Bad Eyesight and Other Poems

    Bad Eyesight and Other Poems

    Bad Eyesight

    My friends were miniature and talkative

    We used to save worlds and run investigations

    Whenever my mother asked where they lived

    I couldn’t explain the concept of imagination

    Those whom demanded respect when they spoke

    Talked down to me with a blank smile and a vacant stare

    They asked about my hobby but would not laugh at my joke

    When I realised if I didn’t ask about them, they didn’t care

    I used to see the souls of objects bursting from their skin

    I would squint my eyes, to dim out the surrounding light

    And witness blurry outlines; things externalising what was within

    This little view I held was revealed to be my bad eyesight

    Some children try to escape the world of propriety, but instead

    Grow up to accept, spreading the word; “Peter Pan is, in fact, dead”

    Response to Feedback

    “It’s formless and pretty wordy”, you noted.

    Fair and honest, as irrational

    I responded to your criticism.

    After the nine months I have doted

    Upon you, it is inconceivable

    That, not through the medium of film,

    Prose, song or poem, I haven’t divulged

    The cliché, sweet, long and painful tightness

    You pierce my chest with ev’ry single day.

    So, in perfected form and pace, I mulled

    Over this, the piece I name for you, less

    Than you ever deserve. I wish I lay

    Beside you when you awake, or rather,

    When I wake and you watch my unfocused

    Eyes search for you, instinctively longing

    To see the mountains in your iris or

    The sweet surprise, your lips I’ve boasted

    To be the best I’ve known, the dawning

    Sun interrupting our rare time alone,

    But I don’t condemn it, as it’s the sign

    Of another uninterrupted day

    With you. You kiss my skin to reach the bone

    That you shake inside me, remind me mine,

    mine alone, are your hands. This is to say

    I respectfully appreciate your

    feedback, but also, my desire for

    A life with you has no rhyme, rhythm or


    Tusk Tusk Tusk

    When elephants hold hands they can’t hold legs. That’s just silly.

    They have big heavy rocks for toes and tall wide trees for knees.

    Their knees are kind of immovable.

    That’s a sort of irony, isn’t it?

    So elephants hold hands with their trunks.

    They are small and slender and nice and sweet.

    They wrap around and around and around until they headbutt each other, but no no,

    they need to be careful they don’t pierce anything with the sharp bones.

    Your hands are the tusks. Cold and immobile.

    I can wrap myself around them, and around and around and around.

    But they stay the same. Indifferent. Quiet.

    But they’re what the hunter wants. So I’ll destroy the trunk to feel the bones.



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