Buckwheat

By now you've probably
archived all your anger
into this permanent state,
where you only think of
me in red and black, and
speak of me with sharp
bitterness that leaves the
taste of tar behind in your
mouth. It gurgles in the
pit of your stomach, and
thumps in the middle of
your chest, coursing
though your ventricles,
to every extremity.
With every movement
you are trained to only
hate me, conditioned and
taught that there is nothing
worthy in me, nothing
noble that would make
me guiltless, nothing
beautiful that would make
me innocent, and you
eat up this instruction as
if you sincerely want to
believe it. As if you'd rather
believe these distortions,
than the truth.

By now, I bet when people
ask you if you have a sister,
you say "no".

Papillon

I took a pen and wrote 

you a letter only the fire 

would read, and it said, 

"Remember when I told you 

I thought you were nothing 

like my father? Well, that 

was a bold-faced lie. You 

both have the same wild

eyes, the same tone of 

voice, the same dark

mind, and the same ability 

to make me love you 

blindly." 

But what I didn't write 

was the one thing I knew 

would break you:

"...the same thirst to break 

whatever you find beautiful.

Namely me."  

Someone once asked me 

how long it took me to forgive you, 

I said I'd let them know 

as soon as I had. 

Lies and Deception

Smudged eyes,
should have taken that mascara
off before going to sleep,
but it's not as if there's
someone to impress.
Just a reflection in the mirror
that is an unwelcome visitor
most days.
Truth is, I'm not quite
used to this.
You always used to say
"you're too beautiful,
too lovely, too simple"
for all of this frivolity,
but you're a liar.
And though the most
obvious of your lies
were about who you
really were, and not about me,
I find it difficult to tell the
difference anymore, so
I trace the lines around
everything you ever said to me
and count it all
deception,
because it's easier this way.

Queen Station

The man wearing brown hiking boots
is reading a book about trees.
I wonder if he knows
I've just breathed life into him
with my pen strokes,
immortalized him with blue ink,
stolen him from a three dimensional
life, and made him flat.
When I got on at Queen he was already here,
waiting for me to observe
his quiet cry for attention.
Unnoticed by most other passengers,
who are too busy popping gum
to ease the pressure in their ears.
His desire to melt into the burgundy seat
was foiled by those
brown hiking boots.
I don't think he's made eye contact
with a single person, and he
pulls a cookie from his bag and chews,
reading about the largest trees in the world.
B.C and the redwoods,
on his way home
to a blonde wife
to a house on a corner lot
to a front hall closet
with just enough room for his size 12
brown hiking boots.

Rattle

In order to count yourself
among the jaded and the
wounded, you draw out
the lines of an old love that
was nothing more than
a number of little mistakes,
and you know it.

Regurgitating popcorn words,
claiming them as your own
in order to feel vindicated,
justified, and redeemed.
With the subtlety of a Mac truck
you lay out your words like
a street peddler, and we all
wince.

I find it hard to believe
that after all of this time,
you have nothing else to
dwell on. But then again,
I shouldn't expect a child
to be anything but childish.

Stop

You may have already realized
that we're stopped at the side of
the road, on the way to some sort
of destination, unnamed and
undefined. But you should have
noticed sooner, because you're
behind the wheel, and I simply
sit in the passenger seat, and I
wait for you to hit the gas pedal.
How can I expect to move this
along when I'm not the one
who stepped on the breaks in
the first place? Don't think me
indifferent, or cold and out of
touch, but my options are now
but few: wait for you to drive,
or get out and walk.

Bark

Standing up to the
bully
is never more
satisfying
than when my back
is straight,
and supported by a
spine
that's finally grown in.

Afraid of a little woman,
a dog,
simply with a bigger bark
than a bite,
and a sickly man, who
just likes
to be overly eloquent.
I laugh when I remember
the resources
of heaven are much mightier
than men.

No longer down and out,
but up and fighting.

Thomas

With the utmost contrition
I endeavour to speak into
a deep silence that acts as
a punishment all on its own.
Innocence and naivety are
no longer viable excuses
for my lack of faith, I am
Peter on the lake, I am
Thomas holding Your hands, I am
Judas, leaving supper early, I am
not worthy of your patient
understanding, and much too
wayward to ask You to walk
with me, but You still choose
to. You still choose me.
And I consider asking you
why you cling to a broken
child such as me, but I'm
too scared you'll change your
mind, so I finally open my
mouth, and speak loud and
clear: Thank You.

