Taking Back Control

We are fastened to one another by fraying knots.

Mottled steel. I want to rid myself of you.

Shrug you off like a winter jacket on the first day of spring.

Breathe relief into the heavy air as I feel you slide away from me.

I don’t want you to be happy, I don’t think you deserve it.

But is there even a you to begin with? Are you sentient? Are you real?

Because you are not true. I know that much.

I know that you can make me feel unworthy and small.

I know that you have the power to change me.

Shift and model me into whatever your will suggests.

I know that this control you have over me is no one’s fault but my own.

I know that life would be much cleaner, much healthier without you.

You whisper insecurities in my ear then shout them to the world.

You tell me it’s not enough. Nothing I do is enough.

I reach for happiness and feel my fingertips graze atop joy’s ruffled edges. Just as quickly gone. You’ve pulled me away, back to reality. Back to misanthropy. You stunt my happiness in ways you’ll never care to know.

You will take and take and take until I am a husk.

An empty shell awaiting orders from its owner.

Because eventually you will own me. My person, my spirit, my life.

You are a festering sore upon my back. You cultivate deeper into me with each passing day. Each passing hour.

This is why I must bid you farewell dear ego. For it is no one’s fault but my own. These deep seated cries of sorrow you sow.

I cast you away from my soul, as I have so many times before.

No longer will I allow you to live at the forefront my will.

No longer will I let you inside my common sense or rational thoughts.

I will leave you stranded and wondering what happened.

Alone and desolate.


But how long will it last?


When the Word-Floors Collapse

A pressure that is dainty but daunting wiggles in through my ear disguised as hopes and dreams of a rewarding future.

I wish I could tell you why I am so frightened of it.

I wish I could explain why I am terrified of the words that pour out of me like syrup globs over big round pancakes. The way they fall out of my brain and into sentences and paragraphs and stories.

Because the prospect of them dropping into the meaningless places, the void, frightens me the way the fox frightens the chickadee.

The idea that these floors upon floors of connected words will end up meaning nothing. That the anecdotes are flat and the meanings meaningless leaves a pinprick hole in some subterranean part of me. I can feel it expanding. I can feel it growing.

And the words are plummeting into this black hole now. Lost to the bottomless anxiety of the deepest clefts.

So I put fear around it all.

It sort of encapsulates my person like a blanket tossed upon the shoulders of a nearly drowned woman.

The terror shrouds me.

But I manage to push it down or pull it out or maybe I just banish it away to a nowhere place just long enough to rid the dark self-doubt from my mind.

Then I begin to regurgitate the words once more.

I remind myself that I am not my fear. I am not my insecurities. The words are terrifying as they fall out me, but they are also my liberator.

Glass Surface

Some days my life feels like a vast ocean.

Stretching far across a skyline

That seems unending. Daunting.

Tasks pile up. Unread books

Upon a dusty shelf.

Waiting for someone to pick them up.

Waiting for someone to sort it all out for me.

And somedays it all appears to be too much.

The bulk of obligation buckles my knees.

Wobbles my feet.

I wonder somedays if I can lasso it

Into regulation.

Can I compact the monthly, weekly, daily duties

So they become attainable?

Tie them into a routine?

Neat and tidy.

While floating over this sea of responsibility

Moons passing. Water droplets detach

In skyward propulsion.

And the anxiety melts away,

Fat in a red-hot pan.

Starlight glimmers off the tasks

I once obsessed about.

Now casting perfect shadows, lengthy as the threats

Of incompletion which worried me moments before.

Handsome. Disordered. Ruffled chaos. Beautiful disaray.

Bliss peeking through slats of agitation.

Fence posts of contentment erected amid

Goals for future days.

And it occurs to me that most days,

This life-ocean seems vast and unnerving.

But it also builds dreams upon its glass surface.

Head Sloths Slowin’ Me Down

The writing stinks today.

Like a musty towel

Left too long

In the machine,

The smell

Sticking to everything

It touches.

Grey fog hugs my brain.

Fondly fondling


Like play things.

Altering and misshaping

Past memories

Taking away all

Semblance of


Head Sloths,

Lazily hang from my

Prefrontal cortex.


In the

Inability to care

About the production

Of new words

Becomes me.

Their giant claws

Tickle soft tissue.

Prod at the fatty

Flesh of my thoughts.

Elbow away


Jabbing the muse

To distant future days.

Removing the possibility

To write well


And the words.

The words


Slip away, to that

Place where

Dark clouds never

Dissipate. Unable to



The words creep out of me

Smelling cheap and decayed.

The writing stinks today.


Bad Poetry

How many bad poems does it take to craft the one?

