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.

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Ends meet

Window half

open, letting

a bear breath of the

world in,

swollen dark

lid

oozing out obscure

waters.

 

Ends meet in

airplanes, your past

bends its back,

cracks its spine and

stretches out, mews

for your milk.

Feed me.

Feed me.

 

So ends meet,

yesterday, today, last year, next week

shake hands like

wives meeting ex-wives:

horrible yet necessary and

completely unavoidable.

 

Tugging at my scalp,

my unhappy

nagging children:

fostered with my love

and attention

now over-dependent

clinging clams of

past versions of my identity

meeting who I am now.

Ends meet,

and I’m helpless staring out

the airplane window,

seeking for some

motherly nature in

clouds.

 

Ends meet with who

I am, with future craft,

scraping past remains,

my brains (but before) meets

my brains (but now).

Dots connect it all,

it’s one big murder investigation

and I’m the missing

person.

 

This issue is getting

quite

repetitive, I might say.

sparkling water

Frizzling,

sparkling water

effervescent

trepidation

on the edge

of serenity

 

capsules of gas

clumped up like

clams

coating the bottle’s

edges

 

a few brave ones

push off

shoot off

towards the glimmering

exit sign.

the portal to the

external

breathing world.

 

they start off

timidly advancing

upwards,

trembling,

trying to justify their

actions,

then…

pop!

off they go

hitting the water

surface,

and disappearing

with a glint

 

a cry for freedom

from the ones left

behind as you

close the bottle

i think it’s broken

I think it’s broken.

I mean,

on the outside

my hands glide

over shimmering

shiny polished to

perfection

steel,

and I mean,

the engine runs well

quite swell.

it’s ready to take flight

you may think

I’m quite right

 

open the door;

it’s

deconstructed

words

thorned berries

sharp sounds of

syllables,

unwanted.

Haunted

crying

mumbling

stumbling

over wires

in puddles

scratched knuckles

electrocute me

maybe i’ll be free

 

and maybe you’ll

get past all that

but oh honey

how funny.

pass the haze

and it’s

numbers

static numbers-

piling over numbers

climbing over

calculator tiles

for miles

counting

the crumbs i had

for breakfast

and lunch

and dinner

and yesterday’s meals

and hell maybe last

week

and ill label that

biscuit i hid in the pocket

behind the dinner table,

crushed by my boot

because it wasn’t on the

timetable

 

and at the very back

on the walls,

i’ll have beautiful angels

with

red halos

carved on to

shadows of my

thoughts-

they just love picking at

the light and

dimming it, just slightly,

politely

“don’t take it personally,

but I might just,

since I must,

combust this

lust for joy”

and i’ll bow down to

that

bow down to claws

that clench over

something bright,

ill give in to the dark,

the pain

let me drain into the sink,

 

sometimes i enjoy it

 

i just might

Pretty Girls. Better Not.

Missing out

on pretty girls in

pretty dresses

downing drinks

that poke holes

in their throats

 

Coats and coats

of laughter

kisses

press record!

remember

 

pretty girls

with their

pretty faces

cry themselves

to sleep

because pretty

is never enough

 

they’re made out of

porcelain

posting pictures

that define their

life

because they are

nothing more

 

emptied out

by ghosts of themselves

on silicon screens

 

But these pretty girls,

we are all jealous of.

Living in the perfect

dollhouse

 

Eyes follow

all movements:

a swish of a too-short skirt

and they’ve got

someone begging at those

barely standing knees.

 

Pretty girls

stick fingers where

they shouldn’t

so the stomach

remains as empty

as the rest.

 

It’s ok. Red

lipstick will cover

the cracks

concealer won’t

tell others these

pretty girls don’t

sleep

 

Maybe I want to

be a pretty girl

in a fur coat:

a lover in one hand and a

bottle of wine in another.

 

Better not.