Macbeth

If you could stop
rolling over for a
minute you would
see that your name
has been thrown
overtop of sins
done by those you
thought the world
of, but now that
you're absent from
such a world, hell
has decided to reign.

I stand beside six feet
of rust-coloured dirt
hoping that joining
your realm would
stop the anarchy,
caused by babes of
your making, weaned
and raised by your
hands, days from
the grave but still
using pacifiers to
help them sleep at
night--they destroy.

I wonder if you knew,
and chose ignorance,
or if you were ignorant
and never knew.

Not always, and most times it's exaggerated, but yeah. 

Tank

Her eyes swell up like
a broken limb, filled to
the brim with tears as hot
as boiling water, and it's
as if she hasn't cried in
years, and knowing her,
it very well maybe be the
case.

She shoots me a glance
in the hopes of striking
me dead, but I give her
a look of pity and regard,
extinguishing her hatred.
I remark on how similar she
looks to her father, nearly
identical.

Her sobs grow silent
and her eyes stare blankly,
she doesn't move her head,
doesn't dare crane her neck
to see me reach around,
for a tissue from the second pew
to desperately catch the
tears.

We've come for a funeral,
but I don't cry for the dead.

Leper

Choking on the sadness
that grips my throat and
shoots tears from my eyes
like water guns in the hands
of little children, used to
cool off in mid summer,
I'm exhausted from trying
to understand what made
you disinterested, distant,
simply polite and absent,
it's as if I was charmed
for just a short while, and
you were under my spell
until it wore off, leaving me
hopeless and alone, while
you stepped back to question
what had possessed you to
see anything but pity in me.
So I go mad under this jar,
stewing in all my confused
hope, bathing in all this
unrequited affection, just
aching for a way to be rid
of everything that makes me
remember the faces that I
likely won't see again.

I must have leprosy or something,
because no one sticks around.

Cold Hands

I'm too busy
to chase
too proud to
stoop to
that sort of
desperation
so I am
too busy to
over-think.

I refuse.

So I'll Say Three

I can see you, 

dark room, lit up 

by the white light 

of your screen, 

typing in my first 

name an having the 

rest filled in 

for you. 

You come here often. 

No one knows, 

that you still look 

me up, to relive our 

old stories, old injuries, 

like some masochistic 

therapy, that no one 

will understand 

but you. 

Though I don't wish 

to say more than two 

words to you, please, 

let go. 

Please let go. 

Myocardium

Signals shot,
silenced by frayed
wires, connected to
your ventricles,
and haphazardly
stuck to mine. I
need a boost.

Not simply a jolt,
but an awakening,
to be enlivened again,
so you switch to
the defibrillator,
in the hopes that
I won't give up entirely.

I think we could
avoid all of this
frantic first aid,
if you would just
choose me.
Keeping me half-alive
is torturous.

Wrong

And it took me a while to realize

that nothing about our love was
special, nothing about it was
profound, nothing about it was
uncommon. And shortly after
such a revelation was my attempt
to disprove it, to somehow find
the magic ingredient in "us" that
no one else possessed, because
I used our rare love as an excuse
for all my mistakes. My sins and
my backsliding, my disregard
for the truth, my blindness to all
of your dangerous faults. I thought
we were something no one had
ever been. That we were lovely
and wild, so delicate and passionate.
But we weren't any of those things.

We were simply wrong.

The rarest love I will feel will be
the one I take to my grave, but
our love could barely outlive the
winter cold, let alone the next 60
years.

Peat

Bottom feeder
nibbling at the
corners, you are
the painfully sad
on-looker, who
wants what doesn't
belong to her.

You always have been,
one who loves worthy men
silently, without giving
yourself away, but you
never quite close,
never quite win,
and never quite
learn. I hope this
time you do.

Because his eyes aren't for you,
no matter what you try.

