A tiny thing Crying and cowering Behind the bins Is that— A cat! A kitten rather All big-eyed And terrified Shh, shh, she said There, there You’re good now She broke Into a smile Because the life She saves may be Her own Advertisements
Peeling pink polish On a girl who’s been biting her nails Again Because the pain is easier to bear Then Disclaimers: I don’t bite my nails I don’t use pink polish I don’t write poems
LIVE, LAUGH, LOVE What the fuck? That’s a bit too much to ask, Right? Isn’t there an easier task? Like, Die or Lie in bed and Stare at the wall. No? Alright. If you must. I certainly can’t.
I measure my weeks In the number of pills I take to calm down To continue to exist Not too many Not to get a habit Count them out Don’t take too much Although Should I overdose Never mind Too many things For the little pink pills To take care of To make unexist
When you dress black To reflect The dark matter in your head When you dress red To say that You’re not dead yet When you don’t dress At all Because Just because
When it’s so quiet You think You should hear yourself breathing But you hear nothing Have you gone deaf Have you died What’s happening You’re terrified Has it ever happened to you that you thought you went deaf because you couldn’t hear any sound around? The house is quite quiet tonight and it doesn’t seem
I’m waiting for my bedtime and not really up to anything. So I penned a poem (so-called). I was just listening. In the middle of the night (but not midnight) The laptop is humming The old heater is crackling (but not heating properly) The cat isn’t purring (she doesn’t care she should for my poem)
In the night My mind is up and around Alive, awake, awhirl Churning out stuff That happened That didn’t That should have Heyou, mind, Cut the crap Stop the swirl Let me rest Brain dead RIP My sleeping pill is taking long to kick in, so I fingered a poem on the WordPress
Loosely inspired by a recent somewhat heart-breaking post by Cardinal Guzman, I decided that the world needs more bad poetry. At peace, At home. Alone. Quiet, but not quite. The kettle boiling, Coffee brewing— Another day, another night.
Pedestrians are people with destinations In their minds And baggage in their hands Too heavy to carry around But cars— Put your weight away in the trunk And let you guide As though you’re in control