Introspective retrospective
inescapable dreamscape
makes your scars twitch with
discombobulated self loathing.
Memories stained with
fear mongering
innermost thoughts
and knifepoimt teardrops.
Insomniac, somnambulist,
can’t tell the difference,
doesn’t want to fall
because sometimes
all the time
the rabbit-hole leads
to reality.
© Emilie C. Black, 2020
This doesn’t have
A lot of metaphor, or simile,
Or writing techniques, or style,
Or rhyming structure, or metre;
To be honest it’s barely a poem,
and that’s fine because I’m barely
a poet.
To be honest, I’m a mess.
Mental health in decline,
Pretending to be fine,
Being confined,
Just reclined
On this sofa.
Where the cushions, the blanket, the duvet, the laundry, and emotions accumulate and
lie across my chest like a
heavy
warm
comfortable
something.
© Emilie C. Black, Apr 2020
There were flashes of darkness
In between the whirring of electric lights
And the hunger pangs of newborns,
In between the screams of neon sirens
And the late and live music of whisky and wine,
In between the negotiations of mice and owls
And the hard labour in the room next door.
Which might not amount to much,
But even a little of a good thing
Is better than nothing, right?
The heart keeps going,
Awake and wired like
A caffeinated child.
The heart rests
Takes a moment away from the race
And takes life at it’s own pace.
We don’t sleep when we sleep
Our brains don’t shut off,
Our heart keeps pumping blood,
Our lungs keep breathing
And maybe that’s why
We’re still tired in the morning.
Because rest is a lie and
Our bodies keep going.
We think we’re dead to the world
But we’ve never been more alive.
Our brain dreams,
Processing thoughts and actions
Like a machine,
Like a computer with the screen turned off,
Creating images and flickering lights,
Playing tricks on our minds and retinas like
A limited edition, one-of-a-kind movie
In a cinema screening that no one saw,
Except for a projectionist in a dark room.
And our heart is the soundtrack,
Heart strings and pulsing drum beats,
Slow and steady
But swelling to crescendo,
Racing to action
A veritable ventricle
drum and bass underscore,
Returning to legato then coming to rest.
And, like any true heart,
The protagonist in the story,
Arriving on dampened horseback,
Head- and heartstrong,
The knight in shining armour
Chasing nightmares and negative thoughts away,
Then riding into the sunset,
Reminding you to love yourself
Question from Amanda P. from Facebook
I want to say yes,
But it’s only two-thirty.
Ten hours to go.
Sorry, not quite yet.
We need you to do something,
It shouldn’t take long.
The buses don’t run,
You’ll need to walk home, sorry.
Should take an hour.
Home at last, bedtime.
What’s that noise? No, it can’t be.
It’s time to get up.
I ask myself this every day.
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