by Rochelle Del Borrello
There is a wishbone stuck in your throat
it sits lodged between your vocal cords
amazingly it does not hamper your voice
in fact, it creates your voice
With every breath, you inhale desirously
ambition to replenish your want for success
The Wishbone absorbs your breath the split bones
two halves pluck you chords
not choking just your voice singing
with the expectation of ongoing expression
Such is the mysterious awe of the performance
the wish expressed through your voice.
I know a bit of grief.
It's the moment you realise
you cannot go back on your steps
to make it better
or say I love you again
see someone's face every day,
hear their laugh, trace the outline of their smile,
hold their hand or hug them.
When you learn what it feels like to run out of time.
No more silent pauses in conversations
seeing them across the table,
passing the salad bowl at dinner.
All of those moments you take for granted
stop in your mind,
they are gathered up in memories
and the grieving begins.
I've learnt grief isn't bad,
it's all we have, really,
for our tears are our love
which used to go out
towards those we love.
After they are gone, it has nowhere to go,
so our unexpressed love
becomes our grief.
And as our passion is as undying,
as our mourning.
This strange sadness will never leave
not until our dying days.
It comes over us in the most unlikely moments
in the tiny flickers of memories
the flutter of butterflies
a microscopic movement is enough the overcome us.
Sometimes it's like a tap that
we need to open to let the pressure out.
But mostly, grief is a dark veil that wraps around
our hope, our happiness and faith
and covers our organs which
find they have an extra weight to carry
the resistance makes it harder to breathe
love and move forward when we don't
want to.
It may seem ironic
but I hope we never
stop grieving
because it keeps our
dearly departed near us.
Life doesn't stop
when someone dies,
it merely shifts
and changes into another
gear and somehow
we live with it.
The thing about losing something
is that there is nothing to know.
It's an emotion that takes hold of you
pushes you around like a bully that doesn't let up.
You put up with it, let it bleed you dry,
cry yourself to sleep until it loses its strength.
And then you can push it under you, into your heart
Occasionally it will bubble up, making you vomit emotions.
Eventually, it will become a part of you
reminding you how capable you are of love
and how love never really leaves you.
Oh artist, please paint me
I'm desperate to be immortalised
not because I want to be remembered
I'm happy to be forgotten
but because I want to leap out of the page
through my own words
into another's heart
to connect.
To gaze into another's soul.
Through a time beyond myself.
Except the unexpected
because I'm bursting with ideas
and I'm going to do it all.
So insanely talented,
yet terrified to do anything,
destined to be nothing
but a frustrated artist
too busy watching Youtube
scrolling Instagram and playing
Candy Crush,
brainwashed into wasting time.
Soul crushed by comparison.
Why bother trying when
is it all taken away from you in the end?
There have been better days than now,
felt less lost and confused
not so sad or deflated
I wish for one of those
better days instead of smack
bang in one of the worst ones.
Nothing going right
love went to waste
efforts all worthless
and so, so far away
from everyone I love.
The hurt comes in tears
that bastard blows up in
your face,
whether you like it or not
that emotion's going to come
knock you over and make you
I wish for better days.
They will come; be patient.
I have given birth to monstrosities
to atrocities filled with insurmountable deformities,
who died horrible, merited deaths as they never
deserved to be born.
I have birthed many rapturous angels who went straight to heaven
too beautiful for this world,
too innocent to survive.
I have killed hundreds, no thousands of my babies,
not because I’m a murderer, but because
they needed to be stronger
I have been re-incarnated after every disappointment
I pushed myself beyond the sluggishness of grief
and dusted off the ashes after the inquisitions
burnt me at the stake.
I’m a tired old ageless phoenix.
I thrive despite it all,
I reinvent myself
endless times over, revive my fading spirit
because my soul comes from a tough line,
from those who outlived their conquerors
from those who have lived despite the misery
created happiness from empty nothing
I stand upon the stepping stones
my ancestors have left behind for me
I never lose my way and keep moving
along with my self designated path
I thrive on spiting life.
Poetry is deceptively delicate
it's a whisper which gradually becomes a scream
a dream turning into a nightmare
which stays with you all-day
a compliment transformed into an insult
subtle niceties and manners on the
surface while being sarcastic and real below.
It is the truth, leaking out
of the heart despite itself.
The beat of a constant drum
below the flourishes of what we
create for ourselves.
Subversive, not submissive
honest razor-sharp observation
its words are strength,
they can be deadly.
Thank the muse for bringing the light
of poetry, into a tenebrous world.
