poets*

when i was younger,
they told me i have
an
addictive personality 

they warned me to never
pick up bad habits like
smoking, day-drinking,
or even sex

because they said i 
wouldn't be able to control
myself,
that if i got
hooked 
on a something like that
it would end up killing me

well,
now i’m thinking
of
you

and how much rage i hold
for those who didn’t
warn me,

that you can get
addicted to people
too

—  an addictive personality | jak
forces

you yelled
‘when are you gonna love me?!’
It echoed for some moment
this was all i could come up with
when ami gonna love you?
when the euphoria leaves,
when the grass is green in St Arnaud
when the smogs in hong kong lift
when the high gets low
when the bed is made
when the darts miss the mark
when infatuation becomes too much
when i find Icarus melted wings

“but I struck gold with this one”, he laughs, tells his friends, pats my knee, and I melt into his fingers, melt
into the sound of his heart beating like a hummingbird in the dark, put up walls against the memories of the boys who wanted my hips and not my stomach, and //
this is a letter to the wolf who ate me from the inside out, to the bear who just couldn’t keep me, to the ship who passed me a long time ago and never looked back once; he loves me, he loves me, he loves me, and you were all wrong.
—  “revelations”
13 thoughts of today (25.2.15)

1. I’m learning how to spin plates.
2. I feel like I’m in love with someone artificial.
3. I won’t apologise for the scars you gave me.
4. In my head there’s a crazy woman.
5. I’m not going to let her out.
6. It’s sad that you’ve become more important than me.
7. Clouds cling on to our heads and the rain is constant.
8. Three months have passed today.
9. Hearts shouldn’t stop because of bad decisions.
10. It’s so easy to lose myself on a page.
11. He looks at her with nothing.
12. Terrified that my salvation may be you.
13. She missed the feeling of her soul on fire.

Sleep Song 65 [Songsmith]

The way when I press
your keys, music comes
out. Harp gently the ribs,
a new note, thrumming
chord to swing on.
Crescendo and de-
crescendo, crumbling
you like a wall. It mercies,
the brick and mortar of
sexual organs, to their
cacophony of clichéd
functions – the body
as sustenance, shelter,
desecrated temple –
rooms echoing with
foreign music, where
flagstone sweats with
the furnaces of
human balm: the way
our bodies breathe
out the burning we
put into one another.
Those rooms; dining
chambers in silver, ebony;
scarred wood beneath
greased silk tablecloths,
the pendulous chandelier
of thirsty knives. Foreman,
I want you to demolish
those rooms. Black magic,
bunker buster, pulverize
me to an island of fire,
smoldering to a butt
and glitzing embers
in the gloom.

Fairy Dust

Dandelion wishes
in seeds will pirouette,
each one is a dreamer
of a hearts silhouette.

Each seed blown is magic
a fairies wand is waved,
shimmering and mystic
in aspirations swayed.

Dust will dance in glitter
and sprightly hope through air,
enchantments scattered with
iridescent flair.

Grow your wishful hope in
yellow petalled showers,
keepers of fairy dust
dreams come true in flowers.


©Jacqui Slade

Imperfection

This is for all the times I sat down at
a table with my planner wide open,
with papers and pens of different shapes,
sizes, and colors scattered around.
My head lowered into my hands with tears
streaming down my face, trying to organize
my life into this perfect little box but failing
miserably. Completely unaware of the
beautiful mess I have created.

This is for all the times I have sat in front of my therapist,
spilling my guts out to her, telling her of my desires to be
perfect. Telling her I wanted to be untouchable.
She’d look back at me with sympathetic eyes and
utter the words ‘perfection is unattainable.

This is for all the times I would sit back,
with a blank look on my face, all the while
feeling as if she just struck me in the chest with a knife.
I would hold back the tears that were threatening to spill,
wishing she’d take her words back but knowing she utter the truth.
Wondering if it was God himself that lay those same words on her
tongue to speak. My mother always said 'tell the truth and the truth
will set you free’. I rather lie. I rather lie if it means that I am one step closer to perfection. I rather lie if it’ll make me believe that one day, I can attain the unattainable.

This is for all the times when I felt trap,
but did absolutely nothing about it because I wanted to be a certain way.It’s for all the times when I could have been set free,
but I accepted societies words as the truth,
It’s for all the times that I’ve felt choked up, felt
societies hands at my throat and still refuse to let go
of the ideal of perfection.

This is for now, when I have finally realized that
I have been chasing something that I will never get.
When I have finally realize that I have been running
a race whose finish line I will never cross.

This is for the times to come when I will be overcome with
an this unbelievable sense of sadness when I will see someone I
perceive as perfect and think I will never be it.
This is or all the times to come when I will stop comparing
myself to others, stop chasing perfection and remember that
no man is perfect. I will remember that we were all made with
flaws, and even the so call perfect people I admire have flaws.
I will remember that I am a mess, a beautiful mess, that has so much worth.I will remember that my laugh can heal broken souls, and my heart, warm as it is, can melt cold hearts, and my spirit can lift and inspire.
I am perfectly imperfect, and that is a perfection of it’s own.