You walk around with this void.
An empty section of you where something once fit, once belonged.
And no matter how many squares,
triangles and cylinders you try to place there,
it will not fit.
So you twist it,
turn it,
mould it,
heat it up, and cool it down,
make a few dents and scratches –
but it never comes close.
But you hold on to it anyway. Like that pair of jeans who’s zipper won’t go all the way up,
thinking someday the piece will fit.
Someday you won’t have to try so hard to force the piece in, someday it’ll just fall in and click.
Then you’ll stand taller, stronger,
because you knew what piece was missing all along.
You just couldn’t open your eyes to it, couldn’t render all the colors fair.
And when the void ceases to be, you’ll lie softly in white, I think,
and marry yourself to the ground.

It’s been a long time learning what you already knew.




The thoughts and feelings that extend from these fingertips, these hallowed lines of flesh; they’re like no one else’s.

I have my own set of unique life prints that cannot be copied.

In a moment of explosion my eyes are closed – like driving under bridges,  passing transport trucks, the predictable scary part in a movie, like a first kiss.

The best things in life aren’t seen, but felt.

Cold engraves a signature on my cheek. No one else will touch this place again with the same feeling.

When my heart is open I expect a gentle guided hand, not a sword of rusted valor.

Sometimes I wonder if I act without soul. I wonder if she follows behind me and shakes her head when she sees I’ve done wrong.

I wonder if she tries to put a hand on my shoulder and say enough’s enough. I wonder if she is a she, or if she is a he, or if there is nothing but room temperature air and I’m talking to myself.

I wonder if she thinks of me and smiles like when I think of her.


Mandy Poole