, , ,

Just a small piece
You’d barely notice
And the porcelain is still fine
It’s still usable.
But still that piece is missing
Just one chip that can’t be fixed
I’ve tried glue
A new piece of porcelain.
The chip stays
A part that can’t be filled
Broken beyond repair
But still functional
Still looks ok to everyone else.



, , , , ,

It can’t be
Nothing ever is again 
Any tear or contusion 
And there’s a difference
Unchangeably so.
One can’t be like the other
One will never be like the other
And while you can repeat it
You can’t recreate the past.
Your current mistakes won’t
Rectify the old ones.
Today’s bandaid can’t heal
Last year’s wound
It’s not.  It can’t be.
One of these
Is not like the other.



, , , ,

I cried an ocean.
Wells were filled
Buckets of my tears.
Thirsty children drank them.
I heaved and writhed 
With a pain I didn’t know could exist.
I tore at my hair 
Scratched at my skin,
Tried to rip myself in half.
I lay quiet and still
I screamed and wailed.
I found peace.
I exhausted myself and found 
A quiet hollow
A refuge to lay my head.
Encircled by strong roots
I slept a millennia 

Rested myself whole.



, , , ,

I fight at every turn.
Always so difficult and contrary.
I push and I wrestle,
Always testing.

I don’t settle, I can’t be quiet.
Being still is hard.
Then you disarm me,
Glue me to one spot.

A hollow of calm,
A rock in turbulent water.
Waiting me out
Knowing I exhaust myself.

A quiet clearing where I can rest my head.
Maybe I don’t always have to fight.

Echo and Narcissus


, , , ,

She could only ever mimic
Hearing his words
Repeating them back
Never having her own.

He could only stare into the pool
Seeing nothing but himself.
He was rooted to his features
Staring further into himself.

She longed to call his name.
To speak it, have t on her lips,
To cry it out, scream it.
Have the comfort only it could bring.

He longed for the love
Of his own reflection.
Wanting to be adored,
Wasting away for adulation.

She adored him as he wished,
But being so consumed, he could not see.
She wasted away with him,
Watching limbs turn to roots.

Slowly he perished.
Permanently rooted to the spot.
If he had looked away,
She would have saved him.

Echo came to him then.
Plucked the flower he’d become.
She pressed it to her lips and turned,
Going to her own end.

If only he had known.
She laid in a hollow, holding the flower close.
The wind carried her away,
To least repeat the voices of others.



, , , , ,

I broke into a thousand pieces.
Cracked and jagged,
All sharp edges and splinters.
Shattered porcelain.

You stepped through them,
Like a coal walker.
Feeling nothing beneath your feet.
You closed the door and left.
Said you didn’t have a dustpan.

The glue that put me back together was weak.
I shattered a hundred more times until,
I found balm to not only rebuild;
But to heal.

Few cracks remain, though some spots are fragile.
I sit now on the shelf,
I can bear the weight of a thousand loves again.
I will never shatter again.



, , , , , , ,

Ordinary is for the masses.
I crave passion and fire.
Beauvoir and Sartre, Héloise and Abélard.

Two minds too quick, two hearts too hard.
The push to inspire, to bring greatness.
The love to temper insanity and bad ideas.
A melding of souls, the creation of an empire.
Creation fuelled by passion, lust, love,
Equal minds that challenge and provoke.

I crave, I want. 
My Voltaire.