security versus story

How much longer will I pad the dreams

of others who pay me daily.

 

Why is my vase full of distracting sand

instead of pebbles that count, that matter.

 

My true life skills, my singular gifts

are stifled in admin, thoughts of bills.

 

Striking out, writing stories down

feels impossible, crazy, waste of time.

 

And so I count, I help, I fix, I support

the sorry souls of others.

 

But when will it dawn that I could die

with my stories still inside me.

can’t or won’t be helped?

Your sigh is deep, you bleat your woes,

dump them at my feet

expecting me to pick them up

and hand them back, all fixed.

 

Something in the line of jaw,

desperation in your eye,

that carries age-old, deep-set wounds

I can never hope to heal.

 

I protect my ego’s sacred part

from your needy, devouring stare

forcing me responsible

for making you feel whole.

 

If I do that, it’s me who’s sucked

of life’s enduring force.

I trust that you can find within

a healing, hopeful resource.

 

You’re waiting for me to say the ‘right’ thing

while doing nothing yourself,

except switching off every light in the room,

shuttering your self from earth.

 

What sits in your impatient pockets

is an urge to cover your scars.

You expect me to be your fairy truth

and to wave a wand of stars.

 

But my truth is, honestly, more like the moon:

a beam in the night field of doom.

Take your needs, your pitiful looks:

sit, and transform them alone.

the bite of my inner wolf

inktuition wolf and moon

I’ve always been afraid of you,

since you first terrorised my dream,

sank your teeth into my innocent forearm,

leaving droplets of freckle blood.

I always leapt onto my childhood bed

knowing you lay beneath,

ready to reach out and swipe with a paw

any sign of vigilance weak.

The cool of your eye made me fear my blue

avoiding it as alien to me.

Better my red, to warn you off,

keep me safe from your knowing prowl.

And yet you haunt my waking life:

on your hind legs now, you smirk at my work.

As if you can’t bear for my truth to break free

you keep me caged in your mockery.

If you were my friend, I’d keep you my pet

to bite at my enemies instead.

Yet that’s what I let you do to me:

keeps me superior, smug, lonely, apart.

Wolves are meant to hunt in packs

so why did I get you alone?

Why are you lost, tormenting me so?

Do wolf and go howl at the moon.

(pic courtesy of nixxphotography/freedigitalphotos.com)

the one who gets under my skin

the one who gets under my skin

is needy, lays back,

waiting to be fed;

but what I put on the plate

will never be enough:

it’s too late, too meagre,

too tasteless, too wrong.

 

the most sumptuous feast

will never sate

the appetite that devours;

bones are sucked dry

teeth are picked

a sneer that reeks of menace

mocks my begging bowl

as I wait for a tiny morsel

of gratitude.

 

I won’t stop cooking for good

but I have to stop buttering you up

with dishes I don’t even like,

puddings far too fancy

mains that betray their true meat,

and sides that sell their soul.

I have to accept, finally,

that even the finest recipe

made to your exacting order

will leave me tasting your bile.

angry red sofa has its day

inktuition frayed leather sofa

The red of the leather, so plump at first

was anger at my loss of you.

A sofa bought on a whim and no prayer

landed in a space so skewed.

Seven years on, the rage has worn out,

as has the leather so sad.

What was once a feisty young thing

has withered to become an old hag.

No one wants her, she’s past her time,

that rage has burnt itself out.

All that’s left is the bits of her

that litter the vacuum’s tight butt.

the woe of the workaholic

for those never-repeat moments,

shame I don’t have space

is the love of who rubs close

what matters really

 

the time to figure out

life, and youth and heart,

it’s all too consuming, of

the allure of work

 

mood grumping

productivity slumping

I’m a weak iron filing

my desk’s a deadly magnet

 

A poem for Day 30 of NaPoWriMo: a poem in reverse (last line first)