Sunday wordle: Lord knows what looms for us

The weed did creep
revealing the
slack in our towns
of concrete their
roots spin and whirl
taking grip in
the crack of our
retreat with a

it searches for
the light a glimpse
of what we for-
got, Lord knows what
looms for us our
eyes did strain to
see the stain of
blood coming for

Authors note: I have not one clue about the different formations of ‘poetry’, so forgive my attempt at some kind of… well, whatever the fuck it is…

Sunday wordle: Something different to what I usually do.

Attempted to do a mini poem for every word for the Sunday wordle but my inspiration ran dry

Admit – A word that permits confession
               as if words are solid
               with mere flicks of the tongue
               that could cleanse our dirty ought not to do’s
               and what for but for redemption?

Flicks –   A scar picked with the bend of words cursed
              felt as if no other world exists
              outside of their narrative

Scar – The stream that flows through
             a rugged landscape
             with all its liquid cruelty chiselling
             us into formation
             sharp as an axe after transformation

Remember – Scars leave traceable tracks
                        of remembrance
                        faces fade but what was felt remains

Dirty – Earthing oneself as if we became some other
             cleansing in the soil to remember
             the dust that made us 

Hear – This pseudoforest sings your rite of passage
             crows scalding you, your disturbance
             of the rains tumult percussion.


It was with a cruel flickering
that a hunch lurched itself into my brain
it would stalk my footsteps
as I receded away from the monsoon
that made itself heard with a thud
as the lines wound tighter on my face
I ran on impulse
running through the empty streets
looking for a place to let this kinetic energy out
with a sigh

But it won’t be enough

Sunday Wordle: A house made of books

I am too small
and the world much too big
put me in a house made from books
instead of bricks
leaving everything to the imagination
with broken spines
as a sign
of worlds well lived
don’t leave me here constrained
in this broken body in bits
and the mind inside
that is folded a million times to fit
I can’t hold myself together alone
untethered in this storm
like a flag surrendering in the wind
comfort me with silk weaved wit and imagery
feed this insatiable hunger
for something to lift me from this black, black hole
don’t let me fall back to dust all alone.