I walk through the rain for something to do

I am bound to the bed

I have made in my head

it’s too warm and too small

not much comfort at all

but it’s here that I lie

as the day passes by

I’ve tried to get up

but I’ve tried’s not enough

so I watch the sun pass

through the curtains and glass

think of what makes a day

when I last felt okay

wonder why I’m still here

having nothing to say

the world is on fire

I’m a funeral pyre

looking out at the mess

from the edge of my nest

knowing I am not cursed

and it could be much worse

but I still want a match

and I still pray for rain

and when I fall asleep

I’ll still wake up again

a plastic bag of clothes

the morning comes. I don’t want to pull myself into another day of the charade. come tomorrow I will feel the same and still decide to play again. still looking for sense. I am the punchline they forgot to tell. 

the bed weighs heavy with a dream of being held: I fell in love asleep with someone stuck in my subconscious. they don’t exist now I’m awake and I have no one else to blame. more comfort is found in the lovers I dream than the worlf that I wake to each day. sleep is not enough to fuel the drive to look for more. I say things need to change. my bones are weak and worn. the body is a plastic bag of clothes I want to give away. 

on what you wrote about our will

and so I surrender

what I recall and all I am; 

(assortment of dreams and vital organs

screen time and shopping lists

and feelings I’ve forgotten

in a body I could live without)

waiting in the rain

for the doctor to call

on my knees by the lights like a dog

begging for a bone

or a spell to take my will

and wash away my name

tell me what it takes

and give me anything

I’ll swallow any anticurse

if you can’t fix me

with a blessing.

today can be a friend

the day can never disappoint without the aid of hope. if I can breathe and want no more, today can be a friend. there is a choice to greet tomorrow with nothing but a smile: with no agenda there is freedom from believing in the clock. to surrender faith in meaning is to transcend disappointment. what can hurt me if I choose to hope for nothing?

the thought is a print of a painting I love. I’ll hang it on my bedroom wall to push me closer to the world I want to live in. it watches me work to sleep to work again. there is irony in dreaming of the choice to never dream again. through the eyes of the mirror I claw at the privilege to play with this thought of never wanting. I can watch the world and children burn and still lose more sleep for myself and my thoughts of the doors I can’t reach. the reflection is repulsive and I moisturise his face.

numbers in the calendar weigh days as though they matter. there are photos of a face I miss and dreams I should abandon. I hope to never hope again and still I wonder where you are. we walked through the city in the rain one night. I don’t know how much you remember. letting go makes sense in a world that moves on. it is easy to miss. it is safer to forget. I have loved an idea for too long. a memory is a memory is a memory. 

strangers I’ll remember

there is life in the shell where I dream. every night spawns a new path forged for freedom from the blind climb by the stream of sardines through the subway to their desks. escape for a moment enough to forget. colour bleeds through sleep into stories I write for myself with words I can’t find. glimpses of people and places I’ve known give way to new worlds and foreign feelings. I crawl in unfamiliar skin. thinking costs less and I can move through space and moments unfatigued by hate or hurt. every night is something different and the tune can always change: I greet joy and fear as strangers I’ll remember when I wake. now is forever and suns never rise. there is life when I dream to forget where I’ve been and the mess of a self that I’ve left on my bed.

from the sidewalk

at the rally they talk about consequence and there is still faith in the belief that truth will triumph. the people fill the streets and shout in anger for the children we are killing with our taxes while we sleep. onlookers stare confused from the sidewalk. a child blocks her ears in the footsteps of her parents to the shops. we chant our way back to where we started and disperse until next time. tomorrow we will wake to more of the same: what was once outrageous is expected, and we carry on to work and sleep between the strikes and screams we have the choice to hear. I tune in when I can muster space and time for more than diseased thinking and myself. the bombs will rain regardless.

the train runs late. I stand with strangers on the platform under the city we share in common. we look at our phones and the billboards across the tracks. they’re selling holidays and smiles and ways to pay for them later. I scan the wall for answers and there is nothing I can buy to fuel the change I need. the tools are hiding somewhere but I am tired. every day weighs heavy with excuses and a weary helplessness within the world and my own skin. we make sense when we can between the dreams and how things are. I work to wake in the same bed and do it all again.

out of reach

the day starts late. I choose to sleep with no alarm and dream. when I rise and shower the house is too warm and I am alone with nowhere to be. I take out the bins and boil the kettle and look for any chance to fill the storm of empty moments to protect them from my thinking. there is time spent in the store and the cafe for coffee to bring to a friend selling clothes across the road. we talk about missing and misunderstanding people out of reach. she asks if I’ve been writing. I tell her I still try. back in my room I draw my brother sleeping on the couch. the afternoon lingers with the heat on the light through the curtain. an hour reading on my bed about the death of self and ego: I see myself and hear my voice and want to crawl into the pages.

when the sun descends I leave the house again to fill the pause and feel the breeze. on my run I pass the foyer of a play that didn’t want me and a party on a hill a friend had said I should attend. I feel inadequate in every sense and way I am despite the space I try to make for what should matter more. on the edge of potential I can’t reach any further. knowing all I’ve learnt and hate about the world and how I am I still wind up tangled in myself and what I lack. the camera rolls and pans although the script is out of reach. control is an illusion: I surrender and wait for the rain in the dark.