Skip to main content

spring in lockdown


i don't usually write anything before my poems, but i thought this deserved a comment. this was intended to be a prose piece but i'm usually incapable of coherent thoughts and decided to just keep writing until i'd said everything i wanted to say. i'm finding lockdown is hard and i just wanted to talk about it. so here's some poetic prose


spring is fleeting yet eternal. we are constantly waiting for its arrival. it arrives loudly and leaves quietly. cherry blossoms are encapsulating and overbearing and gone within days but for two weeks the earth is decorated with dancing pink silhouettes stretching across the sky. the relief from winter and the prerequisite for summer, spring works hard to bring the earth back to life. i think spring started not long ago yet i have hardly seen it from the smallness of my window. an appreciation for my garden has inexplicably grown as high and strong as the flowers climbing the bricks of my home, without it i might have never have known winter was over. the golden glow on my face is too warm at the suns peak as if she is taunting me, she knows i am forbidden to leave. everything is beautiful and we cannot see it or touch it or smell it. lockdown. i am locked down in the one place i didn't want to be right now. the end date is not in sight it is just out of my reach and snatched from beneath my feet whenever i try to think positively. constant toxicity. berated on the daily. i read somewhere you need four hugs a day to function and eight hugs a day to grow so i wonder where zero is taking me. i sleep in a bed with my mother every night yet there's no warmth or peace beneath the covers. wanting personal space is selfish and yet i am always in the way. my things feel foreign on my side of the room they're confused about how long they'll need to stay boxed up without a place. everything went wrong so quick. i'm in a constant state of missing. i miss my room, i miss my degree, i miss the smell of starbucks coffee. i miss walking at night, leisurely. i miss being embraced, fucked, and kissed. i miss seeing friends, and holding them close whilst we talk and talk and talk. i miss the constant support. i miss holding my nana's hand whilst she tells me she loves me. i miss being on the brink of something, i miss normalcy. and i know nothing will go back to normal after this and that's the point, and we'll all look after each other a little more and love a little harder but this constant limbo is destroying whats left of my mind. i'm scared of what comes next. i'm scared that i'm not being productive enough. i'm scared my mind isn't going to make it. perhaps this will be like the spring. it arrived loudly. it made it's presence known and sent us inside. it took people. but maybe it'll leave quietly. maybe it is the prerequisite for the summer of out new lives. maybe we'll be able to stop missing, and start doing. maybe this will be fleeting but it's effects will be eternal.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father        i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father        but  my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father        these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father         this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...
Post a Comment
Read more

i can only write when i am thinking about God

 I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust,  guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty  God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me,  most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God
Post a Comment
Read more

crisis of faith

  and when i meet god   i will ask him why he punished me on earth by denying me the pleasure of being known by anyone other than him intentionally, innately, irrevocably known in a way i could have remained silent forever   whilst always being heard  i will ask him why the world kept spinning as i screamed and spiralled into the sins he’d laid out for me  for me to fumble in my guilt on my knees, raw from repentance and retribution who is to beg for forgiveness now? and i will apologise to my mother  for carrying her burdens in my womb  it was her first time too, on earth longing for something she’d never known  please tell me i did it right, that i made you proud  please tell me i lived how you wanted me to give birth to me again and i’ll try harder would it heal you to see me leave, or would it hurt because you never did  will i see your face one day in the mirror and touch it to feel your skin and i will ask you if you could not love...
Post a Comment
Read more