The Meadows Under The Sea

I mistook the sea for green meadows yesterday, while
Walking down the pier and asking myself why I only
Ask the questions I already know the answers to. I looked at
The sky, smeared with blood-orange, madness, and
Mystery, and kept on walking, walking until I reached the
End of the pier and entered the green meadows, filled with
Tulips, god-like wonder, moons, and starfish.

I mistook the sea for green meadows yesterday, and wondered
Why it was so tough to breathe while I was surrounded by
Aspen trees that trembled in the nervous breeze.





Empty Constellations

I cannot see the stars from my roof today.

I cannot see the stars from my roof today and
That makes me uncomfortable; almost as if
Someone painted the sky with cheap black acrylic paint and
Covered it in varnish.

I cannot see the stars from my roof today and
That makes me want to pick up a bucket of light and
Smear it across the horizon, creating wormholes of
Illumination in dank darkness.

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A placard on the whitewashed walls of a
Subway station that nobody reads but
Everybody remembers.

A dash of lightning that sends shivers down my
Spine and shocks of static through my skin.

A mirror that refuses to reflect but somehow always
Shows people their true self.

A word that always feels wrong on my tongue,
Even though you’re always spelt right.


Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s ‘You’re’

A Poem At The Grocery Store

This is a poem.

This poem begins with the sound of
A grocer’s fingers on his grey calculator
Tapping swiftly, yet softly, creating
Sounds that outlast the conversations of
Customers in the aisles buying
Canned tomato soup and happy memories.

This is a poem.

This poem follows the customers through the
Grocery store, overhearing phone-calls and
Irrelevant banter, situating itself in-between the
Mundane lives of people who spend their
Thursday nights purchasing fresh fruit.

This is a poem.

This poem ends with silence, the kind of
Silence that fills the cashier’s desk at exactly
9:00 pm every night, when the store empties
Itself of all traceable sources of human noise,
And the grey calculator sits, waiting for the
Grocer to come in the next morning.