Friday 28 December 2012

I love you too?


‘I love you’

Followed by a deathly silence. A knife to the chest. An echo round the
Room that you try your best to ignore but it bounces up to the ceiling
And back down to the floor. It pounds into each ear as you patiently
Wait to hear the words in someone else’s voice. After five minutes you
Realise, they say it back because they don’t have a choice.

Friday 22 June 2012

Tears and questions


Cry. Cry. Cry.
The tears fall from your eyes in a crocodile manner that
You expect me to believe. If I only reach down your throat
And retrieve your heart from your chest, you’d appreciate
The painful predicament I’m in. Although I suppose that
If my hand were to dive in, I’d find no heart therein.

Lie. Lie. Lie.
The tears fall again and with no concept of what the
Truth is you tell me she’s just a friend, even though I’ve
Seen enough with my own eyes to know these are lies.
Again you tell me that you love me in the vain hope that
I’ll believe the words of a well-rehearsed liar.

Why. Why. Why.
I ask the question on repeat and you answer in neat little
Sentences that offer no explanation for my humiliation
Because, as you claim, you don’t know why you did it.
You don’t know you lied and why you hid it. And I don’t
Know why, after such embarrassment, I’d come back to you.

The abstract truth


If abstract is changeable, theoretical, is the truth abstract? An
Unstable perception of how someone sees something from a
Perspective that is blurred by their own desires. Blurred by what
They themselves want people to see. Arguably the abstract truth
Of things will shift between you and me. I will see one thing while
You will see another; you’ll see her as a friend while I see her as
Your ex-lover. We neither of us are wrong, but right in our own
Perception of the situation. Perhaps truth is abstract, not a set
Reality but something we merely construct in our own mind.
Maybe that’s the reason why you lied.

Tuesday 5 June 2012

The Writer's Wife


The Writer’s Wife. She doesn’t have much of a life, never did;
Always working to keep her real feelings hid in case her husband
Looks at her face, picks up on a trace of something worthy of
Writing down. Every smile, every frown. It ends up on paper for
Someone to critique, and while everyone “oohs” and “ahhs”,
Praising it for being unique, they remain unaware that the
Emotion has been torn off the face of the Writer’s Wife. Not
Much of a life. Every argument is on paper and while she tries
To move on, her husband drags up the past one rhyme at a
Time for the sake of his “art”, unaware that every poem is a
Scar upon her heart. The Writer’s Wife, not much of a life,
Although she started out as a muse; after suffering a marriage
Of emotional abuse, she has become just a tool to amuse.

Sunday 20 May 2012

A Cinderella Story


A Cinderella story is a complete misrepresentation of what we go
Through. We have to do so much more than that girl had to do.
She didn’t doll herself up to make herself look fitter. No. She
Just went to a party, lost some glass slipper. And BANG. There
Prince Charming was. And he immediately adored her simply
Because… That’s right, nobody knows. She went on a night out,
Lost a shoe, which is something the best of us do, but somehow
She ended up with a guy. Annoyingly she didn’t even try. Then
They moved in together, got married, had kids (seriously who
Was naïve enough to think up this?), and they did it all whilst
In love, without nerves or trepidation. Has there ever been a
Bigger misrepresentation?

I'm just tired


I’m just tired. I’m working so hard on assignments that you
Read and discard as another “good piece of work”. I dream
Of revision, and approach everything with the apprehension
That one carries with them into an exam. People tell me to
Leave my exam nerves at home but I don’t think I can, even
When there is no exam in sight, I still feel like there is an
Answer that I’ll need to get right. I’m just tired. I’m trying
Constantly to be better, to push my marks up by a grade
Boundary or a letter just so someone will say, “Well done
You, we knew you could do it.” Which is a remarkable remark
For someone who didn’t have to go through it. You have so
Much faith in my ability, you never expect a disappointment
From me and that’s what makes it so tiring. I’ll dress to
Impress and cause myself distress for the sake of keeping
Other people down. For the sake of keeping other people
Content. And I’ll work with a smile, even though all the
While I’m working, I’m working with resent.

Wednesday 16 May 2012

A forget me not


I wonder if when you read this, which we both know you will, you’ll
Know that I’m talking about you. It’s kind of a thrill. As the writer I
Know what I’m talking about but as the reader you’re just trying to
Figure me out. There seems to be an irony in that, given that you
Know me so well. But irony isn’t the topic on which I wish to dwell.
The topic, I’m afraid to admit, is you. Ridiculous I know but yes, it’s
True. The rhyme scheme and enjambment is entirely for you. Perhaps
You’ll be so concerned with literary technique you’ll overlook the words
That the writer (that’s the role I play) is trying to speak. So, I miss you.
Not all the time. In fact there are times when I’m glad my days are
Entirely mine and that they don’t have to be shared. But there are
Also times when I miss the times of comfort, when you cared. I miss
The cuddles and the occasional row when I’d think you were an idiot
And you’d think I was a moody cow although the words would never
Pass our lips. It’s unfortunate that it’s come to this. Semi-anonymous
Words on a page being carelessly left on my internet stage where I
Am the playwright, writing to amuse. No one really knows that I’m
Writing to a muse. You’ll read it and momentarily entertain the idea
That you’re the person I’m talking about here. Then shaking your
Head you’ll say, “No, of course not.” And this will become another
Poem that someone read, and then forgot.

