8.20 Train

Mocking Bird Down

Summer nights all sounds the same;
the rattle of the heat, against the
humidity and the thick of the shame
that settles on the city
eleven floors below.

My skin is sticky with cigarette smoke,
and the wretched weariness
that feels more like dehydration of the mind;
each thought, each movement – an effort
not unlike a dying animal at the end.

The 8.20 train squeals past, reminding
me that I am not dying. I just hate the heat,
and the people that lurk in it –
the sweaty half baked passive happy people.
It’s just me, who needs less white noise.

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No Room For.

Mocking Bird Down

If my skin were translucent..

you  would see the demons,
that chisel away at my heart,

The monsters that tear at my mind,
day in
day out
day in
day out


You think I am strong because
I am charismatic and because you
have seen me fight.

I am strong because getting up
in the morning
with a purpose other than hating myself
and the blackness that lives inside me
requires that I

day in
day out
day in

day out
morning after night
night after morning.


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She Bled Red Wine

Mocking Bird Down


I wrapped her,
in red ribbon. I breathed
against her skin, and heard her
thoughts crashing against the inside of
my skull, like bones clicking when stretched too far.
She ached. Though I didn’t know why.
Nor could I ask. Not yet.
Her eyes changed colour with each
mechanical snap of
the lens. A flash of the lights,
skin pulled tight,
and emotions pulled tighter.
A pale faced weak shadow stood not far,
unblinking in her information gathering.
‘I’m a copywriter.’ The shadow stated.
‘That’s nice.’ I lied. ‘Hold this, please.’
Girl wrapped in ribbon, warm hands and
busy mind,
lay on the bed to be written on.
My poetry on her nakedness seemed so
perfect. I had no idea why.
But it did.
It did.
Made of fire, wrapped in silk red ribbon.
A page for my words, laid out on my linen.
She wanted to tell me…

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Boxes Undone

Mocking Bird Down

In the aftermath of the tippled boxes
come undone;
ribbons untied, and words scraped
from corners of a pale skinned mind, unrefined;
do I say I am sorry?

When I was just a girl, in dresses printed in sunshine
and sewn together with trust,
I learned that words mean very little.
they cause an unraveling.

Hope is easy. It’s a cliche gimmick token
curio offered with a pat on the shoulder
and a nod of the head. A smile.
While all the while,
I cant quite decide, which box to put it in.

You are too soft child. That is why you get so hurt.
You love too hard girl, that is why
you fall.
You hate yourself too much, woman-
maybe you should stop trying so hard.

You shouldn’t be so kind.
You shouldn’t speak your mind so much.
He will love me if I just bend.

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For You, The Girl Who Once Was

Mocking Bird Down

There is a saltiness to your face
and an awkwardness to your grace.
A callousness to your blackened skin,
and a refined serration to each word unhinged.

You mock me, with silence – though
I will admit, I am surprised by my own
lack of;
How did that line go?
Did you kiss your knuckles? Before they touched my cheek?

Love is just a word.
I am the verb.
Would you cross your sorry heart and hope to die for me?
Guns and ammunition.
Two very different things.
Guns and ammunition, make bullets out of you.Another line, from another song. That was once beautiful.
Like you were, once.
Before you lost your soul somewhere between Washington and
and a Casino..

The girl I met.
The one wrapped in red ribbon, the one with skin like fucking
opium. The one who’s mouth made me want to
abandon all logic.

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Mocking Bird Down

Forget me knot, the tangled
mess that interrupts.

The silence that pushes back.
The wordless forgiveness in the slack.
The humanity in the tunnel vision.
The peace in the
in the monotony of
level headed dispassion.

I forgot how to love, today.
Was more of triggered mental delay;
a test in compassion.
On how to ration.
Or, how to fashion –
my own standing ovation.

I lost the thread, at the foot of my bed
while you told me stories of
the origins of your brand of Whiskey.
You burned lips on the cold
that I sold, to you;
out of pure habit.

Come back tomorrow, young man.
I may remember how it’s
supposed to unfold, by then.


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Suck it Up.

Mocking Bird Down

Thin hairline fractures, that lay submerged in anger;
long enough that they swelled into gaping holes.
To go over them, would be
like navigating the latitude,
and the longitute

and the gravity

and the declination of something
already dead.

Our past lay dissected on an autopsy table.
The rib cage of what was exposed for what it really was.
A shell of brilliant pretense.
Cause of death;

So clinical, and so opaque.
Obscure, and dark. And now, now that I
have stopped feeling, and now that my eyes have
become a crimson shade of apathetic,
you want to know why.
Only now.

Indifference is free. I will drown you in it,
if you insist on standing with your hands open,
in front of me,
in denial;

that you created this.
You threw the first punch.

Suck it up baby.

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Get it Right

This poem is especially close to home for me because I suffer from PTSD and at times like this when it weighs me down, its harder to breathe than it should be.

Mocking Bird Down

Some days, I spend the whole day
feeling like as I walk,
as I move,
I leave behind a slight heat signature.
A trace.

Evidence that I was there.
Like my mind is bleeding. Like
my dreams and the bad things in them
have found a way
to come


I miss time. Time misses me.
Conversations in anticipation of conversations
that will likely never happen.
that I am prepared for.
Because I have practiced.

and again,

and again, while making coffee.

The clock that stopped four days ago says
it’s lunchtime. The computer says I should have eaten
hours ago.

The blackness says
I should keep practicing.
Someone may come.
I may need to
be awake.

I missed the signs before.
Must practice.

Must get it right.

Whatever it is.

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