Wednesday, October 14, 2015

Her novella

She's written a novella,
the writer who knows it won't sell

This is her rebellion

The world has broken too many things
smashed souls into pieces
the morality of the human race
lies shattered on the floor
but among the ruins
lies a novella
untarnished by an industry
whose vision has become clouded
by colourful paper bills

she lies there
at the mercy of her author
whose hands refuse to break her
to protect her from a world
that has already broken the writer.

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Ottawa to Montreal

If a poet looks out at the Candian countryside,
sad for each blade of grass she won't get to hold,
and each leaf she can only hug with her eyes,
as they travel past with no plans to return,
are her feelings less meaningful if she doesn't write them down?

Is it enough for her thoughts to simply exist,
or must they be translated into prose to gain value
so that others might understand
why a tree whose story she will never know,
can comfort her with its branches
and hidden roots,
tethers only the tree can feel
just like the poets heart,
a ball and chain only she can feel,
and no one can find,
unless she hands them a signpost,
like the ones she keeps passing,
on her way to a city she's never been to before

where she may find someone to tell her tale to,
so that she doesn't become a storyless tree,
alone in a forest of many.


Written somewhere on the road between Ottawa and Montreal. That countryside...

Tuesday, January 13, 2015

A poem

When the world puts a mask on your face,
It works as strong as mace
To hide all the tears
And also all the fears
Hiding underneath
Your angry, hidden teeth
The ones you can't stop baring
To a world that never starts caring
If it never lays eyes
On anything beneath your disguise
The one it's crafted for you
Without ever looking through
The gaps from which you breathe
To see the way you seethe
At the person it claims as its own
Who society has long ago thrown
Over the edge of knowing
Who it is they were growing
Before their roots were ungratefully cut
And their flowers shoved into a rut
So they could never again see
Who they were really meant to be.