The ticking of the kitchen clock
Drowns out the ringing in my ear
Each its own reminder
Of my frail humanity
Which sound will be my master
Passing time or wounded flesh Perhaps
Pretend a metronome instead Yes!
The Art of being suits me best
-me
Artwrork: The Wonders of Creation, by Olivier Lamboray
Porch lights across the pasture
Like boats out on the water
Beyond a dark expanse they show
That other souls are drifting too
-me
Painting by Jozef Pankiewicz
Two pulls dancing
Never touching
But trying
Desperate
To defy
The laws of nature
I intercede
To help them
Fuck off Faraday
Give me Emily
If only
For a moment
-me
Painting: The Swan No. 1, by Hilda af Klint
I stopped writing
When words did not
Feel real
Enough to hold me
As I fell apart
Or smart
Enough to speak
Of truths
I once believed
Or strong
Enough to carry
Shame that spilled
Out all around me
Words were way too
hollow
brittle
small
For rebuilding
Anything at all
And so
I held them
In until
They grew big enough to bear my weight
From all that time spent forming
Binding silent to each other
-me
When sun descends
And scents of cooling earth
Swirl and rise
To meet me
I am pulled
Down to my knees
Compelled to dig until
My hands are gloves of dirt
With rings of grubs and worms
To dredge until
Soil stretches nails
From dampened skin
Till blind moles ask me
Where I’ve been
I scrape and work
To find the words
That root and wrap
Me in this place
To claw until I capture them
Or lie buried
By the trying
-Me
Hope blew in
On the wind today
And I knew
By the way
The spanish moss swayed
All pointing me in
The same direction
Nature it seems
Is gently whispering
“Listen,
You are not lost,
Go inward.”
-me
Life is heavy
It holds us tethered
To the dirt
And if by courage
Or creativity, we
flee
Escape its weight
For a brief while
We always feel
Its claw and pull
To drag us back
Down
To the earth
For life will have
Its weighted way
Even if it kills us
-me
Artwork by Seb McKinnon
There’s a spot
On my lips
That buzzes
Like it’s trying
To tell me
Something
Or is it bound
To split my mouth
And make
The contents
Of my gut
Spill out
-me
These are the days
Of buying herbs
And being still
These are the nights
Of undressing full
Under the moon
These are the minutes
Of noticing each
Minuscule difference
These are the hours
Of finding colors
Which compliment
My darkness
-me
Painting title and artist unknown
My soul is stuck
An air bubble
In an antique vase
The fire that shaped
And pulled me thin
Ended before
I could find my way
Free
-me
sometimesihatemycat 