Flushing Things

Someone handed me their judgement 

So I flushed it down the drain

Didn’t bother even looking 

Let it wash away like rain 

They tried to hand me doubt too 

And its troubling cousin fear

I threw them all into my porcelain bowl 

And then casually necked a beer

Took the expectations I was given 

Flushed them like a terd

This time I watched and smiled

Their whooshing descent all I heard 

Now I can’t stop flushing things 

I’ll be doing it ’til Summer

My disinterest in other’s plans for me 

Might soon mean I need a plumber.

The Already Flung

We’ve been roamers since the caves

Human ants emerging from our sandstone burrows 

Scurrying across Earth’s surface like grains on a breeze

Step after curious step we seek what’s outside us

Or flee what harms us

A perpetual migratory quest

There is no stopping it

The world will orbit again 

The ant hills will open

The roamers will roam

You can’t unfling the already flung

The scattered cannot be unscattered.

Awkward Guardian

Change is an awkward guardian. Knocking on the door when you’re cosy and comfortable. When you could stay as you are forever. Letting it in brings uncertainty and discomfort, a gut punch of fear. It smiles but it also swings. Open the door. Let it at you until your blood runs clear and clean.

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