Hyperboles And Bumblebees

By all appearances,

I am poised, present, and pleasant.

My professors call me “prepared”.

My employers call me “professional”.

My editors call me “precise”.

In reality, I am a collection of dysfunctions tenuously held together by nervous tics.

In reality my mannerisms are informed by the careful study of people around me.

In reality, my precision is the result of hours spent searching for the words burning the back of my tongue.

In reality, my “well-organized” papers were planned on the backsides of course syllabi, hours before due-dates.

Give me everything green

So I can plant it in my soul

And finally be able to

So exposed.

So tense—stretched so thin, pulled so tight.

Nowhere is safe.

Nowhere is home.

Everything place is temporary,

Every plan is tentative.

Nothing is solid—nothing to lean against.

Nothing to rely on.

Running from one fleeting patch of cover to another.

“Learn the beauty of temporary things”. They say.

“Learn the value of suffocation”. I hear.

Of never resting in a place long enough to catch your breath.

Of never trusting a thing enough to let your guard down.

Of training your heart to sleep with its boots on,

Just in case…

-Just in case you have to leave.

-Just in case it goes south.

-Just in case you were wrong.

Keep your muscles taut—ready to run at a moment’s notice.

Feel it burn.

Feel lactic acid building up in the muscles of your heart as you tell yourself to wait just a little longer;

“Soon it will be different”.

“Soon you will be safe”.

“Soon you won’t be alone”.

Soon you won’t have to lie to yourself to get through the day.

Soon you will actually believe the lies you’ve been telling yourself all these years.

I’m a sinner twice over—

Both the liar who deceives

I am equal parts hellfire and sunshine.

I hurry to my seat

My backpack holds bananas 

That I intend to eat

I crash upon the back row

As the wheeled beast takes off

And despair upon the knowledge 

Second rate novel

Milk foam on dark espresso

“It’s a pear” she said

giving no indication

of it’s size, or it’s shape,

or unique colouration,

it’s flavour or origin,

texture or grain,

it’s religion, it’s gender,

or even it’s name,

for a pear is a pear is a pear,

nature shows, 

and it goes without question,

(for everyone knows),

that pears are delicious,

though not all the same;

to invoke salivation, 

all you need is the name

and the crowds will come flocking,

from near and from far,

via train or by boat,

in a plane or a car,

to smell or to see,

or mayhap get a taste

of the pear she was holding,

but sadly misplaced.