November Poetry Compilation
Sunstroke’s Monthly Poetry Compilation is a collection of work submitted by readers, contributors and staff members. Take a seat, light a candle, grab a cup of tea, and dive into the intricate words of our community.
Photograph by Birdy Francis
promise?
where is the love i was promised
where is it where is it where is it i am beaten
bloody and raw
scraped and scarred
i spit pink saliva onto concrete and i scream
where is it?
where is the love i was promised?
i fall to my knees
they break open some more, bleed onto the gravel
where is it?
why can’t i find it? don’t i deserve something like love?
don’t i deserve it?
don’t i don’t i don’t i don’t i don’t? i?
i scream at the top of my lungs
scare off the birds and raccoons and the squirrels
where is the love i was promised?!?!
why do i sit here, in unlovable dirt?
where is the love i was promised? why can’t i
find it, where is it?
you told me, you told me i deserved it
so where is it?
the love?
the care i was promised?
i scramble in the dark with tears blurring my vision and blood marking my path but
i
can’t
find
it
The Dream Fisher
By Alex Payne
On a sky set to twilight
Looks for holes where the dreams poke,
Nets them blind on the highlight
Where the clouds shine and winds broke.
She’s the dream fisher
The night catcher
The storyteller of sleep,
Hunts her quarry into night time
Beyond the colours lights keep.
She collects them, in pouches,
As loose fairytales,
Recombines them and refines them
Into songs for the whales.
And that's where they come from
Those dreamless black nights,
Know she’s up there
She’s caught them,
Lost dreams in her sights.
But by morning they’re flying
She lets loose her catch,
And back to the rafters,
The dreams nest and hatch.
Clown shoes on, wish it was different
By E. Young
Clown
I am stuck at a red light.
No other cars for miles,
but my luck is bad
and I can’t run it.
My feet are propped up
on the passenger seat
and my seatbelt is off.
The radio plays no
coherent song, so I hum
a rancid tune of my own.
Even unreasonable reverie knows
I won’t be driving anytime soon,
but I’m still wasting gas
with my car in park.
shoes on
I woke up with my shoes on.
I must’ve tied their laces
while asleep.
In my ever-changing body,
my feet are too big for them now.
Heels poking out,
toes scrunched,
turning purple.
When I sleep-walk down the street,
sometimes a poor soul
puts money in my hand,
fearing my ragged demeanor
is not a choice.
But this reptilian leather
has known my toenails the longest.
They know the odor
that reeks from my pores.
I know my feet would ache
for the ache their pinch gives.
They’d rather feel pain
than not feel anything at all.
, wish it was different
A drive home,
from an unexpected moment
of familiarity.
Unforgiving music,
windows down,
ambiguous chill in the air.
I found myself unsurprised
at the thought
that I would die then,
with that calm feeling
in the back of my throat.
I had accepted death,
even though it did not come for me.
It’s rank perfume
barely even floated my way.
When I shut the door behind me,
I knew not of what to do.
Everyone had gone to bed,
and turned the lights out with them.
My personhood hasn’t felt the same since.
My days go quick and wrong,
body and gut pained and numb,
all at once.
I don’t think that I want(ed) to die,
I think that I was supposed to.
But is there much difference between the two?