By Naomi McPeters

I serve a creative hunger

A deep down gnawing at my spine wanting more

Than this present form


Of language,

Fluid, yet formed

The shape of these words like music



Defies all our bones

Defies all our poems



Will not fit

Inside of my bones


I do not die for want of stillness.

The thought of being one with whatever it was

I was created for


Is shattered

Melody mourns

In silence is formed


Would it mean I was dying

Surrendering to nothingness instead of grasping

The certainty of chaos


If it transformed into peace

This aching that won’t leave me alone

A hunger eating me alive


Until inside, all that is left

Is bullet holes and star-gazing whores

Willing to give everything


I just wanted more

More than the wailing of a mother for her child

This wasn’t the first time


More than a heart’s cry

Piercing me to the core of my being until all I wanted

Was to absorb every ounce of her cry


To hand her my heart’s jar

And let her overflow it with her tears

Until even I was drowning


I would have rather it be me

I don’t want to reach the end 

Grasping for something I can never have again


We all have to serve a master

I would starve without my hunger

Call it madness


Call it a haunting cry

That won’t stop echoing through my mind

Memories of suffering


Why do we keep

Coming back here





I keep trying to hold

To the story

It has burned

And these ashes



Into the wind

All is vanity, meaningless

Says the Preacher


Call those haunting eyes

Brimmed with indescribable sorrow pleading with us

To welcome life with a smile when it comes to us tomorrow


The Preacher

He knew nothing of trauma

But plenty of crimson

Marked his pen as he wrote



Within time lies

The story


Call me sorrow

Call me a thorn that mars the rose’s crown

I’ve still got to make it to the end somehow


Before it finds me 

Unprepared, fighting, screaming into the air 

Not saying that I wanted more

But saying it could take me


Call me Mara

Bitter to the core of my being

Existence holds no meaning


But Life

That is something much different

It too has got me wondering


About the unspoken suffering

The deepest grieving marked by the sound

Of the deepest cry of love


Places of memory

Lie forgotten




With no boundaries

Fluid and rigid

I’m trying to tell you the story


Of pain

Of a child, eight years of age

Hammered beneath her mother’s rage


If you listen

One can hear the cry in the deadness of night

Tormented, frozen up inside


Until death sparks its fury,

Don’t speak to me of its meaning

All there is left to say is

I’m sorry

I’m sorry

I’m sorry.