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

sleepless

I have too many thoughts.
They marshal in the forefront of my mind,
Screaming at me all at once.
Too many things
And I cannot focus on any one of them.
The noise is deafening.
 
The world around me is sharp
And harsh and jagged.
It bruises me as I move along my way -
There’s no buffer here.
No respite to soften the edges that cut into my flesh
And scorch my eyes.
The uncomfortable feeling of standing too close to the sun,
And breathing in hurts
Like when a match is struck too close to my face.
 
Every sound, every light, every irritation is magnified a hundredfold.
The papercut becomes a mortal wound,
The telephone a technological cacophony.
I wonder if this is how it is?
Are we permanently wrapped in blissful ignorance?
Is the fog an easy lie?
Is the only time we are truly aware
Is when we’re sleepless?

© mjc 27 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.