Ramblings of a Disorientated Mind

Wheehe! Whayhay!
Coffee, coffee, coffee today.

Black or white,
Sugared or not,
Makes no difference,
to the caffeine junkie’s lot

All she cares about is getting her hit,
be it from a can or steaming mug.
With C₈H₁₀N₄O₂; artificial grit,
’tis easier to face demon or boss.

☮&♥

Down at the bottom of the garden,
Where the rhubarb used to grow,
There live three little fairies,
Whose names no one knows

No one that is, except for me,
For I visit them every day,

To hear of their little adventures,
To hear of their exciting day
Next door, they say, they found some dentures,
Or would I just like to play?

Yes, the fairies at the bottom of the garden,
Really are quite a friendly bunch,
But what of their names! I hear you cry,
Now that would be telling. Would you like some lunch?

For my Nana and my Grandma

☮&♥

Inspiration is something I’m lacking,
like a hunter fallen from off the track.
But is a muse on the muse such a great idea?
Or is this mini adventure with words annulling the previous though?
Poetical outpourings on the absence of the essence voids that essence from not being with the creator, is this not so?
By the very act of this simple vignette I have reattained that what was thought lost
and so, in conclusion, I should really shut the hell up

☮&♥

This was inspired by a poem I read on Spacefem by Bork Bork Bork, where she was set a list of words that she had to include in her poem. Hers was quite sucky, but I wanted to see if I could do any better than she. I think I have.

---

When all is done,
and what is is no more,
tires, and skyscrapers and acrylic sweaters all gone,
maybe man will come,
his eyes sky-blue,
and with him he will bring festiveness;
the carnival’s details bright and gay.
And maybe a woman will come,
her Miss turned to Mrs,
and with her eyes grass-green
she will bring life.

☮&♥

False; Its True.
Riddle upon Riddle, and I’m dancing with you
through the streets of California,
bathed in the light of the snow.

Nothing here makes sense to me,
though I’ve lived here all my life.
I’ll become a bird
and fly to clearer skies.

Dancing with an Enigma;
The Dolphins know the way
as I drown myself in your sorrow
- I still wish to fly away

☮&♥

On a dull plain,
a wind-swept,
ruin filled,
plain.
There stands a girl,
a girl with blue hair.

-I’m so sorry-
cries the wind
-I didn’t realise-
as it throws: shrapnel in her face.
-Such a shame-
as it throws: a white rose at her feet
-Have a nice life though-
as it throws: her hair into her face.
And as she pulls it back
she is crying tears of blue.

☮&♥

Do you love me,
   Sister mine?
Do you care for me as I for you,
   Oh mistress of my soul?

I’m terrified of your rejection,
more so of any lover.
   Command me!
Don’t leave me here to suffer without you.

And yet I am terrified to share,
   to touch.
Foolish child that I am,
my shame is everlasting.
Forgive me!
   Sister-mine, mistress of my soul,
forgive me….

To Kitty

☮&♥

How others see us means so little to you,
but to me it is everything.
I know this about you,
you should know this about me too,
by now,
how paranoid I am.

But how is it that you see me?
Would you like to know how I see you?

I imagine you see a girl trying to be a woman,
a drink in her hand,
smudges of make-up on her face.
You see this beautiful woman,
curvy but not grossly so.
You see her laugh and smile,
how she behaves so cutely but flatly denying it,
her rage and anger against the System, the Man,
and her small quirks that make her her,

and you love her.

You see that child,
how she whines and moans,
how she refuses to grow up,
how she wants you to take care of her,
and how she just wants some love and care and attention,

and you refuse her.

And you?
I see a beautiful man who takes care of me,
and would never intentionally do anything to hurt me,
who would never allow anyone to hurt me,
who I couldn’t consider being without.
Who makes me laugh and smile,
and feel special,

and I love him.

But sometimes, I see a horrible monster,
cold, uncaring,
cruel even.
Who doesn’t want to help me,
who doesn’t want [it seems] to even be with me,
who turns his back on me at my most needful,
who makes me cry all the harder for his abandonment.

And I hate him.

And so, with my ending here, I conclude:
I do not know what to make of you, sometimes.
And I suspect you do not know what to make of me.

And I do not know where this poem is headed.
But that’s okay,
because we have our whole lives to finish it.

☮&♥