Guilt

I don’t hate you because I want what you have. I don’t hate you. I just want to want what you have. For that you should cherish your own certainty.

The Medical Experiment

Life, at all costs.

What is it we’re really fighting for?

When death is imminent

Why do we try to play God?

Save a child, for what?

So she can live, incomplete,

A shell of a human

Too far gone.

Fix her up, heal the wounds,

So she can lie in bed,

Not aware or even there,

Simply the living dead.

Or heal another so she can be human

And learn to define a fail.

If you hadn’t intervened

She would be free.

You’re an idiot!

You put your morals onto me.

Life is not precious!

Don’t mock me.

If she begged to die

Would you refuse to pull the plug?

Stuck on life support,

Stuck.

We all die at some point.

What gives you the right

To choose when that will be,

To force the girl to fight.

Revelation

It’s the dead end,

I’m taking my final walk.

This time the feeling won’t pass,

There’s no more room to fail.

You’ll shine without me,

You’ll be better off.

I was the universe’s mistake

So just forget me.

No single person caused this,

No one event tipped me off the edge.

It’s about time I was going.

It’s time it claimed me –

It’s the dead end.

There’s no energy for life,

No reason to celebrate.

I cannot go on.

It’s the failure’s turn

She’s marked to take the prize

But even then she’ll never be

A winner in

Your eyes

The dead end looms

For now it’s invisible

To your eyes.

It will soon take me

And I will have

No more disguise.

Suicide in the Outback

Shall it be silence then?

In this heat

Where the vultures meet,

Condemned before we speak.

A country’s pride

Is killing our sons.

The bush’s laughter grows thin.

The farm is barren and silent

Until it hears its’ last gun.

Pride on their shoulders,

Beer – ‘the next shout’s yours, mate.’

It’s time to be tough; it’s time to get drunk.

The gun in his hand –

His father called him a poof.

He’s now as dead as the farm

But the silence goes on.

Generations of silence.

Ain’t this country great?

This pride, this need to be tough –

It’s killing our country –

It’s killing our sons.

It shall be silence.

This heat

Is where the vultures meet

To taste the flesh

Of those who were

Condemned not to speak

Discover then Delete

A story I wrote for a QCS writing task practice when I was 16. Enjoy.

It had been more than fifty years since she had first read the final letter from her sister. If anybody had tried to tell her beforehand what was going to happen more than half a century later to her own daughter she wouldn’t have believed them. Holding the letter from her sister brought back forgotten and painful memories. She had been sixteen the first time it happened; her sister had just turned eighteen. Caroline didn’t understand why her sister had done what she did and now why her daughter had also when she hadn’t even turned forty.

Staring at the brown paper, Caroline’s eyes glistened with tears and she realised she still didn’t understand. All these years hadn’t helped her to discover why her sister would do such a thing and now why her daughter would choose this path as well. The three page letter from her sister contained many apologies and explanations but didn’t ease Caroline’s pain and it would never allow her to discover why her sister had made this decision. What had really caused such feelings? Why had she not been able to prevent it? Was it her fault it had happened twice?

Louise, her daughter had left nothing. There were not explanations, no warnings to alert Caroline to her daughter’s problems. It was just so sudden. She had thought if she reread her sister’s letter she may discover some answers but that decision had been in vain. It had only ripped her heart out again. All she could see was her daughter on the floor with the last remains of life trickling out of her wrists in crimson gushes. Caroline felt more alone than ever. Her only child, dead; her sister, dead and she had no loving husband to reassure her. She wished only for answers but it had been more than fifty years and she had discovered nothing. What hope was there left of connecting the pieces of this puzzle?

Caroline carefully folded the letter and placed it back inside the trunk. She vowed never to reopen it, a promise she had made over fifty years ago. The trunk contained too many memories. She could see her sister’s favourite scarf lying underneath the photo album. All the pictures inside the red leather album were of happier times. Her sister’s smile reached Caroline’s eyes which immediately began to water again. There were no photos to explain her sister’s choice nor any memories within the realm of Caroline’s mind to help her to discover her sister’s pain or that of her daughter. They had both happened without warning.

Caroline saw out of the corner of her eye, a newspaper clipping. She couldn’t explain why she had kept it as all it did was make her feel even more isolated, even more alone. The article had been printed in the local newspaper after what had happened became local gossip. It had caused uproar. The town’s favourite violinist had taken a fatal overdose – it was preposterous, unbelievable but painfully and regrettably true. Caroline had faced a long, uphill battle after that. People either condemned her or avoided her. No one knew what to say and no one knew how to help. It had been fifty years but some of the town’s older residents had good memories and Caroline knew she would be set to face the stigma again. People would blame her for not raising her daughter properly and criticize her for not providing her daughter with a suitable father figure in the household when she was a child.

The diary in the trunk told only of daily routines and her sister’s musical pursuits. There were no feelings expressed, no concerns put to paper. Caroline could not help but hold doubt for the future. Her sister was gone and now her daughter too and she was left without answers. How could she discover the reason behind their choices when they were both dead?

