• dark poems,  poems

    a mum’s vow

    ink on paper, hand on heart
    we all must die – so give me a head start.
    i’ll skip along ahead and ready your room
    six feet under, i’ll prettify your tomb.
    when it’s your turn, i’ll unlock the soil –
    the quicksand will churn, your bell will toll.
    you’ll find u have perfect eyesight, and no need for food
    but if your worries haven’t ceased, u have died a fool.

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  • poems

    ephemeral

    salve for my soul, ’tis I found
    through a wanderer’s solitude, an instance profound.

    for all that is gentle, boundless and true
    only borrowed never owned, made briefly anew.

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  • dark one-liners

    red ink

    she stabbed a pen through her eye and felt better, for at least that was a hole she could understand, punched in the frustrating sieve of her mind. and that red pen bled over reams of paper in pretty scarlet scrawls. one eye was all she could afford so she stabbed her thigh, to ensure the ink would never run dry.

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  • poems

    aunt aggie’s poem

    wound up tighter than a ball of yarn;
    at the end of the day i unravel
    and come completely undone.

    wound up tighter than a ball of yarn;
    at the end of the day you unravel
    but you will not come undone.

    all that i am, homeless without spool
    i’ll take and wind round and round you
    i’ll be the comfort i never got
    i’ll give you what i’d always sought

    all that loose thread, just waiting there;
    so if you’re falling apart at the seams
    i’ll hold you together, I will care.

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  • dark writings

    the magic carousel

    Every turn of the carousel muffled merriment, until all that was left was a silent, spinning wheel, the rictus of a Kabuki grin on the face of each mute, horrified child. Every turn of the carousel shrank them, till they became little matryoshka dolls put out and sold as souvenirs.

    At their lifelike details people marvelled, and to the fair people took their kids. And the carousel cranks up again, neverending, always revolving, always reeling children in. And the dolls sit and stare, noiseless except when they fall from tiny hands and break.

    Look into their eyes, look at your reflection, and see that you are but a dream of the stolen child, conjured up in a mind and living a life that doesn’t exist. Blink. Realise this. Then fall, break, and come alive again.

    The end.

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