Us.

Us.

You.
with your pretty clothes
and your satin faces
and your hair all done up
nicely.

You.
the centre of the universe
shining so desperately
caught up in the
rush.

You.
part of the tribe
out of your minds
always wearing the
war paint.

Us.
the sharp edges
the ones you didn’t want to touch
the ones that don’t need
anyone.

Us.
the ones that never quite fitted
the ones you whispered about
when they left the
room.

Us.
the awkward and the sad
scraping through adolescence
tripping over their own
insecurities.

Us.
we’re very sorry
and very tired
of trying to be like
you.

(Written when I was twelve. I was right.)

Mannequin

Mannequin

You’re beautiful,

they say, but

they’re all lying.

Your soul,

your body—

they’re all buying.

Behind the masks

of guilted shame;

under the knives

that stunt and maim.

Scrape away

cosmetics and

plastic smile,

that slips

when choking

back the bile.

Sobbing out the

strangled fears.

Squirming from

encroaching years.

Searching for praise

in devil leers.

Poor girls,

poor girls,

stick thin, too fat.

Laid bare across

the welcome mat.

Crying—their mascara

runs.

Crying—for a world

undone.

I'm sure everyone has felt this way at least once in their lives.

Like everything's warped and nothing's sincere and the expectations are just too much.

Don't let them win.

Daddy

Daddy

Somewhere somewhere in my mind,
I’m sure, somewhere, I’ve got to find,
Someplace, sometime when you were kind,
A smile,
A word.
Something.

But your smile never reached your eyes,
And all your precious words were lies.
And now, only now, I realise
I wasn’t ever
good enough
for you.

I cried so many tears, unseen
For what never was, what should have been
You never heard me sob and keen
You refused
to even
listen.

You watched me, Daddy, as I bled.
Your eyes like claws inside my head,
And I only wish you’d said;
Please…
Don’t cry,
I love you.

Sportsmanship

Sportsmanship

He takes my hand;

warm and tight.

Meets my gaze,

fair and square.

The ball rolls

next to his foot.

He ignores it.

Then he grins.

“Well done, mate.”

The breeze— playful

ruffles his hair,

ruffles the grass

across the green grass

of the playing field.

I mirror his smile;

bright thoughts,

nice words.

Forgetting that—

just a second ago,

I was ready to rip his head off;

just for that ball.

(Heh. I don't like sport either.

All my poems are snide protests against SOMETHING.

That's just the way things go.)

The News?

The News?

Staring at the words,
clinical, detached, silent.
Headlines larger than life,
blankly screaming all-too-real horrors.
But what do you care?

Pain printed in black and white,
Handlebars for grief.
Numbing wounds as they rot and fester,
simplifying hurts that are anything but simple.
But what does it matter to you?

Life, love, agony,
Broken down into sentences,
for anyone to examine.
You can read about it for a dollar,
but no money will buy you understanding.

And as you wipe the ink
from your unscarred hands,
wonder what it’s like to be a horror story.
To be today’s news
and tomorrow’s kindling.

Poem number two was written on a bus to Melbourne.
I don't like reading newspapers.
Can you tell?

Introduction

Introduction

Welcome, my dear reader!

Welcome to the trove

of weeping trees and jagged seas

and ancient, mossy cove.

Lose yourself, dear reader,

in the printed pages

of thrashing words and chiming birds,

threaded through the ages.

Come in, come in, dear reader!

Leave this world for another,

where feelings flail and whimsies sail

‘cross depthless lakes of colour.

Watch their tears, dear reader,

down like walls are tumbling.

See through their lies and touch their skies,

and read their fancies fumbling.