The Sunflowers

We’re the rebels in your backyard
stealing
your sweet-smelling clean closet.

Off they come from that clothesline
and
we’re takin’ ’em from your hills hoists.

See us as we fuck with your day while breaking
a beat or two as we dance and move.

There’s nowhere for you to hide your
fresh
sun-kissed clothes as we pack ’em up.

We’re the morning fresh sunflowers
and
switchblades of the badass suburbs.

My 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 of other parents and I will remain barren and alone, or is it just the hormones telling me lies?

I’ve struggled with the choices I’ve made, yet I made those choices for a few good reasons.

I struggle without my daughter, but if she came into the world then 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 normal ones. The ones who can 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 and I know that life is about fate and destiny, but 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, but then perhaps no one else will too.