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.
Time flies
Mosquito bites
Something I wrote is bugging me
I’ve never been I patient fisher
Ah, but I miss the days I could
Fish. My big brother would
Do that for hours like days
Time flies
See? A new batch of flies
Fun fact: they live for, like, days
Time flies—urban flies
See how “the world” has changed for good?
For the better? Says who?
Was that the wind of change long foreseen?
Oh, fishy days—
Looking back at fishing days
When even then, I searched for older days
Trying to pintpoint the point of transition
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 