The one that will stick to you. Stick to your reader,

Sweet and aromatic like the air of a bakery

Early in the morning.

How many bad poems must bleed

From the fingertips of those who yearn to write romantically?

Those who crave to produce one piece of the verse

Which will evolve into something universal; carried over millennia

Brisk and untouchable on the invisible airstreams of literary fervour.

Ejected thoughts sinking skyward.

How many lines must be toiled over?

Ripped from the mind. Scoured at as though it were a dirty dish

That had been left to scab. Removing the crust. Picking away the bad.

Bad poetry is everywhere.

These pages are filled with it. Brimming and busting at the seams

Unsuccessful imagery.

Flat blows of ornamental language.

Bad poetry is the way we text and speak

The way we move through society. Bad poetry is universal and always.

How many bad poems does it take to craft the one? And who chooses which is which anyways?


Conquest – a micro fiction

Great round globes of metal

(Or something that is quite similar)

Hang in the air, lifeless.


Magnificent silver oranges awaiting

To shed their peels.

3 days. 7 days. 10.

Clear skies one day

The next mere slivers of blue

To be seen through rounded

Pewter worlds sprinkled skyward.

As though they had been there


Now we are the crazed insects

Tiny and insignificant

Dazed by fear

While patiently offering

Our fate for a few more minutes of life.

Pulling tiny pieces of existence off

Future days, wrapped up tight and safe

In these unfamiliar entities

Casting shadows earthbound.

They appear unwearyingly satisfied

To silence

While the weak (though once thought to be victors)

sweat cold sleet

Over goose pimpled flesh

On the inescapable ground below.

The Cold Cuts Clean Through

Snowflakes (too many to count so I will simply pluralize)

Fly through the dim lamplight outside my living room window.

Live ice particles by the millions slice through glacial twilight.

Severing a once healthy semblance of a sunny future.

Restorative measures will be taken

Once the storm has run its course.

Life rages outside this frame. Battles of survival frenzy for stability.

Hostility winning, taking shape.

Sculpting future days in the brain’s wavelengths

Forever flurries disco-hop over my thoughts

Like lethal icicles dropping from a building side façade

Exploding upon impact with the frosted ground.

The sound of wind through a keyhole

Wakes me from this reverie and the

Flakes still fly outside in their icy state.

And I, must brave the storm.


Read to me, you.

I wonder. I wonder, if you and I were to read the exact same line of poetry would we see the same thing? On the surface, yes. A linear stroke of verse written to satisfy collective logic. A sentence.

But deeper down, where irrational thoughts rest like tadpoles in a still pond  I suppose it is most likely that the words are made up of biospheres. They are unlike each other at all. They have different meanings, different shapes that take base from one brain to another.

The significance of one sentence, loose and languid may fall upon my subconscious like raindrops popping on cement. While sticking sternly, unrelentingly to the wall of yours for later use. For later amplification.

Ideas will worry away in some inside tunnel, diverse and hot, forever wandering if not quelled with common sense. They wrap themselves around the way we walk as we mull them over in our thoughts on the bus, at the party, in the supermarket checkout line.

One line of poetry can make a difference. It will change me internally. Capture a small part of my existence never to be returned. While these words breeze by your eyes like the white feathers of a dandelion on the air once they are touched to a child’s lips.

I have come to realize that it is the words who decide. They choose their captors; sinking their sights into unsuspecting souls who are merely looking for a quick read, some rouge knowledge, a bit of word to tide them over until their next fix.

One piece of small familiarity is all it takes. An acquaintance of time or space or person or feeling or language, and the sentence has taken you as its own.

This is why reading is such a miraculous thing.

Ideas transferred from one paper, one screen, one diner napkin old and coffee stained to the mind’s eye of the reader. Instantaneous, infectious. Soapsuds bursting under a running faucet, ideas pop and float into the atmosphere slightly changing the way we forever imagine life to be.

For me at least.

How about you?


Short Poems because words are rad

Eyes part,

Tiny slits through weary lids.

Memory floods recollection

Collections of images, words, hopes, dreams

Forged to the surface

Whitewashing, rapid

Rising upwards-faster until everything has drowned.








A finger twitches to life

The day’s list hangs theatrically

Upon imaginary hooks in the brain

Reminders of life and promise

And hope for the future.

Tokens on giving thanks

To daily duties.








The feeling does not wash over her

So much as rise to the surface.

It is slow, sticky.

Painfully meticulous in its quest

To be made known.

Honey falling from a bottle

It will soon make contact.








Disaster is a curious word

Pain transferred to one place for another

A caustic arctic upon

Once lovely landscapes.