6.5

And I wait for
seven
seven
seven
after six comes
seven
but I feel stalled
on the side of
the road,
infront of your house
seven
steps from the door
waiting for
seven
but only half
way from six,
longing for
the end of
the limbo,
towards
seven.

I miss how you used to
speak without reservation.

North Sidney

Her guilt jumps up
in her throat like a
frog,
in a pond covered in
lily-pads,
as she scans her screen,
picks out my name,
and hits
"delete".

I know it's what she
does to keep her head
up,
in the clouds,
safe,
from her old mistakes,
her old responsibilities
and I've run out of
blame.

It's all been replaced
with a distasteful amount of pity.

Shelley

No more.

No more
of this
silly talk,
of this
can't-get-
you-out-
of-my-
head-talk,
of this
inebriation.

Too much.

Too much
of this
self-injury,
of this
crack-me
open-so
you-can
see-who
I-am,
of this
hope.

No more.

Esso

Open my mouth
and out pours all
of my thoughts
regarding the useless
parts of myself
that I think you'll
be amused by.
But it's pointless,
absurd, and utterly
foolish.

I reach for the
shovel
and step closer to the
plot
and reach deeper into the
grave
and haul out the
sixth foot.

Honey

Honey,
please remember
that your clarity
is simply wishful
thinking, rather
than a promise,
and I'm wishfully
thinking that
you should choose
to stand on the
edge of this ledge
looking over the
unknown with
me
by your side,
holding your strong
hands, while we
close our eyes,
say our prayers
and make the jump
together.

Honey, you're too sweet
to leave all alone.

Day Old

Bakery buns
hot on the wires
beckoning the passers
by, to buy
them for a Sunday
lunch, after church
in November
for his parents,
far from home,
desperate to impress.

A neon pink
triangle shaped
sticker on a crinkled
bag, holding in the
air that ages
the already day-old
buns, on sale
for half price,
desperate,
so desperate for use.

Oh, how stale
is my little heart.

Mortar

This early in the

morning I feel 

nothing but the 

sting of confusion 

and frustrated 

thoughts, crashing 

into the walls in my 

mind, built with 

mortar and fear, 

keeping the hurt out--

or at least attempting 

to do so. 

If you and I 

are intersecting lines 

that are destined to 

move steadily away 

for the rest of 

eternity, 

then my heart will 

surely take a hit, 

of this, 

I am sure. 

6

I try to act distracted
but you come to mind,
swift, and unstoppable,
like a mosquito hits a windshield
going 120,
like a roaring river at the start of
spring time,
like a north wind blows autumn
leaves,
you come to mind,
swift, and unstoppable.

5

And when I listen close
I hear old words of an
old heart that's lived for
100 years or more,
waiting to speak to
me, of all people,
as if I have some aged
wisdom to reply with.
Phrases that bounce
off of the dusty corners
of the room that is your
soul, crying out to me
with a sweetness I've
never heard until now.
And because my lips
are weak and lame,
I simply smile as wide
as my cheeks will allow
to echo your sentiments
and to tell you of my
growing desire to
belong to you.
Please know, that my
eyes are trying to tell you
all the things I have
no words to say, and
I hope you can understand,
because I desperately
desperately
desperately
need you to hear me
out.

Little Ghost

You send shivers
up my spine and
through my skin
though I have yet
to see your face
or know what your
voice sounds like.
You're a little ghost,
laced in words I say
and the words I hear,
smiling your maniacal
smile, eyes glittering
in the darkness,
waiting for me to see.
See, I didn't invite you,
you didn't come into
this equation with me,
so I kindly ask you
to find someone else
to haunt.
You were given up
for good reason,
and I don't care
if you don't have the
faculties to move on--
I've won, you've lost,
and that's all there is
to it.

Periphery

Shadow of a man 

that I once knew.

Or maybe I simply 

thought I knew you; 

you're wasting away 

falling by the wayside 

and no longer in my 

direct line of sight. 

You're living in the 

periphery. 

Finally, I think you 

understand your 

own unimportance, 

as your head begins 

to slowly deflate 

leaving your eyes 

sunken in, and teary. 

And all of these things 

I notice with a passing 

glance, just to check 

if I detect any feeling

within myself, 

and it's only when 

I conclude that 

nothing stirs inside me, 

that I praise God 

for allowing me to shake 

you off of my back. 

