A Personal Tragedy

The ever growing audience waits outside the closed curtains,
And I stand on the stage, in the spotlight that never darkens.
I can hear their whispers, their shouts, their every breath
Resonating in my head, conjoined with my thoughts
And I try to find my peace and remember my piece.
I can’t remember, and the fragmented memories are like broken glass –
Transparent and only visible if I touch them and turn them visible
With my bloodied hands, covered in sin and tragedy.

Temptation calls me to open up the curtains, to peek through
And see the masses that call my name but
I am afraid, and I am so tired of the constant noise.
I wish someone would tell them that.
Maybe then they would be quiet, and allow me to pick up my pieces
So that I may continue my performance on the stage I know all too well.
I have truly made it my own, and although I have largely been its sole witness,
Every memory, shout, whisper, each piece of broken glass adds to the decor
And sets the tone for my thoughts.

I did not open the curtains, yet, despite my curiosity.
Another man takes my attention, and I finally notice him
In the broken mirror and I see that he is me.
A broken smile breaks my face,
As I barely recognise the eyes
That look back at me,
Glistening with tears after years
Of standing on this stage
With the closed curtains.

Glances that Last

Every look, every glance
Makes me wish it could last
Forever –
This moment
That I look into your eyes
Passes but I know
We won’t and that you
Will stay in my arms,
As we float here in the sky.

I won’t let go of you
My love.
My heart is in your hands,
And your heart is in mine.

Deep Blue

Floating on the open ocean,
The waters rise in my boat
And I heave bucket after bucket
Just to keep my head afloat,
But the rain won’t stop pouring down
From the heavens above.

I’m imagining the sun above the clouds
And its warmth touches the rain –
Its taste turned to bittersweet melancholy
That touches my lips and my tears
Join the ocean when the waters
Cover my neck and choke me.

The ocean takes me in its loving embrace,
Their hands – the memories that kept me in place
Now gently cradle my face,
And I see you there, too,
My creator, my God,
That brought me the rain,
From the heavens above.

Icarus and I

My wingspan humbles Icarus –
And oh, I understand his flying tragedy.
I have flown so closely to the sun
And my endless flight has left its marks on me
But now it feels as if I am falling as he did
Till I crash into the Earth as he did
And let my last breath leave me, as he did –
Yes, it is the same downfall as Icarus:
The failure of fathers.
My father, my god, my creator
Created my waxed wings
And stabbed them into my back
Where they still hang today.

My heart burns, and it only intensifies
The heat from the sun
And I just wish the fire would burn out
So I can finally see him again,
And ask why
It had to be me
And ask why
I had to bleed endlessly and fly
Only to want to die
From the day he gave me my wings.

The Water’s Call

I am standing on the shore –
Back again on those rocks
Where I would sit and think
About life, and why
I wanted to jump
Into those deafening depths.

The water still calls my name
Now, and it pulls me
By my soul and I join the tide
In its patterned uncertainty.
I’m not sure of anything, anymore.
So this is where I’ll stay for a while,
Floating
Along the shore.

A Death in the Living Room

Written late at night, inspired by the blue lights that briefly lit up my room.

My father spent his last three days with us, lying dead in the living room. Winter had only just ended. Although the snow had melted and the sun shone warmly through the window, my father still felt so cold. His face was frozen in a peaceful expression, as if he was thankful he could finally rest. We were told that after his heart gave out, he likely only felt pain for a couple of seconds before he was off. I wonder what he thought about in those seconds. 

Maybe he asked for forgiveness.

Maybe he thought of us – his two boys of five and seven, his wife, his other son, his daughters… maybe even the cat? I don’t actually remember him interacting much with the cat. Honestly, I don’t have many memories of him anymore at this point. 

But maybe he thought of the ones I also still remember: how I would squeeze the skin on his hand, between his thumb and index finger. How I would walk on his feet, and he would make me feel as if I was taking giant steps. Or maybe a memory from the photo book, where he held me as I slept in his arms, under a tree in the Amazon. Or maybe it was a tad less dramatic than all of that.

Either way, he seemed to be at peace, at least. 

He lied in the living room for three days, give or take. We painted his humble coffin – his final resting place, with cars, stickmen, clouds, the sun, our names, and every other thing we could think of. We did not question it. After three days his coffin looked rather lively, with all its drawings and colours. 

I even talked to him sometimes. I would just tell him about my day, or about some other small thing. I do think about how it would be to talk to him now if he was in front of me. I would probably just cry. The thought of it already does, anyway. If I really think about it, I don’t think I would say anything, honestly. Any question I would want to ask him would be met with the same dead silence I faced all those years ago. The dead silence I continued to face after he was buried. The dead silence I still face. For some questions, the answer will never be enough.

My father spent his last three days with us, lying dead in the living room. Winter had only just ended. Although the snow had melted and the sun shone warmly through the window, I still felt so cold.

The Giver and Her Lover

She’s the eternal giver,
But what can I give her
Apart from my torn apart heart?
I continue my blindedness – my not seeing,
And allow the intrusive thoughts
To rule me while I try
To sift through truths and the lie
That says that all I love
Will fall apart
And all that I live for
Will leave me as my father did
When his young heart stopped.

My heart continued to beat, however,
And be beaten year after year
As it suffered tear after tear
Till it became the mess it is now
With all its stitches and scabs.

How could I ever be the giver
And not only give her an equal,
But be her equal
When all I have
Is this beaten, beating heart?

Off-beat Heartbeat

I don’t know why
I do what I do
And think
What I think
When I drink
And sink down
Into the misery,
Down into the mystery
Of what it is
I want when I want
To live and break free
Of the me I should be
And be the me I want
To be,
That I see
In my soul
And what makes
Me whole and what
Fills this hole?
Is it love?
Is it life?
What is the endless
Strife, for time –
To be fine,
Or to just
Be okay,
And to just
Wake
Another day.

Yes, that is it
The way out of
The pit,
And so I shall stand
And no longer
Depend, on this temporary cure,
And of that,
I am sure.

The Pain of My Shower Drain

Oh hi there, my shower drain.
I see you wear your hair differently, today.
How it looks so different, after the rain
And all my sweat and dirt and conditioner
And how it’s conditioned you to have hair
In these showery conditions.

I had my suspicions, that something was askew
When from your piped oesophagus, I smelled a certain brew
Made up of what should be in bins,
And all my terrible sins
That washed through you.

Come, I’ll give your hair a rinse,
Although, with a slight wince
At the confrontation of a strange sensation
And being faced with the proof –
An undeniable truth:
That my shower drain used my shampoo.