Cries of sorrow carried loud and long

On the languid backs

Of words to come.









Resiliency drives the human race forwards

It’s the only thing.

Optimism in the face of adversity.

Purpose pushing limits.

To stand up, speak out,  spring back

To life. To hope. To moving. To being.

To free fall into the unknown is an exquisite thing.






Sticks to the roof of my mouth

Like toffee on teeth.

Or maybe it is more like

Tar to feather – Impossible to remove

And resulting in total annihilation if attempted.

One who exhibits bravado, heroism, flamboyance

A swashbuckler.

I awoke with this word,

These 12 seemingly simple letters,

Bathing upon the outer layers

Of my brain.

It may have been the word

Which woke me up in fact.

Startled me out of submission by

Tiptoeing up the steps of subconscious

Then cannon-balling directly into the heart of my cognisance.

Making coffee, walking the dog,

Scrolling over social media mayhem


Does not ebb from my mind’s eye.

It aches to be written over and over again.

Or perhaps only once.

A word like that merely needs one moment,

One cameo doled out accordingly

To steal the show.

Words like swashbuckler were made for writers,

Who else would appreciate their sumptuousness so?










You and I,

Sipping slop from red solo cups

Signing songs of love and lust

Under a blanket of twinkling gas orbs.

Ablaze with thoughts of what might be tomorrow.

Our bodies curl into each other.

My desires for future days dribble outwards

Into the frigid air of an optimistic summer night.

You speak of daring dreams.

The skin on my arm becomes goose-flesh as you touch me

And the both of us silently wonder

If that was from the chill air,

Or something more profound.

Your heartbeat tangles around mine.

And as though it was of no consequence at all,

The two of us, become “we”.



Here we are,

What seems to be

Ten minutes later.

Laden down with worries that stop us from breathing easily.

The baby is shrieking for no reason but to hear itself shriek.

A pile of unpaid bills is tucked away in cupboards,

Away from busy minds.

The two year old just shit his pants

Taking no regard to the hours of toilet training we pandered to last week.

We are tired but still

An hour commute is screaming at you

To get a move on.

However, you can see the smog of panic that just set in

Somewhere above my right temple.

It leaves me teetering on the precipice

Of a breakdown.

You don’t want to come home to find me

In the bathtub bawling with a bin of Ben and Jerry’s,


We wonder if it ever gets easier.

If we will ever find our niche.

We wonder if “we” are strong enough for this.

Can we make it through?

Can we defeat the doubt that begins to creep in from the corners

When the arguments over family, money, work

Builds this wall between us?

Will it wear us down?

Will it ruin us?



Here we are,

Sullen and sad.

Looking out over sacred green fields

Holding each other close

Anxiously clinging to memories made

With loved ones now gone but not forgotten.

The rigid crackle of leaves upon stone

Reminds us that life is precious.

Life is fast.

A magpie flies overhead and I look up to you.

Your jaw is ridgid, strong.

Your eyes, like always, are soft.

Without looking at me you reach for my hand.

Hours later, after sermons have been said

And our deepest regards given,

We hold our children close.

Despite them being at the age where that sort of thing is frowned upon,

They hold us back. For that, we are always grateful.



Here we are,

Bones brittle from years spent existing well.

Our hairs have turned like autumn leaves.

Our lives caught up in photographs

Efficiently arranged in a desktop folder

Named, “The Good ‘Ol Days.”

We sip tea spiked with whisky

From bone china once meant only to be looked upon.

We laugh and cry for days sped past.

We wait for the phone to ring,

But not too eagerly

Because we still have each other’s company.

A dreadful thing that nags at our innermost thoughts,

At the inconvenient times.

As I am reading my favourite Atwood story,

While you are looking up some current event

That spiked your interest.

We try not to think about that future.

It is a lonely idea.

Instead we pluck away through memories of

Bringing up babes, career days, accomplishments

The glory days.

I walk over to you and without thought,

You reach for my hand.

I get goose-flesh up my arm

Just like the first time,

The two of us became “we”.

Watch “Critic” on YouTube


We’ve got critics.

Cynics in the crowd that are mocking our every move

Peering at us with tight lips, fists that are gripped, and a hat-tipped gaze.

They are reviewing our inherent and unwary ways.

But days pass by and we still carry on.

Even though we are worn

From words, that Mama said would never hurt us

Our purpose is determined

So we will stand strong with courage-

Attempting to be unburdened by the current.

Because we’ve got critics

Skittish mimics who slink along in shadowed places

Picking on races, faith and, well, anything basic.

It makes us brainsick to watch their archaic ways

It could be hysterical, if it wasn’t so damn hateful.