And I look away 

without consequence. 

4

Slow,
like a watched-pot boils
and steady
as an ocean after a storm,
still swirling and sloshing,
yet in comparison, so still.
You sweep over me
like the steady warmth of
a morning sun,
or the streams of water
from a summer rain.
All I can do is hold my hands
open to the sky
with gratitude and joy,
laced in my smiles
and ask for the strength,
for the ability and the will,
to see this through.
To see Him though.
To see you through.
Because slow and steady
wins the race.

3

You don't inhabit me
like some foreign disease,
threatening my life,
holding my heart at gunpoint,
but you gently pull the tethers
of these delicately woven affections,
drawing me into some other,
more beautiful place.
A place where I'm not bombarded
or besieged, taken captive, or ignored,
and I see for the first time,
the possibility of joy,
a hope for things I've never dared dream of,
and I pray
for the strength to hold out,
the will to keep my lips sealed
until you take the first step forward.

One thing is for certain:
everything seems brighter.

2

Undoing
chains wrapped around
the box in my mind
that houses my conceptions
on what this should look like,
what you should sound like,
to learn a new way
of deciphering this will.
You're the first page
of a new book,
full of promise and adventure
begging me to keep reading
and I won't hesitate to say
that I'd be happy to oblige.

Broke

Injected with
anxiety that
knocks me off
my size seven feet
and I haven't the time,
the strength or the will
to get back up.
And I start to think
that maybe I'd save time
by just lying here
cold and frozen,
with bones that
won't move,
because in the end
I'll just end up
in this state anyways.
Right?

1

So I'm not quite sure
what to say when you ask,
or what to think when you speak,
how to respond when it's my turn.
All I see are empty rooms,
with doors recently opened,
that were once shut up.

And I smile smile smile.

Godless

Godless woman,
bags full of guilt
under your eyes
peering into lies
that you need to
keep you going.
I only wish that
I knew how to
remind you that
your almost out
of time.

I'm stirring up
all your plans
and you won't
have any idea
who you have
chosen to go
and piss off.
I wonder how
you manage to
sleep without
watching her
die?

She never even
recognized you.
Never wanted to
hear anymore of
your hate.
But you already
know that, don't you?

Shrapnel

Cradled by fists
rather than palms,
wide open to hold
my little red heart,
your love only a tool
used to silence a crying child
used at the right moments,
used, just like me.

Fishing wire and tackle
litter my memory of you.
Kodak memories
shoved into a dismal childhood
making a minefield
out of my head,
knowing that at any moment
my innocence could become shrapnel.

I excuse you,
rationalize for you,
stay silent for you,
let your actions speak for you,
and you ignore me,
forget that you know me,
stop from loving me,
and, like a coward, blame me.

If you never touch me again,
it'll be too soon.

Groan

Birthed into black,
my head in a bag
unable to breathe
without feeling the
suffocation of your absence,
slowly spinning my eyes
backwards into the sky
where they cannot be
retrieved.

Raised on baby-bottles
filled with milked soured
by salty tears,
weaned by dirty pacifiers
and torn blankets,
with holes of your making
cut with the same scissors
that separated us
and my bellybutton still aches.

Grown and groaning
for the lost days
of light and fresh air,
your smudging hands,
and crocheted blankets
decorated with promises.
Offered to other
more fortunate babes,
that I will never be.

You ought to remember,
that I didn't choose you.

Susans

I poke and prod
at the earth above me
hoping to find some soft spot
to break the ground.
As I do,
my eye sees shades
of green and grey
crawling over the surface
of this boneyard,
and at last, I can breathe.
A soft breeze directs my gaze
in all directions
and I soak in roses and potted plants;
jealous of their rich beauty,
while I offer nothing but yellow petals,
and a black center.
A large stone,
tall and solemn,
carries a name I do not know.
It rests behind me like giant--
sleeping, and will never wake.
And I am but a stray wildflower,
sentenced to adorn this plot,
while my roots reach down
to a nameless master.
All I can do
is just sway, sway, sway,
in this potter's field.

Dear Stranger

A few months ago someone put a note in my school mailbox that encouraged me enormously.
They said they loved my poetry and my voice and hoped I would find growth, love, and happiness in my journey through life. They signed it "a stranger you've inspired".

