By Jenny Pyke
People do their best to avoid darkness, but the light can be far worse.
The dark objects to judging cracks that give texture to the surface,
Yet light promotes the parts you don’t want others to see.
Rays of reality can be hellish to those who find comfort in solitary
Rumours of the deserted can be deceiving.
I find company with monsters that hide in foggy corners
They avoid reason and fear people more than people fear them.
Vulnerable and misunderstood.
The normal fail to fix the broken, but what if I like the pieces.
I have grown accustom to snowflake like fragments,
Unique freckles of mentality.
Custom made straight jackets hang idle in vacant wardrobes.
A tightness and pressure that keeps me gripped to the truth.
A weight so heavy it prevents me from floating, I am grounded
Some might think hassle, but these perceptions are mine to keep
Steady hands are for stable people
Looking through my eyes is a lens for all my inner selves, taking turns to see.
The world seems like separate parts that are struggling to fit together,
A cheap jigsaw warped and exhausted, with glitches of bliss
Hands out the car window can be oddly pleasing.
Cold air forcing its way through the gaps in my fingers.
Blue waterways flow through me yet lies tell me that they are red,
I wonder do all parts bleed the same.
There is no shame in being mad.
There is no harm in being broken.
Dedicated to Cristy Daniels,
The need or want to say we care is never
realised until it is no longer possible.