the heart laid bare

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push
a strange distance
SWIMMING ALWAYS DOWNWARD
A ONCE-FAMILIAR LANDSCAPE
No Apology
the thunder
tinder
VERBAL PORTRAIT OF A CAT OWNER
critical shortage
the sky we thought we knew
CIRCA SOLEM
almanac
baby
dearest orlando
FIVE MONTHS
A LETTER TO THE UNDESERVING
cactus heart
would we
the fall of giants
paradise lost
Dad
after you've gone
time
a smile from the eyes
trepidation
why so cold
fix this
swallow me
untitled 8
insular
cry alone
robin
quicksand
laces
D.I.S.C.
stripped
waving goodbye
your open eyes
enemy within
mortal
untitled 4
sleepless
OUTSIDER
untitled 9
come dream with me
in the face of adversity
one word
the dark of the night
untouchable
one and one makes two
you burn me
see me
this shaken core
my lover
helen
my room
his words
foolish
rita
chalk drawings
the longest night
stupid skeleton
CLOTHES MAKETH
FIRST LASTS
STELLAR
TODAY
I WATCHED A MAN DIE TODAY
THREE WEEKS
this slippery slope
untitled 5
Arrows
First Kiss
The Talk Of Love
Nicotine
Blackout

this slippery slope

I fear that I am tumbling down
This slippery slope.
It pulls at me,
Grasping fingers growing more insistent
Drawing me ever nearer
To a place I do not want to go.
 
It beckons
The dark grows darker
And icy tendrils gather around my hands.
I feel the cold
Pushing me away from the people
Who watch me go, bewildered.
I see their mouths moving
Forming questions
I cannot answer.
I cannot even hear them.
 
Can anyone tell me whence this came?
Why the light suddenly went out,
Awakening the shadows I struggled so long to keep lit?
I re-light the flame
But now it wavers,
For I no longer know where to stand
To shield it from a sudden breeze that could turn a flame into a flicker
And a flicker into a mere smoulder
And a smoulder into a wisp of smoke in the darkness
Where I would sit alone
Waiting to be devoured.

© mjc 03 February 2013

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Biography

Daughter, sister, aunt, godmother, friend, public servant; self-confessed hermit, confirmed cat person, sporadic baker, irreformable yarncrafter, voracious reader; occasional wit, voluble shower vocalist, frequent sacrifice on the altar of brain-to-mouth filter fails, random shit-slinger, unrepentant purveyor of puns and dad jokes, writer and poet.

I have always lived by the theory that no matter what you do for a living - if you are compelled to write, if you wake up in the night to scrawl the contents of your dreams on a notebook beside the bed, if no event in your life seems complete without you recording it, if you are drawn to comment upon the world - then you are a writer.

These are my words.