To that person: thank you. Thank you for reminding me that I have purpose. That I'm of value. Thank you for the ways your note touched me, that I have no words to express.

I don't know if that person will see this, but if they do, thank you.

Leaves

Drunk on tea leaves
straight from Dublin,
and my eyes see
everything much clearer,
with more warmth,
and more colour
than when I am seemingly sober.
I see visions of you,
your strong hands and
your good heart,
overflowing and
filling the space between us
until I am swept up
in the tenderness of your love,
the strength of your voice,
your honest faith,
and your oversized devotion.
And it's only when I notice
that you're fading from my view
that I reach for the kettle,
grab the sugar bowl,
and make another cup of tea.

Almost

Another night and I am
cold
writhing between sheets, paper
thin
wondering, if somewhere you are
just
as cold
as me.

Your hands, grip the edge of the
bed
and your eyes refuse to
shut
and you're hoping I'm still awake--
just
as restless
as you.

I only know the warmth of your
heart,
and the sound of your strong
voice
though I've yet to hear it, I am
just
as impatient
as you.

You sleep knowing that
soon
you'll be led in my
direction,
and you'll be
just
as thankful
as me.

Aubade

I hold hands with the willow branches
and twirl and twirl and twirl
as my green dress flutters and spins
around me like a carousel
and I sing sweet songs that I wrote for you
and pray that you'll faintly hear them
from wherever you are,
from whatever chair you occupy,
and come out of doors to find me.
My heart is alarmed with the rush
of what it feels like to love you
and all I can do to quell
the endless stirring of my affections
is to pronounce it to all who'll hear.
And I deeply know,
that you will discover me here,
frolicking among the willows,
and grin from ear to ear.
You will tell me how you've waited
to hear the soft melody I've sung,
so that you may finally find the one
for whom you've longed.

No longer will I hold hands
with the limp willow branches.

To Try

...and I don't think it's due to

a lack of want or desire, 

but a lack of trying 

on no one's part but my own. 

Trying, to step over dividing lines 

and push against glass ceilings 

that cripple me. 

That cripple us. 

I don't try because I can't win, 

(or at least my heart tells me so)

and I know that if I try and fail, 

I will loose more than I ever wanted to. 

An age old weakness 

sleeps in my little heart, 

stopping me from attaining 

all my loftiest hopes, 

and though I point my finger 

to a faceless, voiceless cause, 

I know the fault is no one's but mine. 

If I never have you, 

it will be no ones fault but mine. 

Salve

There's no salve for these cracked lips
raw and burning,
and never perfectly healed.
I sleep and don't speak for hours,
as each cut seals over,
and I forget, for a little while,
that I feel any agony at all.
Yet when I awake,
and try to mutter the smallest phrase,
the smallest cry,
or muster the smallest grin,
my sores tear open,
and I am not longer so forgetful.
So it is,
when I part my lips I receive nothing
but stinging pain and chagrin.
Wincing in despair that no one can quel,
untouchable parts of me that no one dare defy,
the very gates to my soul,
besieged and overtaken by
pain, that is dull but ever present,
pain, that subsides, but never leaves,
pain, that seems menial, but is never far from my mind,
pain, that when expressed, never receives aid.

And that, my friend,
is incentive enough
to keep my mouth closed.

Wicklow

To often have I aimed
to construct a seamless set
of eloquent phrases
made of only the ripest words,
but each time my pen
falls inches short from the page,
and my heart wrenches and pulls
at the truths I keep concealed.
I wish them to be thrust
into the light of all that you are
but my own crippling fear
keeps you wandering in the dark.
I can't offer you anything,
no match, no candle, no lamp
only my hand.
Though I'm unable
(at least at this point and time)
to offer you more than these worthless reflections,
I will do what I know best:
I'll remain.

