forcing it

I’m forcing it. I give myself prompts to try igniting
An idea that will turn into some form of writing
And then I lose my patience when it all fails.
I hover over the page, holding my innards, entrails,
I’m just looking for something to throw them into.
As I bear down to write, my pen rips straight through,
My notebook and I know I’m trying, way too hard,
That whatever I force out, I will eventually discard,
Only to tear another page from the spine of my book,
I’ll scribble my name and shout, ‘I wrote something, look!’

a loose thread

there is a loose thread lingering just below my hairline,
curiosity says I should pull it, see what I find,
that on the other end there might be treasures of the mind.

it may be a guide to a world that I can then explore,
it may be the doorbell to a previously unopened door,
or it may lasso me, tug me, lifeless, to the floor.

there is a loose thread lingering just below my hairline,
logic says I should just leave it, it might not be mine.
‘Or it might be the only thread holding together your mind.’

is this how curiosity killed the cat?

tick to-

The clocked never ticked as loudly as it did on the day you left. As if the clock was also bereft.

As if my rhymes and its chimes were the only things that could move us past the tragedy of losing a member of the household. As if the clock, also had a story that needed to be told.

It ticked out of sync with the rest of the clocks, like the pendulum was suffering a severe state of shock and time, suddenly wasn't important. 

As I waved goodbye to the poetry I thought was my calling, the clock waved goodbye, and time started falling. We both developed some mechanical faults in the absence of you. 

good morning, world / clever world

Good morning, world, I say, glumly.

Good morning, girl, the world says back.

While the world wanders around, smugly,

I spend my days looking for what I lack.

A love life, that's complicated. Too much time.

A sex life? That's somewhere, long ago dead.

Some talent, I had it once, had a knack for rhyme,

But when I try to pen a poem, it gets stuck in my head.

Good evening, world, I say, defeated.

Good evening, girl, the world says back. 

World, why do I feel so shamefully conceited?

Girl, why are you always looking for the things you lack? 

stalker

I scrawled across your mirror in black eye-liner.
It was a wonderful surprise for you to find late at
Night, when you got home from your new date.

‘I told you that shirt would look good on you.’

Probably not as surprising as the piece of paper,
Pinned to the back of your bathroom door to talk
To you before you went back to our bedroom.

‘The tie was too much for a first date, though.’

There was a flutter of rage and panic intertwined
As you groped around in your pocket for the key
That you felt sure I had given back to you earlier.

‘Sleep tight.’

I wrote in red lipstick on your sheets.