Free writing

The hours strike apart like broken plates because
my hands are familiar with the anxieities.
the best intentions of mine get tangled up
and I wonder if cutting myself open would help just to show
what’s true about what I really mean, underneath, inside.

The terror bleeds through without a sound or word.
It’s just a simple unravelling. But this is nothing
compared to the world, the television and sweet sweepers
and being bitten by memories of nightmares with eyes open.
Thousands upon thousands of circles, futility and reflection:
unchangeable. I wonder why he wrote that it’s April
that is he cruellest month when any of them, any month
or cycle of the moon, can be cruel and can be kind or both?

Will we see parts of the universe through a telescope?
Transcend, transport, escape? We can see patterns all over.
We’ll look for stars, even the dead ones staying on to carry time.

I have been betrayed before. Sometimes I ought to be wary of hoping.
At least I remember to breathe and look up at the city blocks
scraping the sky, instead of at my shoes  Reason clouds the heart,
or the other way around. At night it’s fragile evocations,
a mixing of memories and hallucinations of winter dawn.

Will it bloom this year? The broken gate from where words flow
without resoution? No answers. No reason, that only there with emotion.
There are answers but all answers are followed by doubts
and different answers to the same questions.

Eventually I will write about the history of fire escapes,
the mysteries of the two hemispheres together and apart
and how they lateralise when the words and visions overtake us.
And the forever-land of forgiveness I'll find without forgetting the path.
The delusion of freedom, and wanting to believe- I couldn’t count
all the things I’d like to believe. Then there’s. wondering what is real.
He says it’s nothing and everything is a hologram.
I don’t know much but I know I’m not hollow, and whether or not
I’m real or any of this is, I’m glad to see what I see as I see it.