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Da Capo al Poetry

Dim lights, pencil and a paper
And the music which completes me.

Calling unto words of amber,
Aching for a touch of sacred,
Painting feelings—notes and poems
Of another world—forever.

All I am, two joys colliding:
Love for poetry and music.

Painting tremor, vibrant spirit,
Oasis is the written canvas;
Echoing through my whole being,
Tender notes are born, igniting
Realigned suns—constellations.
Yes, I yearn for words and music.

I went back to the beginning,
I have found myself again.

– Patricia

Serendipity

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I came back to the sea on a moonlit night
And finally stopped running.
As my thirsty feet finally touched the warm, velvety waves,
A sigh of relief
Escaped my lips—
Offering to the soulless sea.

I hadn’t even realised how much I’d missed it,
Tangled up in the
whys and the
hows and the
what nows of a suffocating existence.

I came back to the sea on a strawberry moon night
And finally set myself free
of the should be’s and the
can’t be’s and the
will never be’s.

I gazed open-mouthed at the moonlit waves,
While their soothing caress
embraced my weak ankles
that have desperately fought to keep me up and running,
to get me to my hidden-in-plain-sight haven;
While their ancient lullaby of
sunken seashells, spilled secrets and salty sea foam
landed on my starving ears;
While the strawberry moon
paved a pink path on the untainted tremor of the dark waves,
promising to keep me afloat,
calling me into the limelight while no one was in the audience
(just how I like it)
with its tender voice:
“Moonchild, come!”

There,
facing the silence of the unreachable horizon,
staring into the lifeless void of darkness,
my mind empty and ready to receive,
Receive I did:
Serendipity.

– Patricia

Petition to plain Jane

Subject: WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR LIFE ALL IN SHAMBLES

Petition to plain Jane over there with the wounded inner child

To whom it may concern,
(you know very well who you are)

It has unfashionably late come to my attention
That the precarious conditions in which plain Jane’s inner child has grown
Are, simply put, outrageous.

23 years of
self-scrutiny,
self-hatred and
feelings of personal inadequacy
with no ounce of self-compassion
while your inner child cowers away in the least tainted corner of your mind,
suffering through your self-victimization episodes
—no matter how seemingly valid—
have been more than enough.

I, the undersigned,
therefore request immediate measures be taken
to ensure the safety of the aforementioned child.

Should necessary measures fail to be immediately implemented,
I reserve the right to file a complaint with the child protective services.

Signed,
Get yourself together already before you turn into a Jane Doe
Plain and simple
Jane

feels good to be alive

I wanted to end it all yesterday,
Have some sense of agency at least over one small aspect of my life,
But then I ate an ice cream and the end of the cone had more chocolate
Than I usually get,
So
I felt overjoyed!
Feels good to be alive.

For now.

I wanted to end it all yesterday,
I’ve had it with all these 23 springs and summers and autumns and winters
And springs and winters and summers and autumns
And winters and autumns and summers and springs
Of mental illness.
But then I went outside, rode my penny board
And the smell of the linden trees after a May shower
Enveloped me in a hug.
(Heavens know how touch starved I am.)
Feels good to be alive.

For now.

I wanted to end it all yesterday,
Pull the plug on this miserable existence,
But then I rode my bike on empty neighbourhood streets,
Saw the stormy clouds get a tint of peachy cotton candy sunlight
As the sun retreated in the face of impending doom.
Silver lining for a solid 150 seconds.
Feels good to be alive.

For now.

I wanted to end it all yesterday,
Silence the impostor claiming my bones,
Cut the strings pulling me every which way,
One day up for show, faking a smile,
The next hidden away in the dreadful box
Of self-consciousness, anxiety and it which shall not be named
(The skeleton in my closet).
But then I went to the park,
Sat on a wooden bench, feet drowning in concrete,
And looked to the sky,
Heard the vivacious trills of nightingales,
And the occasional crow cawing,
Interspersed with an ever so vibrant “cuck-oo”.
Feels good to be alive.

For now.

I wanted to end it all yesterday,
But there’s still
The small things in life.
Feels good to be alive.

For now.