Abaddon

Lord, I beg 
please not Abaddon, 
for my mother of another kind, 
my secret-keeper and friend. 
I can't bear 
to think of the darkness
that could have covered her
when she was the only light 
that shone in my world. 
Mother, I beg
please not Abaddon
for I know death 
has no victory over this earth, 
I just hope that you chose
not to allow its victory 
over your heart. 
You have been taken. 
Pulled to a place 
where I can't reach you, 
lifeless in the same bed 
that once held your soul, 
and now I'm alone 
to wonder how long you'll be gone,
why you decided to go, 
and if I'll ever be allowed 
to see you again. 
So, parent of my heart, 
where are you? 
Lost in the expanse 
that I can't comprehend, 
though my finite mind 
searches for you 
with flashlights in the dark, 
hoping for some sign 
that you found the light 
rather than having Abaddon
find you. 


I miss you. 

Plea(se)

I said, "no, no, no"
as I held your hand,
cold like bath tiles
on bare feet.
You couldn't hear me
but it didn't really matter,
I meant it more as a prayer
than an actual command.

he said, "it's okay, okay, okay"
as he grabbed my arm
and promised me things
that were out of his control.
One can't promise peace,
while at the bedside of the dead,
as that soul slips further away
from love, light, and life.

I say, "be quiet, quiet, quiet"
as I contrive a suitable case
to bring before heaven
for the redemption of just one.
See, if my concentration is broken,
maybe He won't hear me,
and my childish pleas will fall
on ears that have turned deaf.

He says, "I hear, hear, hear,
and please, leave this to me".

Public Service Announcement

Oh hey there, people who read this.

If for some reason you feel like any of this poetry is about you, then maybe you should stop reading it.

Poetry is an expression of emotion that is liable to hyperbolic exaggeration and other such things. Not everything I write is about me, or people I know. If you interpret it as such, then that is not my problem.

There you go. You've all been warned.

I'm going now.

--Lena

Porcelain

I know. I know. I know.
Don't think me ill-disposed,
though my words are sharp,
I only seek reparation
(that you never truly gave me)
and you surely can't fault me
for that, now can you?
I'm still the gentle soul
that once lit up in your presence
but I'm also a smashed doll,
with a lacerated heart,
and a soiled rag,
unable to become white again.
So I buy my freedom with words
that uncage my porcelain body,
but I swear, I never intended
to lock you up in my stead.
You are seemingly nothing more
than an unfortunate casualty.

This is not an apology,
but rather, my defence.

For Mark

my hiatus with rhyming

has come to an end 

it came in good timing 

at the request of a friend 

so here you go Mark, 

something that's "structured" 

you'd better appreciate it, 

as my free-verse has been ruptured. 

i hope that you're happy, 

I hope that you're grand 

I wrote you some rhymes, 

though personally I find them bland. 

FIN

Eradicate

You have the same nervous twitch 

as you've always had 

and you have the same jarring gaze 

that finds me every time. 

You occupy the part of my mind 

that I'm trying to eradicate, 

You are the part of my heart

that I am having removed. 

You are the memories and moments 

that I am steadily overwriting

and you are the mangy stray dog 

that I am choosing to ignore.

Your presence no longer has potency, 

I am not swayed or stilled by you, 

and you can move in and out of these rooms 

as you wish; I won't notice. 

See, you've stayed the same, 

never changed or grown,

like the waves of the sea, 

like a chronic disease, 

and I have no need 

of you

at all. 

Insolent

I was told
never to pray for patience,
and in a fit of desperation,
of losing self-control,
I asked for just that.
And now I suffer
through long days
searching for some way
to unbind this prayer,
but I am chained
to the words my mouth spat out.
Waiting, like spit in open wounds,
painfully still while I ache to move
towards every desire
every lasting dream
my childhood heart contains.
My bones toss,
restless and unsatisfied,
held to the ground with
spiritual super glue--
I am a stagnant river.
Though my Father counts it virtuous,
I count it torturous.

Forgive me, my insolence.

Spies

Hello, old friend.
My muse,
gone dry and old
rusty and useless,
you are a fly
constantly on my every wall,
peering into a life
that you were once such a part of.
My life.
No more.
Yet still,
you search every crevice
every outlet I occupy
to find me at my weakest,
my most vulnerable
and you peek into my heart
just a few moments longer,
hoping to figure me out.
I have discovered you,
persistent, little spy,
and I will no longer entertain.

Every crack is sealed,
Every entrance blocked,
your days of leeching on my life
are done.