Peaceful Fatigue

Swaying, weighted, blurry.
A gentle smile pushes up cheeks,
Closes eyes.

Where? What?
Some thoughts were there,
but they skip away.

Summer night:
The air a duvet.

She partially slides
under a plush blanket,
hugging it.

Essential oil from morning
wanders the air:
Rain Forest.

Cars and technology
hum lullabies.

Silently, she giggles.
A peaceful fatigue.



Stuck: muscles burn,
Craving movement.

Blinks: sliding water
To inadequately lubricate
Human cameras.
In tempo
With passing seconds.

Vigorously lounging:
She is glue,
Not self.


She eats bite sized memories,
To stop looking at them.

Stale crackers.
Old clothes.
Her body stays still:
Mind elsewhere.

She waits for a kiss
From Prince Charming,
Her cat,
To pull her from dissociation.

A flick: her finger.
Breath slides out,
And glides in,
Snd back.

Easing to seated.

“I exist”

Tears soak her cheeks,
Her muscles releasing tension
Through streams from her eyes.

“Feel, experience, process.”

The corners of her mouth float.

“I am sad.”
“Now I know why.”

Eager to Dream

There is a purr of silence. She lays under a sea coloured duvet seen from the window’s gentle glow.

Warm at the core, the edges of her skin are refreshed with cool evening air leaning in from the window.

Easing sore muscles, she stretches as she lays. Each time she releases the stretch, the muscles sink into the pillow top of her mattress.

A light smile relaxes her face.

She is eager to dream.

White Night

Streetlights illuminate just enough to barely see at 1am, where the air is the temperature of a lukewarm summer night. Swooping breezes, my arms erupt in goosebumps, settling between each breeze.

A siren flashes silently in the distance. There is no noise aside from periodic vehicles going down the highway in the distance.

An odd chemical smell wafts along with the smell of weed and weeds.

Turning onto my home street, a new fence protects the corner from squaters who once called the shade of those trees home. A truck is parked in front, a long trailer behind. From beneath, there are white shoes.

I keep my stance strong, in case the stranger sees me. Fatigue has made even walking a strain of focus, and my eyes are forced to keep open; but, that isn’t for a stranger to know. The darkness hides a red eye white, bloodshot from a long day of focus.

Carrying on, vision cast forward in painted intimidation, I see a lady walking on the other sidewalk, a white silhouette. Her strides are strong, a white purse grasped at her side, each arm parallel with purpose.

As I walk, she glances back at me, her face just looks like part of her white silhouette, features unseen. For all I know, she could be glowing, my mind uneasy in the late night of morning.

She says undefined words which I question really exist, to the man behind the trailer. Maybe a partner, or accomplice of sorts, he saunters in her direction, keeping a decent distance. He halfway glances at me.

My hand squirms in my pocket and grasps one of my keys: a possible weapon.

As I am a few doors from my own, she stands mid intersection, facing me.

Eye contact, where her eyes should be; it might have been minutes, or seconds. I question if I’ll die, or maybe already have. She keeps staring.

Her stance is strong. Attempting to keep relaxed but intimidating, I never face her, heading straight to my door.

Her eyes bite into my back as my hands quiver, unlocking the door.

With a swiftness I didn’t know I had, I enter my apartment, lock the door and turn off the outside and inside light. Pretending to not exist, my heart pumps at full velocity.

Silence. White noise. My roommates are fast asleep.

As I blankly go through the routine for sleep, and find myself laying in bed, I stare at the ceiling in the darkness, wondering if I really existed in this moment. Did she really exist?

Is this reality?

With Waves

Planted in the small rocks, velvety waves breathe along the curve of his shins to the shoreline and exhale back.

Scents of sap, rock dust, and the water from the lake ease along the zephyrs, so light they are barely felt.

He is at ease, but something resides in the back of his mind, ready for when he leaves.

At this moment, as a family chatters in an unfamiliar language, no lucid thoughts are needed.

Worries walk through his mind, and out, as he finds himself transfixed by the slightest sway of the deciduous trees.

Looking Back to Look Forward (68-73)

Maybe you’ve been following me long enough to have seen one of these already, but I thought it was about time for another: Looking Back to Look Forward. As I am trying to get back into post-a-days, this seemed like a good time.

These posts are honestly mostly for me, and in case anyone has any interest in the meaning behind posts I wrote. I at least believe, I have become a better writer since my earlier posts, so some I talk about might not be the most polished creations. Feel free to just read me talking about them, but I’d also love if you felt like taking a peak to see if you can see the little diamonds in the rough of the pieces.

