Creative writing

POETRY

SLIPPERY

The weather is ruthless, air is frigid

any body in motion would be warm enough

The season is for new beginnings or so they say

hibernation, restoration, solstice, sure

— why am I acting as if it’s a vacation?

Solitary confinement is only okay when I say so

From full-body chills to damp, smelly sheets

— adrenaline is evergreen in me

My mind is in hell, form frozen in place

lost like an asteroid sifting through space

The sun sets too early

yet I am always running late

I crave real influence and intimidation

such as the wandering hands of Father Time

wrapped unwaveringly around my date

I HAD A DREAM

I still stick to what I knew:

Skirting the more pressing issue and

Flirting with the idea of dressing more in tune

accept that’s fool’s gold, an all-but-forgotten fantasy

I’m sorry to say. To the six-year-old me:

I cannot guarantee that I’m better than I used to be

You were the best and I love you but

we had to hide away for the time of my life

Being odd is fine. The odd one out?

Another dream entirely. Hey, at least I can say

that it still keeps me up

Night.

UNPACKING

I want to put a lit match to it: our faces

are embraced and we’re so crowded in content

and I envy the pair of eyes beaming back at me

If only I could have known back then… I would’ve waited

on second thought… it wouldn’t’ve mattered much

towards a dent or difference moving forward

anyway, we were meant to be bonded in crime

nothing more, nothing less than a strong-but-still-declining high

I agree to disagree, just as long as you know:

I will always have your back in the box you go in

Peacock

Meandering thoughts:
A wild, splendid peacock spills
my bowl of porridge