writer

Wrung-Dry

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A little pressure with a twist,

might seem painful at first,

but maybe it will do my soul

some good.

What’s the worst that can happen?

The tension acts upon you more,

the longer you carry it.

And catharsis takes shape in many different ways,

but it’s never a walk in the park,

never a spring breeze.

It won’t come easily,

but if it did,

would it be worth it?

Only when empty

is the vessel most useful,

put down what you carry

if it has become too burdensome.

You are stronger than you know,

without what holds you back.

If it must hurt,

and sometimes this is so,

know that the pain is so much better,

than what preceded it.

Revolving Door

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Wherever I am,

I can’t get past it.

I’m back at the start,

seeing the same faces

off to the races.

All of us convinced,

we’re moving along,

getting ahead.

You’re either in, or you’re out.

Follow the flow

of traffic,

come along the bend.

The circular logic

exhausts me,

as I tight-rope walk

between a rock and a hard place –

a quantum superposition

of entering and departing

all at once.

The means

always seem

to justify the ends.

Sorry, other way around.

It gives me pause,

but not enough to stop me,

as the walls nudge and I continue to shuffle.

Where do I go from here?

Complicity

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You’re free to air out

your grievances as you see fit,

but all that means is that

every one gets a chance

to look them over.

The stain is plain as day

ingrained in the off-whites

of your eyes,

it permeates —

it’s in how you carry yourself,

how you react.

And you may try to hide

but the stench travels

for miles.

Don’t be surprised

when you get sniffed out,

it was bound to happen.

Your hands are dyed

and your hands are tied,

but fingerprints, every so often,

paint very clear pictures.

You didn’t start it,

but you didn’t end it,

and now the egg on your face

will not simply come off.

Eat the frog,

eat crow,

do what you have to now

to cleanse everyone’s

palates —

for your sake.

Decay

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The picked flower dies,

but not all at once,

it must first live

with what you’ve done.

It will spend some time travelling,

wrapped in plastic sheath,

until dropped into a beautiful vase,

filled with stagnant water.

And it will hang on,

hang on for dear life,

it will take in what it can,

it will persist.

Home is where

you are

and the rain isn’t.

Yet even with the niceties of climate-control,

the roots have nowhere to go,

in this final resting place.

Leaves shrivel and brown,

like they’ve been fried.

The stalk curls,

turning brittle and bald

in time.

Petals fall,

one by one

and crumble to dust.

Another day of atrophy.

Time heals all,

as it lapses,

until you too collapse.

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Autophagy

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I’m tired of sweeping it

all under the rug,

of not acknowledging

the harms of an abundance

of clutter.

Yet I am a collector,

every broken piece, loose-end

and so on,

has fallen about,

my feet

regardless of redundancy.

I”m not comfortable enough

in my own skin

to leave it on —

too disgusted with myself

to pick all the empty suits

off the floor.

I’ve yet to come to terms

with the simple fact

that self-preservation

comes by way

of a controlled burn

at times.

With that, I curl my tail

all the way back,

and start to gnaw.

It’s all going to the same place

anyway.

In the Flesh

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I wish the fire

in the pit of my stomach

would warm my heart

during cold nights,

but the heat

doesn’t quite

travel that far.

I belch up smoke,

because I am only skin and bones.

My Achilles’ tendon,

sore and raw

from javelin wounds

that won’t heal,

because I can’t stop

picking at the scabs.

I am only human.

If only I could

power wash

the spaces

between the folds in my brain.

Unravel it, rinse it off

and wring it out —

but it has to stay

in the case

because it doesn’t travel well.

I am the sum

of all my defective parts,

inextricably stitched together

with connective tissue,

take me or leave me.

Generation Loss

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Forgery begets forgery,

begets forgery,

to the point that

even the watchful eye begins

to doubt itself.

Infinite renewal is not

continuous preservation —

what we forget accrues

and crystallizes.

The patina looms

the colors wash-out

and dry-up,

leaving behind bleached bones

and shadows.

Gaps grow

into gorges,

cleaved apart by

refrozen murk.

Even garbled noise and static,

is buffed away

by graininess.

The record becomes the message.

If you wanted to see it so bad,

you should have been there

when it happened.

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Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

Trash Compactor

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Only with destruction

am I preserved

for time

immemorial.

Every straggler

and bedraggled castaway

congregated —

a formation,

a phalanx

of immovable objects

loitering.

The hangers-on

hanging out

a little too close for

your comfort —

sorry for any inconvenience.

But we were pressed to this,

left to our own

devices.

We’re just like-minded

and fit together

so perfectly,

with a little coaxing.

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Instagram: @thefilepile

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On The Record

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Hello WordPress readers!

I have exciting news to share, I will be recording my creative work, and will be posting those recordings on my Instagram.

In large ways and small, this is the culmination of my vision for this blog. I’ve always wanted to incorporate an audio element and now you can hear my work straight from the horse’s mouth. I am that horse.

Below is the first installment!

If you enjoyed that, please do consider following me on Instagram too. I will, of course, continue to post here on WordPress as well.

Thanks for reading, and for listening 🙂

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Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile

Echolocation

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Soaring on

streams of consciousness.

I’m speaking up

speaking up —

even if you’re not tuned-in.

Haven’t you heard?

I’m broadcasting

so that one way

or another

we’ll find each other.

I’ll spread the word.

Come dusk

we’ll find a spot

with great acoustics,

and sing our hearts out.

I’m speaking up,

speaking up,

because I have a voice.

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Instagram: @thefilepile

Facebook: The File Pile