between a bullet and a knife

poetry, suicide, depression, mental health, bipolar disorder

it’s just like a gunshot

these hot words in my head that force
blood to move

for once I am not tar

and the girl on the back of this page
she is certain
I will find a way

she sings it “goes on and on”
and it will

If I don’t stop it myself

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He Will Not Follow Me

He swims like a whale,
through life,
inflated,
blubbered up from pomposity.

He is all.
He creates territory
and torture.
I am followed.

To the outskirts, I dream –
puffed up on Winter
drugs, countered
by a pulse
that refuses to let go.

All the while, He is made,
poaching my land,
harvesting my seed….

and then they say it’s HIS plan,
so HE takes it all from ME?….

The season will change again,
as seasons often do,
and I will settle firm
inside the Earth,

where He will never follow.

 

 

Fountain Of Confessions On Amazon

fountain of confessionsFountain Of Confessions

    Fountain Of Confessions is now available on Amazon and Amazon Kindle. I look forward to hearing any feedback on it. Thank you so much!

    How To Sleep In A Gutter When You’re Not Dead

    Curl up raw, stranger. Where is your
    husband’s thick pockets?
    You must be one of those different
    colours.

    I’m dead on my feet, you’re
    sleeping in the gutter. Five days
    in February – we both struggle.

    Half a dozen snowflakes
    ring the city, one man
    hangs high above the river
    two blocks down –

    I can’t get my gown down
    when I hear the secrets –
    you shiver under the ice
    and I like it,

    biting my bottom lip, I’m nervous
    for the next move.
    Who’s it to be? Me or You?
    All is well and dead on this side
    but you look alive –
    try to get a grip around your neck, but
    you slump over
    the cold.

    Where did he go with his large gloves?
    Are you beating like a cat fish or more
    like drums?
    Your colour is looking frozen.
    Don’t pull those tears off too early or
    you won’t recognize me.

    I’m sorry for you, sister, losing
    in this land, but when I see your secrets,
    I tremble from a cursed realm
    and I am ready to fade into the big city,
    9 o’clock,
    locked up with something like a vacuum cleaner
    and let you go.

    Little Golden Girl

    Sounds like you are lost
    right behind where you are almost are
    What are you doing here?
    Swiping what I have to say about that?
    It is I,
    making sure that no thieves take the golden honey
    from the hives.

    We all are natural friends to befriend
    the bees, but you have lost your way.
    On the way, your treasure melts
    away into a way to let go.
    You’re almost there, save me!

    Honey for everybody!
    I hope I never see another world
    covered in seagulls.
    The bees are enough for me.
    Little golden girl
    you are perfect
    in your comb
    waiting for the right time to
    find your way to where you almost
    can be.

    Mosquito

    Where does this come from, this sand in my head? Turn me upside down, let me start over. Or no! Fill me with water. Let me mix into mud. A grown sculpture standing still forever.
    The baby sleeps on his knees, a peaceful meeting place for angels, while I shake over sounds buzzing around. The devil is here. He flies on tiny wings, hovering over my head. Do you smell him? He is clustered with dust. The baby just turned. He struggles for breath. The balance is off today. Its all in my head.

    Mosquito

    Where does this come from, this sand in my head? Turn me upside down, let me start over. Or no! Fill me with water. Let me mix into mud. A grown sculpture standing still forever.
    The baby sleeps on his knees, a peaceful meeting place for angels, while I shake over sounds buzzing around. The devil is here. He flies on tiny wings, hovering over my head. Do you smell him? He is clustered with dust. The baby just turned. He struggles for breath. The balance is off today. Its all in my head.