transfixed onto your art, no interruptions welcome,
no phones, no words.
Your eyes speak so much truth, reveal your love,
conveying what’s going on inside your mind.
Your perception so exceptionally yours,
fuelled by experience and that hunger to be nothing but yourself.
Your dedication visible as you focus with a director’s eye,
the smile that follows sparking mine.

 

Deprived

I had a dream of you last night. You were lying in my arms, it felt so right.
“Are we friends now,” you laughed.
“I’d like that,” my heart beat fast.
I felt your breath against my neck you were so close, I couldn’t breathe.
My eyes drank in the sight of you, your features softened, your eyes half-closed.
Just for a moment there I wondered, “Should I let go?”
But my body craved your warmth, your touch.
And as we both leaned in to kiss, my dream was over and I was left without your love.

 

Relapse

Minus five degrees outside, the train is packed. Tired people everywhere, worn out after a week of every-day gray. A drunkard sings and his voice isn’t even bad. Two girls with naked knees and ankles sit across from me. I feel old all of a sudden, wrapped in my down-filled coat and two layers of scarves. A child is whistling non-stop and I’m happy it’s not mine, that I do not have to come home to this now, a kid full of energy and life. Because all I want is a glass of wine and my couch. Two weeks back at work and that’s all I have in me, all that is left from my creative drive. So I switch it on, my favorite show inside my head, erasing the smell a beggar leaves as he passes the workhorses sitting beside me. The show my mind creates features me in the lead. Waves are crushing against a shore, the sun is shining. Call me a dreamer if you want, but my thoughts keep me alive as all I see are factory buildings and graffitied insults outside. So when I close my eyes, I nearly miss it, the stop that’s mine. But on the platform then the air awakens me, crisp and clear, and I enter a reality far from comfort as people push me down the stairs with them in lockstep. It’s strangely invigorating and phrases and pictures begin to invade my mind. How come I was so drained only moments ago and now my emotions lie bare to me in my thoughts? Take your pen, I’m telling myself, don’t question it. And so I do as I finally close my apartment door behind me. Three days without writing and I’m like a junkie craving her chocolate.

In the Closet

So there’s a mannequin in our closet at work. She has no head and wooden legs. Her body is white, her curves are womanly, not too skinny, just right. I want to take her home I’ve decided today. She Looks so lonely there, undressed, exposed to us in a way. How pretty my dresses would look on her. How much I’d like to invite her to a dance. That’s what I think when I see her. Now call me crazy, I don’t care.