May 3, 2016

Self-Portrait by Ryan Stone

And these are my failings: 
a wild smile always leads my mind 
to the kiss hiding behind it
and sometimes to plot
the shortest route there. 

Did I say sometimes? I lie a bit, too. 
And I tend to zone out to small-talk 
like there aren't already enough 
idle words in the world. I often wonder -
where do they go, those wasted words 
once they're spoken? 

And I can't warm to people, 
despite how I try. I'm lying again -
I don't try at all. I'd much rather hide
with Lana or Bruce, in track pants, alone,
drinking vodka; 

ignoring that night in my fourteenth year
when my father got drunk,
made me drive his ute home -
the soft bump and loud bark,
the crimson accusation, 
coagulating on his tyre
next morning.

Ryan Stone is a freelance writer from Melbourne, Australia.  He shares his home in the blue Dandenongs with his wife, two young sons and a German Shepherd.  On daily walks through his forest surrounds, he often peers down rabbit holes. His poetry has recently appeared in Writers' Forum Magazine, Black Poppy Review, Napalm and Novocain and Poppy Road Review.


  1. Thank you kindly, Rose. Regards, Ryan :)

  2. I love this poem - reflective, confessional, metaphorical... really well done

  3. Thanks, Al. Really appreciate your support, mate.

  4. better late than never...I can relate to this I don't feel so all alone.

  5. Then the poem has achieved its purpose. Thank you for your lovely feedback, Joan :)