But we will bear it, refusing to fall short

Sorting through the refuge and waste

Until we uncover our own sacred place.

And there will always be critics

Keyboard warriors who stand strong behind

A cyber interface—

A birthplace for anonymous and unwarranted hate

The gateway for nonsense to be transformed into

Plausible weight.

And that’s okay,

Because it’s not for us to berate

We need not be skeptics of this forlorn state

If you listen to one thing I’m going to say

Know that judgement is addictive,

Evicted imaginings from predispositions.

All that is envisioned from our haters own

Sordid inhibitions.

They will try to steal our happiness, our wisdom, our faith

Our unending conviction for our futures fate.

Yet we will choose to turn away

Continuing to plunge forwards in our freethinking ways

The negative haze will not discourage us

Only give us strength.

Because we will forever have these critics

Cynics in the crowd jeering our actions with a hat-tipped gaze

Crazed by the fact that we’ve forged our own way

Using their rules

As our own personal foreplay.

We will be brilliant

The players of our age

However disgraced by those who couldn’t accept the change.

Engraved by some as the outcast

…But by some as the brave.

And the naysayers indeed in the end

Will inadvertently show us what we need to see.

So we beg of you please

To all of our critics

Never quit us.






Identity Renting: The Illness of Infatuation

The year is 2093- a newfangled fad called Identity Renting is hot on the rise. It is a privately funded program where individuals with enough cash can walk into a laboratory and within minutes become fully immersed into another human beings body & life.

It is typically a recreational venture that lasts 2 to 24 hours long. Participants are said to find the experience mind-opening and exciting.

You can choose to be anyone you’d like that is listed in the Identity Renting directory. The statelier of a person the more expensive they are to rent. One registers themselves to be in the Identity Renting directory. Sometimes they do this for the publicity, or money, or simply interest in the program.

This is one human’s journey through the steamroller that is Identity Renting.


Now before I begin- please don’t get me wrong

I love who I am, I love my own song.

But there are some times when my mind

Gets to thinking

And I ponder the possibilities of change and


Strange and unnerving when the idea first hits the ear

But truly and utterly, they tell me, there’s no need to fear.

To walk in the shoes of your best friend or foe

To understand what it’s like to partake in diversified flow.

It all sounds too interesting and exciting and neat

The deed of publicity is all-around great.

Yet ominously I hear in my left waxy clogged ear,

Side effects may include- profuse sweating,

Bed wetting,

Everlasting loss of memory, extreme swings of mood and mind

Not to mention the slight change of getting

STUCK in recipients body and living out the

Rest of your days as someone that is not you.

And of course, like always, possible death.

But we live to take chances and try things that are new

So now I will begin to ponder the more important question of who!

Who can I be, who will I chose

To hack into their life to become my VERY personal muse.

I could be as witty as Ellen De G

Or try my hand on a throne as a prominent queen.

I could be mysteriously handsome like the talented Depp

Then no one would think I was a miserable schlep.

What if I could sing notes reminiscent of footsteps,

In new fallen snow-

Creating wondrous imprints wherever I’d go.

With the voice of an angel so sultry and sweet

The attention I’d get would be no difficult feat.

I could be tough- a right bitchy ol’ broad

And no one would mess with me in fear they’d get clawed.

I flick through this directory of thousands of lives

And wonder if the word ‘hijack’ is much too contrived?

Once I delve in to this rapidly unnerving heist

My body too will be hung up, valued and priced.

At any moment I could be caught unaware

Be locked in subconscious while a stranger takes over my stare.

Upheaval would sully my everyday life

Chaos taking over- resulting in nothing but strife.

And for what?

For a few extra kicks?

For a few hours of unaccompanied bliss.

For a rush of triviality. For a rush of the new.

I am willing to toss all that is true?

Because really I am a pretty wonderful catch.

I’m talented, funny, and all around fresh.

I’m bright and adventurous, I’m audacious and cool

And to become something I’m not would make me a

Self-sacrificing silly old fool.

If I am quite happy in the skin that I’m in

To change that would be the most awful of sin’s.

I won’t do it, I can’t! I will be myself and be free

I will live in the life I was meant to be.

But wait…OH NO!

I’ve waited two minutes too late

And I find myself sealed to a table of fate.

Men in white jackets encase me in fear

There are no soothing voices, no settling cheer.

They work with quick fingers- their goal in plain view

As I try to explain what I do not want them to do.

But as hard as I try my words are all mute.

My body no longer is a pristine working engine

The last thing I view in that room

Is a large multi-colored injection.

And as my mind fuzzes over with the influence of preparation

I silently curse the illness of infatuation.