people tend to want to be called a paradox
and i guess that is cool
but there’s nothing romantic about
staring at the sunset, miles away from everyone
with your car engine quiet and friendly,
thinking about revolutions and all those
aritcles you read this morning about politics
and the planet shattering day by day;
there’s nothing romantic about
dancing around in your kitchen,
thinking about how useless your existence is
to the issues of the world, which need your help and
his help and her help and everybody to wake up;
there’s nothing romantic about
painting the sky and lounging about,
thinking of all the times you keep breaking your own heart,
and there’s nothing romantic about
wishing you were not at one with your own self,
wishing you were a pArAdOx

time, summertime

summertime which tastes like

lips which taste like oranges,

which taste like laughter and shadowy cuddles at 2 pm,

which begin to taste like sunsets and the sunburns of a day,

which begin to taste like the driest eyelids which taste like peaches,

which means happiness, right?

summertime which tastes like cherries, strawberries, raspberries,

and all the berries that your nan could find and mix with 10kg of sugar,

in order to fill jam jars, car boots, and soul boots, and bellies.

summertime which tastes like lemon vodka, white wine, and secrets at midnight,

which means comfort, right? perhaps, maybe even liberty and the absence of solitude,

although, not exactly because Solitude is always within you.

summertime which exists in the form of moodboards in your brain,

because it doesn’t really exist at all, since it’s all in your head really, and you don’t really know

how to deal with the emptiness

of the streets at night,

of the people, which you’ve turned into homes for your soul, but without their consent.

summertime which happens with yourself, somehow

inside and outside of it.

summertime which leaves you longing for rain because nothing ever is enough,

and the sun is but an annoying cousin that leaves you longing for some shadow, or some ice on you belly, to fight away existence back to its hole.

summertime which brings people and which doesn’t bring people, who share secrets in the face of a puddle, who get drunk on the smell of linden and the excitement of colours.

summertime which doesn’t make sense since time has stopped and everything that is happening within or without you is not real (can’t be real/can be real/is it real and if yes then oh my days)

Images pt.2

A/N: I wrote a poem a while ago about images I had of me. I didn’t know what they meant. I wanted to write a new poem about images. I still don’t know what they mean.

Me, in the face of the
little girl on the train who sits in the middle,
cuts out the heads of footballers while the
whole world around mumbles down on her.

My reflection in the lights of the city,
the view of the street from above;
bad wine tastes perfect enough
but burns me whole.

Me, making pesto pasta in a beautiful kitchen,
for a beautiful friend, after a beautiful day,
which makes me wonder
if the concept of stress is fake news.

Me, walking down a foreign city,
falling in love with peace and self-care,
giving my heart away
to places and moments.

I am torn between
what is and what might be.


The three dead sparrows

I wanted to write a poem
about the three dead sparrows.
I would’ve compared them to
a sad face;
a sad trumpet;
a broken heart;
a lonely day.
But their death is more
than what you do to me;
and it’s more than a tool for me
to create a poem,
to tell a story,
or to show an image.
The three dead sparrows
will be left unremembered
and unrevenged.
My poem doesn’t do justice
to the way they stopped breathing,
losing their selves to the
Kingdom of Sleep
to the way they bled out by the canal,
and the world was still;
to the way their eyes closed
accepting their faith.
Dear sparrows,
I’m sorry.

There are fireworks outside and I’m bored and feeling stuff

I sit on my window sill and gaze at the darkness
Fireworks bang and crackle behind the trees
Some of them are shy and some of them
are fearless
And I am laughing out loud
Because I am happy
I feel every boom in my chest
And I remember how kissing you for the first time felt
Exactly like that
I love you
And the thought of kisses
Makes me melt
Here sitting on the window sill
And I melt
And I’m melting
Down the wall and onto the pavement
Where people step on me and don’t think twice
But I’m smiling
And feeling every fire
work inside me