there's blinding pressure
in those unpacked boxes
of broken and unbroken toys
that define memories
of what was
and what should have been
the pictures are warped
even those i have yet to hang
the books are mouldy
even those i have yet to read
and the to-do list just keeps on growing
while boxes and boxes of who i used to think i was
pile up by the door, to be thrown out and recycled
and i let go
of shades of who i think i'll be
-
for fourteen years i wished my father dead at the age of eighteen i buried him it would take another six years to be rid of his physica...
-
the sun shines brightly cutting through the haze into tight corners of the post-atomic daze the concrete alley floor, with its broken flow...
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