68. Racer Blood

In a nearby town, they have a small rodeo once per year. That year, my sister, her partner and I had decided to go. With that in mind, this post is initially just me writing about what happened in a pony’s perspective. When there, there was every size of horse, but only the larger horses did any competitions alone.

There is more to this than that though. It deals with the idea of having to accept who you are, and that there are limits to what a person might be capable of, and that is nothing to be ashamed of. It just requires figuring out what you can do. On another level, it speaks to the value of not only wishing for singular success, to be a star, but of valuing how you can feel just as validated by having success that requires a full team. In most cases, to achieve success, I honestly believe it requires more than just one person, even if it is one person who appears to be the mark of that success.

69. One Dies, One Lives

I was desperately needing to write something for a project for school and I made this. I will admit, I hope some of the mistakes I see weren’t handed in. I genuinely can’t remember if I ended up handing in something different. But, aside from the need for some differentiation of the two stories being separate and some awkward phrasing, I still love this piece. Maybe read it now if you want, before I start, so I don’t spoil anything.

The general concept I had in my mind was to write a story where you think one character will die, but find out the other dies instead, or was dead all along. Dead bodies tend to be cold, I wanted to play with that concept, to allude to him being a cold corpse, and the actual corpse being warm. There is also assumptions of people’s character from appearance, and I was trying to play with that a little, by making the girl who judged her boyfriend harshly to actually be more involved in what she accused him of doing. There is a tendency to paint boyfriends as the ones ruining relationships, and the cause of their failing, and I also wanted to flip that switch.

At the time of writing this, even if it is clunky, I really wanted to play with different styling, voices, and perspective. In particular, I wanted to give the narrator a distinct tone, and keep it third person (I had been prone to too much first person)

I’m actually contemplating doing a rewrite of this piece at some point, to make it easier to digest.

70. Cut it Out

This was for a project. The mission of the project was to create a found poem from children’s books. Specifically, I wanted to try and make it seem the reverse of child friendly, and wanted to take the words and make them darker, and elude to content for older audiences. This was way more fun than I had expected. It deals with mental crises, a character questioning how ‘good’ of a person he is, and the eeriness that can surround the night-life in a city with unsafe sectors at night.

71. Just Listen

I enjoy creating visceral pieces. Especially when in school, discovering more of the depths of writing, I would find pleasure in how gross and blunt one could be while writing poetry.

At the time, I was also feeling frustrated, because I have a food allergy with a lot of controversy that makes me feel very sick. I hadn’t realized it was the issue initially, so I had been sick for a very long time, to the point where people stopped believing me. But, I’ve never been one to puke, which is the ideal validation for proving one is sick. People are less likely to want to hear about the other end…

Long story short (short as this poem), I was frustrated in people not believing me that I was sick when I was.

72. Cup of Tea

More than a few times, I’ve written ‘random writes,’ where they are just random phrases that come to mind. I find it’s a great exercise to firstly try and use different vocabulary, as well as get rid of some of the fear of writing. This one, was a little more coherent, and honestly just sounds like a rant against society… But I still enjoy the exercise.

73. Cherished

I have no idea what sparked this poem. I might have even just found a picture of a can of sardines. My general concept was how there are things out there that many people might hate, but for the few people who will ‘cherish’ it, it makes them worth their investment by those making it available to the world.

As another side, this poem addresses how there are so many people who exist in the world (like sardines in a can), and that not everyone will love everyone. It comes to the concept of the artist, and that an artist gets their wealth from that bundle who loves their art, and not those who don’t ‘get it.’


Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my quick explanations, and I will try my best to start post-a-days again after quite the break. May you enjoy the ride. And, always feel free to comment, I love to hear from others.

Solitude: in Company

A buzz sounds from the fridge as a humidity compresses the motionless air.

Stomachs are half full with reactive mixtures. All that she thinks of is the past, while attempting to peel from them into the present.

Silent company packs their bags, and she says she wants to join with closed lips, but she is uninvited.

In the other room, door closed, a presence is silent and makes goosebumps on her skin, as she contemplates her option of leaving without going anywhere.

Slow walks, and three in solitude under the same roof. When she notices her breath, she also notices the two clocks ticking at different times.

Each of the three have very separate thoughts. One is flashed with the experience of her ‘accident’ from years before, contemplating how success works when just trying to pull yourself from sweaty sheets each afternoon.

Another is off to keep a friend company, slowly eager to help, running from her own processing and recent job loss: a wonderful personality, but doesn’t quite have the skill yet.

The final one sits in some unknown state, a mystery to anyone else.

Tomorrow might be the day for giggles and smiles, but today moves like a slug, stuck in its own slime.