what we learn from who we hate

The person I hate

is like a piece of sellotape:

stuck to my fingers

and won’t let go.

A voicemail vitriol

is like an online vicious troll

even from a woman old

enough to know better.

My buttons pressed

I’m trying to guess:

is it what I resist

continuing to persist?

I fear that her tone,

all imperious and throne

is what I’m like when cross.

Hiding loneliness and loss?

my ambivalent feelings for snow

inktuition snow

Oh, when you’re meant to be there

you don’t bother turning up:

(Christmas).

The whole world grinds to a halt

from two millimetres of you

(London).

You rock up when we don’t need you

and kids want to throw you around

(school run, 30 minutes late).

When you grow old and dark,

my heels and tyres slip warily on you

(icy reception).

Yet the fragility of your freshest flakes

makes the air a magic twinkle

(trees and fresh snowprints).

And being snowed in for days

while annoying, is freeing

(sound of your silence).

the deadness that lies beneath

The deadness that lies beneath
any anxious, depressive days
is worse than any mayhem,
any stress or mild dismay.

It stinks beneath the floorboards
lurking like a snake
that slithers in insidious ways,
reminds me I’m a mistake.

I’d no idea what I was defending from
when I partied teenage nights,
or worked so hard and pushed myself
up those well-paid, giddy heights.

But the fall was swift and brutal
and it keeps on bashing me blue.
There’s no respite from relentlessness,
just many more reasons to rue.

And so I’ve looked into that abyss
when I’ve felt I’ve had enough.
Weighing how I’ll escape it all.
How, finally, I’ll be snuffed.

discovering the point of me

inktuition the point of me

I’ve been apologising for oh so long,

as I explain and cringe my choices,

that I lost the point of me.

Born, I was too much crying,

too many nappies, too much bother

to feel there was a point to me.

A child, I was told I was far too messy,

warned to be good and stay quiet.

There was no point to me.

Teenaged, I was never allowed my style,

was asked did I think I looked good in that.

I cried and searched the point to me.

Studied, I gained diplomas, degrees,

which I thought would make me whole.

Looking back, I wonder the point in that.

Grown up, and business gave me power

to manage, to lead, to create.

My star waned: what was the point of me.

A mother, a new life with other fertile ones

I thought would give me meaning.

Playground bitches destroyed the point of me.

Stressed, I feel the yawn of my heart.

Pleasing others from dawn to dusk:

who would ever make a point of that?

Broken, a life with a faded façade

and scaffolding all torn away.

I start to vision the death of me.

Darkened, I think of ways to loosen

my grip on this mortal soil.

What the **** was the point of me?

Soul-bound, I’m saved from today’s maudlin.

Tomorrow I’m not so sure.

What’s the point of staying here?

Awakening, I take a daily breath

that surprises me each morning.

The only thing that keeps me alive

is the point one day I’ll believe in.

the pain of my undefended self

Party girl persona no longer protects

the sad, lonely being within.

Lipstick helps to fake a smile

that brightly distracts my suffering.

Mask of success no longer serves

to boost my life-weary ways.

What are accomplishments anyway?

Not as if you can take them to the grave.

Extravert energy no longer helps

when I want to retreat from the world.

People just jeer at my fistful of faults

as into a ball of shame I curl.

Being just me is never enough.

That’s why I look ever outside.

Within my walls is a dark, blank hole

that is waiting for me to die.

inktuition black hole

(image courtesy of Kheat/freedigitalphotos.net)