– Patricia

Comfort Zone

So many never-ending moments spent in entanglement
With the black onyx thorny bushes growing inside the precocious grey chamber,
Expanding endlessly and scratching the newly built walls,
Spilling sacred red on the welcome mat—
Till the fallacious flood of dark claws and crimson plasma
Drowns out any other electrically excitable tree—
Forever staining it with pain and despair.

So young and vulnerable, self-conscious before self-aware,
One too many times unknowingly giving in to the piercing syringes
Injecting intrusive vantablack venom.
Too young to yet fight back,
The thorns have long ago pierced every inch of untainted surface,
Subduing the precocious mind,
Altering reality,
Becoming one with the soul.

Now older, the I has come to grasp their meaning,
All too familiar faces with unforgettable names
Which it calls out in the void of emptiness,
And, although no longer wanting their company,
Safely retreats in their excruciating embrace,
For it is this that keeps it safe from the unknown residing beyond the wall of thorns.

Truth be told,
When the smothering fog is lifted
And a ray of sunshine is allowed to pierce through the clouds of stifling darkness,
The light is far too bright,
Hurting the eyes,
And only fleeting,
And before long,
The self sinks even deeper into the all too familiar dark embrace
Of the known.

For it is the thorns and nothing else that have always been there to hold,
Promising to never let go,
Shaping the I
With unwavering touch
Since childhood.

– Patricia

How to. Guide to best self

There once was a house with plenty of square metres—
Maybe somewhere around 23.
With a barbed wire fence made of limestone and concrete,
Not too short, not too tall: in-between.
With windows smudged with tar for precaution,
Averting the curious eyes.
With minefields for grass for whoever trespasses.
(Or tries to walk out unallowed.)

Inside, there are posters of pivotal moments,
Food to some succulent worms.
And a bed with a mattress that’s home to small bed bugs
Which come out at night for a treat.
The walls are all reeking of fresh paint and… vomit?
*sniff* Gastric juice—could use more.
4.5/5 stars: cozy, fun, love it!
Minus the still functioning doors.

Ooh, piles of dishes, all dirty and mouldy,
A chair with one leg! And… a broom?
No, no, no, that won’t do… But at least there’s no dustpan.
How else can you lie down and brood?
While dust travels slooowly but surely. towards you
To cover the mess that you are?
Good that there’s spider webs woven with wryness,
10/10 would recommend.

One-way ticket only. A bargain now, really!
Better yet—why not DIY?
Takes a lifetime to build though, but once it’s completed,
It’s all yours forever. How fun!

– Patricia

3 a.m.

Here we go again,
Here we go.
3 a.m. Lying in my freshly changed sheets,
Just as I thought I was done staining them.
Here we go,
I don’t even know why anymore.

How is it that I was
Self-conscious
Before I was even
Self-aware?
But I guess that’s how I am: backwards everything doing;
Changing the sheets to stain them,
Knowing the passing fully fledged shadows on the sidewalk
Before acknowledging my aching silhouette lying there in a fetal position,
Yet to be born.

Here we go again,
I’ve stopped asking questions quite a while ago,
When the tears first stained my pillowcase.
Just roll with it,
It’s not like anything is going to change.
Except for the sheets.

And, while crying away
The known, the unknown,
The times I’ve felt like a stranger in my own body,
The times I’ve wanted to read the map of my soul and realised my eyes and fingertips were blind,
The times I’ve longed for everlasting togetherness to the point where I felt my ribs crushing my sore heart,
The times I’ve wished for my existential dread to turn into jumping in puddles on a serendipitous rainy day,
The little voice in my head notices:

Why are tears salty?

and everything goes quiet

– Patricia

I find comfort in small talk

Larger-than-life smiles
Spreading so easily on cordial faces with
Happy-go-lucky attitudes.
Only passing strangers chatting cheerfully for a while
Without the burden of being the main character.

For
If I could choose
I would much rather be
Not even the supporting character
But an extra briefly appearing on screen for 3.1557 seconds
With a smile on their face
Not having a care in the world
And always that: a passing figure seemingly content
Without having to dig deeper for a spectrum of emotions—
At the very most becoming “Woman with Dog #1.”

If I could choose
I would much rather be the stranger
Exchanging pleasantries,
Sounding like they’re in control and
Know what they’re doing with their life
Rather than be the main character,
Painfully self-conscious, always having to reach decisions,
Ruminating during every. living. moment.
Worried about not living my life to the fullest,
Facing the amalgam of one-second sand grains
Swiftly falling from the upper glass bulb of life
Into the lower half, weighing me down.

