She was all mandalas
and peace signs, a free
spirit dancing on the
graves of our society…
Category: poetry
The Week My Grandmother Died
The Week My Grandmother Died I screamed at my mum to get the car, and carried my grandmother down the stairs. I prayed for the first time in a over a decade, to a god that I don’t believe in. I muffled violent sobs with a beach towel in the back yard. I did not… Continue reading The Week My Grandmother Died
The Emerald Isle Herself
The Emerald Isle Herself I packed up my whole life and movedoverseas for her. Granted it was more likeacross the pond, only two hundred andtwenty-six miles, but it was two hundredand twenty-six miles out of my comfort zone. To a brand-new country, where they speak thesame language, only there it sounded morelike a song, and… Continue reading The Emerald Isle Herself
Speaking In Tongues
Speaking In Tongues When I say I’m cleaning what I mean isI’m going to cleanse, wash the whiskey sweatingout of my pores, the smell of bad decisionsand cigarette smoke ingrained into my hair. When I say I have a meeting, I mean I have toget out of bed this week, open the curtainsto the blinding… Continue reading Speaking In Tongues
Soundless Fights In The Middle Of The Night
You say: say what you have to say! But those words echo in my mind because you are not ready for the deafening tone of the words that are spilling out of my eyes and you do not understand what I mean by your eyes make me want to skinny dip in the ocean and… Continue reading Soundless Fights In The Middle Of The Night
Dentro da Minha Caixa de Recordações
Side note: Today is International Grandparents Day. A while ago, before my granddad died, actually, I started writing this poem for him. Today I translated it into Portuguese and although this is a first draft, I’m proud of it and wanted to add it to my portfolio. I understand a lot of people won’t be… Continue reading Dentro da Minha Caixa de Recordações
Changing Seasons
Changing Seasons In a city where every day is a miserable December evening she makes me feel like July.She does to me what summer does to trees dresses my branches in life and colour, andholds my proud roots firmly into the ground. She’s the hot chocolate to my crisp autumn morning, our fingers entwined inside… Continue reading Changing Seasons
This Tiny Town
This Tiny Town This tiny townis a thousand tiny towns. It is culture dominated neighbourhoods, and neighbours sharing thousands of cultures. It’s poverty, and petty crimeand dangerous.It’s mass produced children trying to be big,bigger than this tiny town.
A Shot of Tequila
A shot of tequila You are the shot of tequila thatI know I will regret tomorrow but still, recklessly I throw salt onto my wounded soul pour you down my throat, into my bloodstream, and take your lips in mine, as if my life depends on it. As if they are a slice of lemon.
High
Yesterday I smoked poetry, I
rolled metaphors into a blunt
and got high on the first stanza…
