A Hole in the Brick Wall

Walking towards work; dreaming about being rich, staying in bed, champers for breakfast, bending our legs together, and trying out the waffle maker.

Reality floods back and I realise my skirt is too tight; the Covid Spread, like a Biscoff addiction, gone wrong, has me in its hold.

Walking down the ally towards the office, noticing the Passion Pop bottles placed randomly near the old broken door, and feeling university nostalgia coming on like an awkward chance meeting.

Turning back, I see the brick wall, and a door leading to more bricks, pipes, a hidy hole for one. A cat passes over there looking for food in the bins, and I feel sad; humans shit me sometimes.

Standing in an ally, hoping no cars come by to take me from my thoughts, and staring into the magical Dandewrong wall portal, hoping it will take me to another dimension; away from the grind.

Nothing happens. It is a hole in the wall, and nothing more. Then I look again and think this is only a reminder of the crumbling history we once knew. Crumbling history before our eyes, as this place becomes something else.

Heartless Society

We were the ones always taking action,
being the first to break taboos,
never afraid of what others thought.

Now we hide behind computer screens,
cook food most people will never taste,
think about moving up the social ladder.

We got caught up in a materialistic society,
moving closer to aggressive, heartless society;
fighting to make another dollar, and survive.

A Daughter

My ovaries laugh when he says kind things, yet they won’t get the chance to see you come into the world. You will be born of other parents, and I will remain barren and alone, or is it just the hormones telling me lies?

I have struggled with the choices I made for a few good reasons.

I struggle without my imaginary daughter; then I wonder if she came into the world, it would never be as I imagined.

There’s too much horror for broken people like me, so we:

mature later,

laugh hard, and

hurt more

for so many long-winded reasons.

I see the socially acceptable normal ones, the ones who have it all. I see them, and then I look deeper.
Cracks lay across the picture. Black ink seems to smear parts of the image. Underneath, there are pieces of them hurting, hating, hiding, hitting, kicking and screaming, dying, crying and lying.

I see no normal ones. Instead, I see many filters blocking out reality. I see myself in the mirror, and I know that life is about fate and destiny, yet life is also about strength and courage. Life is about love, but not this anger that’s consumed me for too long.

Sitting and feeling sadness boil into anger and resentment, I write it all out. Perhaps I will never have my daughter is a given now, yet perhaps so many others will not too.

Two Poets

Anna walks towards the path, which turns into an arbour; Just before the Arbour, a man stands alone, rubbing a leaf between his palms.

Perplexed and intrigued, she asks, “What are you doing?

Silence follows. She repeats the words.

He looks, “I’m collecting ideas“.

Ideas for what?

I write poetry…“.

You’re a Poet! I’m a poet to-

Poor you!