ajulea

When did you last write poetry on paper? I prefer my phone – clean lines and less scribbles, no reliance on blunt pencils and old pens, no merry-go-round paper hunts for ruled lines. My writing doesn’t slant downward on my phone even when I’m…

Dance with me as shadows linger, celebrating sunset like one grateful for the cool crescent foam of swaying waves washing over toes dipped in summer sand at noon, which sink in surreptitiously, like one falls in love, or I did, watching you…

I’ll tell you a thousand words and I’ll paint them with a rhyme, take you down memory lane if you want to turn back time. Caramelised strawberry sauce dripping down from my tongue will make you slide down the chute to the nights when we were…

I ran like the whirlwind from my windowless home, through cracked, sun weary fields, to your two-storey house- all white walls and red doors, because you said your sky was breaking down and I thought my small shoulders, like Atlas, could h…

Thought bubbles float like paper boats downstream, like contraband cartons tracing golden, sticky orb webs to escape between the silk strands of delectable delusion before the Siren’s coaxing calls weave a warm bed for your slumber….

I sat cross-legged on the wooden floor reading rainy books on a sunny day. The tic tac toe shadows of window grilles inked my skin in temporary phases like moving jail bars and strumming guitar; I was a prisoner in my hollow whose screams vibra…

Crowded carnivals and contoured faces between pavement cracks in foreign places tired me, and in the slip before my fall, a shadow stepped in, like a Wonderwall. Oh stranger, you, from right out of the blue, stopped my heart beat for a secon…

The night creeps up the stairs, like thieves do, silently. The only giveaway is the squeaking mouse which hides, under a floorboard, dilapidated like most things in the attic- the attic which houses me. When the double digits of your age…

Red clay brick drawn hopscotch lines lead to burning fires and smoke. A tiptoed ballerina, pink and worn, dances through flames. Muscles strain until collapse, lungs absorb fumes, whimpering, until blistering feet pause, and charred fing…

a pretty penny for every thought that roams ’round the head past midnight chime piggy banks overflow every hour I’d trade them for a soft lullaby and Sleep- if only he could be bribed…