on perfect Perfect is what perfect does, It molds lies into half-truths, Photo filters and fake smiles. Perfect is what perfect says, A blonde girl and a venti cappuccino, Half skim, half whip, half-truth. Perfect is what perfect feels, Like a mask that doesn’t quite fit, A dream half-realized, half -perfect, half-true. Advertisements
Sleepless still, Not much has changed since my girlhood: Late nights and longer sleeps That drag well into the next day. Lunch is breakfast, Dinner is lunch. Rush hour is 2AM, The hustle and bustle happening in my brain As I scramble about the house, Writing stanzas and washing dishes. Bothering the boys in the…
Gardening. Solace can be found in the mud, Your hands in the soil– Uprooting and rerooting– Pulling weeds can be like pulling teeth. Why are you so afraid to blossom?
I can’t wait for school to start So I can dissolve into heaps of studying; So my brain can expand, Rather than caving in onto itself– Thinking and overthinking– Until ideas become mush And memories become clinical dissections.
His heart opens with me Though, their hands pair perfectly: A love triangle.
A baby monster: Young and naïve still—yet, wise— Rising like the moon.
Do inebriates simply bathe in the booze they drink? Is that why the Friday fog is so heavy around them? Or is their hand-eye coordination so altered by drink that they miss their mouth and mop spills up with their shirt? It’s funny, because despite those missed steps, slurred speech and leering eyes, the drunken…
A trio of strong women Lit candles in my honour And sang love to me. I sleep and dream And awake Anew.