i could never keep a journal

i could never keep a journal
or a diary
anything with a beginning
a middle and an end
whose lines must consist of reality
facts without a shred of uncertainty
it all felt far too grandiose
to think my life was worth writing
let alone reading
as all diaries ultimately are
by stranger or by lover
to be critiqued
and compared
to inspire
yet i could never get the words out
the voice was never my own
i spoke as anyone other than myself
anyone more interesting
captivating
groundbreaking
in contemplating
than me,
a third person who remains a mystery
is it not enough to write impulsively?
on emotion
on accident
in haste and in love
letting feelings rise above
the un-writable normalities
for a poem written in a moment
of passion
or foolishness,
of despair and of hate
will last generations longer
even if just for an hour
at a time every time
these poems are not just mine
they're in everyone
i just write and write and write them
once in a while
a journal in short lines
yet the words will time and time again
be read in my voice
or theirs
it's a choice
i may not be relevant for years
but for now i'll share everything
my hopes and my fears
until someone makes a connection
and adds me to their collection
of poetry to read impulsively

Comments

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...

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

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...

my love

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