donut hole

Recently,

I’ve been stuffing

my body and organs with

tissue paper, gaudy empty,

slippery buttery

donuts.

 

I climb through donut holes,

small mole in woe

indented into fried dough,

dirty oil bubbling

boiling

tackling

flour, sugar and coil.

The final product sits

through my finger like a loose

ring: it fits.

Tender and appealing

Slender, full of splendour

and

whole.

I contemplate,

how shall I make

it sickeningly sweeter?

and maybe if I ingest all that syrup,

I’ll discreetly be as sugar,

delicious

delightful?

 

I’ll eat around the hole,

until the hole is no longer a hole

walk out of its role,

for what’s around it is gone,

it’s just one whole,

nothing.

Maybe the hole, in between ribs

and nightless nights

will take flight?

whole or un-hole as long

as its no longer…

a hole.

 

Teeth stained by moist

divine, liquid delight,

give me a bite,

guilty for that hopeful nectar.

 

I’ll swallow and gobble

Munch this donut up, and finally I can say

something solid makes me up,

makes who I am,

down to the last damn gram.

This little amorphous saliva,

mucous dough has

a purpose,

a hero’s journey,

a place in the circus.

Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.

It is bound to cross the finishing line,

reminding me, forcefully,

that I will too?

It’s like trying to sink in brine.

 

Destruction of the void.

That cave in the middle, is an intruder,

a tumour,

but I’m lost at the riddle of escape.

And if my hole were to cave in with all this dough

would it be full,

fulfilled? Filled in,

but in the right way?

 

The problem, plain simple,

sits in the middle. The

hole.

All this dough can’t hide.

Infinitely a hole,

infinitely nothing.

So I’ll gobble down

sugar coated outsides

and poof! the hole softly

fades out of existence,

my hole slowly fades

out of existence for…

 

three,

two,

one

 

buy me another ring-shaped

fried sugar thing, or whatever,

as long as it can pile up

inside me and I’ll feel this fullness

for once,

even if its just in my stomach.

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adolescent idealism is a hoax

my mind’s racing,

they say it’s normal,

not abnormal,

adolescents are like this, don’t mind them,

crazy minded, mindless,

bezelled by the universe

chatters and impulses, smoke, lights,

cries, they say it’s all just

because we

romanticise life,

with our hormones

but is that so?

maybe you adults just

downgrade life, cut it with a knife

forget its beauty

and newness, freshness born

into every moment,

you lament,

but we, with new eyes,

untainted still see life for what

it is,

beyond your

clouded mind.

 

night times, we stay awake,

head in a racing car game,

throwing thoughts like elastic shotguns

sons of euphoria followed by

hands tumbling over keyboards,

fumbling pencils,

crumbling cameras, strumming strings,

creating some things

to let out the excitement

of living in a body, on a floating rock,

gawk at how the heck did we get here?

we do it not for the future, not because

it could amount to anything, but the

moment

 

we strip clothes off,

teeth fall off,

eat bitter earth,

scorch our fingertips,

plunge into crisp waters,

why?

why because we don’t know

who we are, (the greatest gift)

 

curiosity, ferocity

this stubbornness to keep

standing, discovering

unstopping stomping

unapologetically launching ourselves

into this world.

but i say it’s because we know

this world is nothing but

a cardboard box stage,

not a cage,

and we’re here so infinitesimally

so, to

cry over, suffer over, joy over,

get over,

unpreel, then refresh and start over

every time

the sun shines again.

 

And we,

get to be someone new,

someone bigger.

reach out further

away from where we started,

we know we can be anything we ever

wanted,

as long as that flame burns

 

not related to age spurts,

 

to just, be alive,

feel alive.

 

 

i say it’s not,

adolescence.

i say it’s our true nature,

as humans,

before we comply and forget

not take a bet on

this miracle of a human life

before we strive to stick the feeling of freedom

under a desk like gum,

before we construct the cage of

what is and what isn’t

 

and think about it,

those times where you thought

nothing would stop you-

that’s when your invincibility existed

truly.

goodbye, dear mind

sometimes,

i simply wish to

fold myself up

into a so very,

almost invisible

suitcase

i’ll pack a few things;

my toothbrush,

maybe a pencil,

and a glass of water

(hopefully it won’t spill)

 

so, once i’m

all cozy,

fuzzy,

in this small

wrapped up

form,

i’ll bend my knees,

hear them squeak,

oil them up,

and push through,

bounce up,

from this body of mine

 

like a newly

bought spring,

with the sound of

a sparkling water bottle

opening,

i’ll pop out of

myself

not elegantly,

but practically

 

i’ll leave behind

a trail,

of effervescent bubbles

effervescent

preoccupations

as they buzz behind

me, like the engine

of the spaceship

i have become

 

more things fall

off behind me,

indignantly,

and sway back down,

sighing, back

to my old

clockwork body;

 

they’re

crumpled up

repetitions

of repetitions,

reputations,

what if’s bouncing

off walls of

hopes belonging

to cellophane

preoccupations

 

and more

repetitions,

repetitions,

repetitions of

a made up realm

composed of screeching

sonnets about who i am

and off-key

C majors of confusion.

 

gone.

 

inhale,

as it all sheds off

like bored snake skin.

 

at last,

i shoot off farther,

i feel the one obsidian weight,

peel off, finally,

like an old worn sticker

from my childhood.

 

goodbye, dear mind

 

 

 

capsize

I can’t muster up,

roll up,

a compendium of courage

just enough

to balance onto this string,

so i’m always on

tiptoes,

either grappling for gravity

or

floating (so high I can’t feel my fingers)

 

teach me these few

things, how not to:

clip fingernails to

split knives, then try to trace my face

or smash teacups

because the house has

ceased to whisper (i can’t stand silence)

or scorch the tips of pencils

when words stay hanging below my throat,

limply,

refusing to move any

farther onto paper

 

sometimes,

if my mind eases on the accelerator,

i’ll make sure to

stand under a storm

and hope for lightning

i’ll have my hands full of

plasma coalesced into electricity

(so blue it could burn your eyes)

at least there’s this

effervescence,

i may say,

that I can dissect,

squint into,

pick and fiddle with

like an old toy

made out of unknown

mechanisms

 

my life is a time bomb

and i’m running away from

the silence between each tick

tick

tick.

from feeling like

an empty hotel room with

undone beds.

don’t leave me vacant,

 

 

I’d rather capsize a boat

than have it float