Self-Ashtualisation

First read all the Facebook poetry memes to find out what you want your poem to mean deep down in the dumps of procrastination. Then start writing and before long digressing, because it’s nice to be wholly in touch with your holy avatar, the version of you yet to exist, maybe in a day, or in fact, right after you’ve got this poem about procrastination done and dusted.   Whilst you write, no, start writing, again, summon your ex-muse into your mind, bring the rage on, feel the raw anger and feel free to throw fireballs at her. After all she’s done, she’s not here to tame you into that copycat who is your mere self-parody in hindsight. Feeling too much? I know. Stop thinking of her then. Reprogramme your brain by procrastinating some more. This time pick three poetry collections about friendship breakups to read before you start to write your third line of your procrastination poem instead.   The next step is to philosophise about the validity of eve

White hearts congregate like birds sitting snug on multiple, multiplied family trees. Feathers melted from milk chocolates, malted, those beauties perch on top a wedding cake, specially made for singles like me. The hearts are browned through the whites of my eyes, caramelised, fragranced with the aroma of French rose tea, befriending my every sense with the sweetness of waterfalls.   I am reborn every day, a foreigner in the floral-speaking country called Friendship, learning, without burning, its every tradition and myth, myself dragonised with each new word and phrase earned. Face turned unphased, I let every raindrop grow into my heart’s frosting, returning to the homecoming and upcoming parties that are my chosen family trees.   The butterflies in my stomach, wings fluttering, never fly away. Look here they are to stay! Inside I am freshened by their frientastical sprinkling of fairy dust. All I need to stay sweet, lit and booked up,

When I socialise, demoralised over cup after cup of glass-half-full non-caffeinated virtual hot beverage, I am immediately uncoupled from my twin flames, myself and I, so who’s left? Me. Burnt out. Black-coffeed. Dramatically dehydrated. I hug my burnt-black-coffee self with my loose arms, muscles relaxed, but steady as bookshelves, momentarily armed, moneyed, materialised with breathing, reading material. Bye-bye or rather welcome (back), sugar!