Adult life sucks.
When you’d have the strength
to fight wrongdoers,
to keep your stance,
you’re just too busy
dealing with your traumas,
battling your demons,
feeling like the one to blame‒
every other day.
Any other day I’d write a wonder.
Not today.
—
There’s no use…
misused.
I could have used
a little help.
—
At times,
I can’t help but cry.
What could help but try?
—
A lot more to say;
This isn’t where I end‒
only where discretion starts.
—
Gaslit mind, mine is blind.
Sunlit eyelids, covered eyes.
Afterimage, booby prize.
It couldn’t be any different,
Out of sight, out of mind.
A snap of a finger (hypnotic drive).
Brainstorming impulse; cloudy eyes.
While karma’s a bitch,
trauma is its son.
Creativity is a burden;
It might as well die.
All the photos I refused to take,
All the group photos I was left out of,
Aren’t making it any better;
The negatives neither.
Myrciaria cauliflora—
A remarkable and
Unmistakable aura.
Look at them berries
Clung to its trunk.
Just like you, once tied
To your mother’s apron strings.
There you were yet again in your backyard
Hands stained with juice.
Little did you know that
These simple things would mean the most.
Photo by Felipe Setlik | flicker.com
Reveries That I Call Poetry 