Caroline could remember the blood. She could see her daughter lying dead on the floor. She could never forget that horrible sight; it would be permanently plastered into her mind; as would the scene of her sister stretched out on her bed with the empty pill bottles on her nearby desk. She could recall all that her sister had written that horrible night and she could only wish she knew the dying thoughts of her daughter. The answers to all those unspoken questions would remain undiscovered. She could remember the blood, she could remember the pill bottles but she would never remember the gun.

Silver and Gold

A poem I wrote when I was 17, can’t really remember what I meant by it at the time but here it is, hope it means something to someone.

All I can say is how do you know? When the last time you saw me you turned away. Never did notice, never did say. Cause the last time it hurt it all went away. When we’re screaming we have nothing to say. The last time it broke me – the darkness can claim.

Oh when we’re burning there’s no silver and gold. The mirror shall turn, it has nothing to hold. The last time I cherish we’ll burn through the night. Never regret the fast we can fight.

Herald the voices; they’re all full of charm. Never did break them, calm bitter calm. Can the promise believe me? Turn to the night of the morning so broken at first light. Cause the last time it hurt it all went away. Broken no promise but born shades of grey. When we’re screaming we have nothing to say. The last time it broke me – the darkness can claim.

Oh when we’re burning there’s no silver and gold. The mirror shall turn, it has nothing to hold. The last time I cherish we’ll burn through the night. Never regret the fast we can fight. Oh when we’re burning there’s no silver and gold. The fate shall switch, it has nothing to gain. The last time I celebrate we’ll burn through the night. Never regret the fast we can fight.

Hint to the morning. Born of the day. Every last moment was bitter dismay. No final farewell – they’re so cliché. Can we believe when we’re burnt in the fray? God be so gentle, shan’t be so true. The past it is over, never bitter new.

Cause the last time it hurt it all went away. When we’re screaming we have nothing to say. The last time it broke me – the darkness can claim.

Oh when we’re burning there’s no silver and gold. The mirror shall turn, it has nothing to hold. The last time I cherish we’ll burn through the night. Never regret the fast we can fight. Oh when we’re burning there’s no silver and gold. The fate shall switch, it has nothing to gain. The last time I celebrate we’ll burn through the night. Never regret the fast we can fight.

Oh we’ve been burnt - there’s no silver and gold. The mirror has turned, it had nothing to hold. The last time I cherished we burnt through the night. Now we’ll never regret – the fast we couldn’t fight.

Darling, what a slut you are.

“Darling, your bosom is looking mighty fine this evening,” Richard took a big gulp of his wine.

“Why thank you,” said Joyce.

“This wine is from the vineyards of Fortitude Valley, I daresay dearie.”

“Oh splendid indeed,” and she too indulged in the wine.

“What wonderful fate that we both are such connoisseurs of superfluously good wine.” Richard slipped in a sneaky smile.

“Oh yes, jolly old chap. Oh yes indeed.” She shifted her position in the game.

“I do hope the music is to your fancy, Bach’s music always has such a soothing undertone.”

“You old scallywag.” They both laughed ever so gently. “On the contrary, I would digress by saying that it is quite the opposite. Instead the subtler tones of Vivaldi or Mozart would create a mood that greater enables the stimulation of conversation.”

“Oh by golly you’re right,” Richard raised his index finger into the air then changed his mind back to the wine, “May I tempt you?”

“Oh please do,” and he poured her more wine. By this point they were both getting a bit silly and improper. “Oh what would the neighbours think?”

Richard shook his head. “Mrs Turner has gone to the lake for the weekend; she will not trouble us with her idle gossip. Fret not, my lady.”

“How often do you visit the village?” She took one delicate sip from her wine.

“Kedron is two minutes by public horse and cart; I daresay I venture there at least once a week depending on my appointment schedule.” 

Let’s build something.

One piece at a time.

November. It’s a fascade.

Enough to placate.

Let’s build something.

As quick as we can.

March. It’s a pain.

Enough to desire something new.

Let’s build something.

So we can tear it down.

September. A train.

It’s how we pretend that is.

Let’s build something.

And pretend that it is real.

November. A beer.

Screams and vicious lies.

Let’s build something.

So we can tear it down.

January. The beach.

Dancing and screaming and crying.

Let’s build something.

So we can be delusional.

Dysfunctional.

Determined.

Deteriorating.

Dumb.

Danger?

April.

Let’s build something.

Let’s build it up, break it down.

Through it forth and let it drown.

Let’s build something

And find a hole so we can pull it down.

—-Tunnel Vision—-

I have tunnel vision.

The road.

The middle.

I don’t know if I could feel it.

It’s a beautiful destruction.

We know.

We see.

But we can’t taste it.

It’s a blur.

So strange.

So unsure.

We have but we can’t like it.

I don’t see either sides.

Loss.

Confusion.

I know so little.

Gin and tequillia.

Temporarily safe.

In the middle of the road.

I have tunnel vision.