So you see,
No matter how superficial you may deem such conversations to be,
I find comfort in small talk.

– Patricia

Snowmen and Sandcastles

I built my snowman in the middle of winter—
It was January and I had found myself again:
Made of pure, untouched snow that had covered
The infertile dark soil of me who’d hit rock bottom.
I picked up two coals from the dirt that I lay in—
When I saw the grey skies opening wide,
When frozen tears started to cover me whole—
Daily reminders of where I had lain and
Binoculars for my journey ahead.
I shiveringly waited for the amalgam of ice crystals
To finish their slow waltz—breathe and count to thirty—,
Then I made my first snowball since I was eleven
And rolled it in the unstained ice feathers
Till I’d laid the foundations of my soon-to-be snowman.
Then followed the torso with a hole in the left side
(For spring is yet to come to offer me daffodils),
Then came the last snowball and I gave it eyes and
A grey-pebbled smile. And the carrot nose, of course.

I built my snowman in the middle of winter—
It was January and I had found myself again.
Then someone came along when I was finally sound asleep and
Knocked over my snowman and went on with their life.

I stayed up all night hopelessly waiting for a second snow.

I built my sandcastle in the middle of summer—
It was July and I had found myself again.
I’d been drowning in shallow waters and just as I’d surrendered
My body to the rip currents of the merciless sea,
New waves carried me ashore where I coughed up salt water,
My lungs screaming for air every step of the way.
I then lay there unmoving, blinded by sunlight,
Soaking up every last bit of warmth I could get,
Till it pierced my frozen veins and arteries, warming me whole.
I felt the gritty wet sand all over my body
And the sea waves numbing the pain.
I dug a hole to trap the sea water and
Dripped the wet sand off my unfaltering fingers:
All the beige and the brown and the grey of the numbness
Making up the castle of my long-lost fairy-tale dreams.

I built my sandcastle in the middle of summer—
It was July and I had found myself again.
Then someone came along when I was sleepily sunbathing and
Knocked over my sandcastle and went on with their life.

But you see
I now have more water and sand than meets the eye.

– Patricia

Little Red

Through the long-forgotten forest
Hide and seek let’s go and play.
I’ll be Little Red and you’ll be
The Big Bad Wolf. Come, let us play! | Fine

No one has to know our secret,
It’s a little game we play.
And the big, forgotten forest’s
Just the right place, like always.

Count to ten and I’ll start running,
But don’t peek or else I’ll pout!
I’ll make sure to let you win but
I want to put up a fight.

I will hide among the mushrooms
And you’ll pass by me unfazed
By the red caps and the white dots
Camouflaging me for now.

Then I’ll sneak behind your back and
Hop towards my nana’s house
With my basket full of goodies
That you—famished—want to steal.

And I’ll hop among the green ferns
Covering my body whole.
You won’t see me but you’ll pick up
My vague scent and follow it.

I will hear your famished howl
And will hurry along the path.
I’ll make sure to find a stone to
Clumsily trip over and fall.

While I cry over my scraped knees,
You will show your big white teeth.
I’ll forget my now-spilled basket
And hide in my nana’s arms.

You’ll come pound on our locked door and
Growl how it’s all unfair,
While we’re safe between our four walls,
Sighing relieved that I’ve won.

Oh, don’t worry, there’s a next time!
Promise, I will let you win!
One day. But for now, I want to
Live to see another day.

Come, come, our little game is
Lots of fun, don’t you agree?
I let you catch up to me and
Make the chase be worth the wait.

That way, when you’ll finally catch me,
All your horrid pent-up rage
Will ensure that I won’t suffer
For too long. It’s only fair.

Come now, daddy, you will win soon!
There’s no huntsman with a gun
To protect us from your big arms,
Your big ears and eyes and teeth!

Come now, daddy, I’ll make sure to
Let you win when nana’s gone
Just like mommy. You won’t have to
See her in me every day.

But for now, I’ll just be selfish
For a little while more.
I still want to play tomorrow,
So let’s play when I come home!

Da Capo al Fine

– Patricia