Saturday 12 May 2012

Eco-friendly liar


Oxymoron: an expression with contradictory words. A bit like you,
When the actions you act out, contradict the words you say and the
Words I’ve heard. “No, of course you haven’t done anything darling”
You say, as you turn your phone off and walk away, prepared to
Ignore my texts for the rest of the day. Admittedly, I’m possibly
Paranoid and maybe I haven’t done anything wrong. But someone
Quite obviously has. “I’m just busy” on a Saturday afternoon when
You have nothing to do but go into town to buy a new pair of jeans.
Yeah, I know what you mean. I can see what a time-consuming
Activity that’s going to be. Maybe you’re just taking things out on
Me. Definitely wouldn’t be the first time. “The problem isn’t yours,
It’s mine” which works until I’ve had my fill of being pushed a way
For something I haven’t done, or so you say. You’ve found the time
To read the message but not reply, which you explain with another
Believable lie as you tell me you loved me and that you’ve missed
Me all day. I’ll believe it. On account of being an idiot who finds
Comfort in the words you say, that I’ve already heard, and that I’ll
Hear again another day. You’re quite eco-friendly when it comes to
Literacy. You always recycle the lies you tell me.

Monday 30 April 2012

Bed time


There is a comfortable post-sex silence. We lie in each
Other’s company, soaked in each other, with nothing
But the sound of our own breathing to keep pace.
I look over to your glowing face and feel content with
The knowledge that I’m responsible for that. There is
A world outside those shutters that we haven’t been
A part of for at least two hours, we’ve been too busy
Exploring each other’s powers and what effects they
Have on each other. It is the novelty of enjoying a
Brand new lover. There are no nerves of failure, we
Are too consumed in each other. Our legs are inter-
Twined. Our fingers twist around each other like
Friends that have been parted by a terrible war. Our
Bodies are in a state of love at first sight that neither
Of us have experienced before. We look over to the
Door, laugh about our reluctance to move from the
Bed where we have spent the morning making our
Very own heaven. We’re not ready to leave yet.

The common cold


Something appears lodged in my nose. There is a dull
Ache throbbing right down to my toes and I’m struggling
To digest the air. Although the weather is fair, the
Sunshine does nothing but buy me some time in the dark,
My eyes can no longer handle this daylight malark. It
Would seem that my innards are in something of a mess,
I can’t even muster the energy it takes to get dressed
And my sleep pattern is that of a new born child. If only
I could rest for a while. I’m popping medication to try
And ease the force in my nose that’s making it hard
To breathe. It’s been so long I’m trying remedies both
New and old, but to no avail. There is nothing common
About this cold.

Friday 27 April 2012

Modern dating


What’s all this about people twittering? All these people
Flittering from one method of communication to the next
Trying to work out which is best.

                                                 “Maybe I should send a text?
Are we ready for a phone call? Voice to voice contact might
Be too much too soon. I’m not convinced we’re ready for
Actual talking so maybe I’ll stick to Facebook stalking until
I know a bit more about her.”

                                             “Is this what you do? Determine
The potential of a love and whether it’s true based on what
They put on their Facebook page? Which, as we all know, is
Nothing more than a stage on which we play a part. Facebook
Knows nothing about the inside of our hearts.”

                                                                      “Mate! You are
Totally right. I’ll check her Twitter page, that’s much more light.
No one puts anything heavy on Twitter. It’s the easiest way to find
Out what she’s like: Funny? Flirtatious? Secretly bitter? What do
You think? And maybe, if she doesn’t seem crazy, I’ll ask her
Out for a drink. You’re right, this is so much better than
Checking her wall.”

                              “On second thoughts, why don’t you give
Her call? What’s the worst she can do? Say no and knock you back.
At least over the phone she’ll approach it with tact instead of a blunt
Personal message that ends “Please don’t write back”. Besides, she
Might hardly ever even check her wall, maybe she’s the type of girl
Who actually waits for a call. The worst that can happen is she hangs
Up, thinking you’re a bit of a prat.”

                                                      “Mate, I’m just not ready for that.”

Wednesday 25 April 2012

why is punctuation important


what is a punctuation mark

something we provide to highlight

or hide the end of something or

sometimes the beginning

all we are doing is thinning

out the potential impact of what

we say by telling our few readers

hey you should read it this way

see no punctuation but you still

understood what was happening

why is punctuation so important anyway

question mark

Saturday 21 April 2012

Things change


I told a friend once, “People change. Whether we like
It or not our lives will re-arrange and we’ll just be left
With memories of how things used to be. We’re close
Now, you and me, but in ten years time (I’ll still be
Your best friend and you’ll be mine) where will we find
Time to get drunk every weekend and be hungover
Every Monday? You know love, we’ll have to grow up
One day and I’m telling you, that future isn’t as far
Away as you might think. Oh go on then, yeah, I’ll
Have another drink. We’ll meet people, I know you
Think we’re destined to remain alone but we won’t,
One day I’ll pick up the phone and you’ll say you’ve
Got a surprise, you’ll announce your engagement and
I’ll think it’s lies but it will be the honest truth. Then,
God-willing, I’ll do the same, I’ll grow up and take on
Someone else’s name and then we can kiss goodbye
To our youth and say hello to a life of being somebody’s
Husband and somebody’s wife. You might cringe now
But you know our future will be illuminated with “I do”
And, eventually, “Mummy, will you leave on the light?””

That same friend called me the other day, and although
We didn’t have much to say, he did admit one thing,
“Char, you were completely right.”

Tuesday 17 April 2012

The God Debate


He created evil - how can you believe? How can you have
Faith in someone who sends his children in to fight but
Will never retrieve them from battle, who herds us up
Like cattle and, without warning, throws us into the lion’s
Den and demands we fight our way through to the morning.
How you can believe in a God that slaughters his children
And ignores our demands, who tells us he loves us but
Then makes us suffer at his hand, who created this world
For grown men and young boys but then placed people
Upon it who are simply designed to destroy? Honestly,
Explain to me, how can you believe in that man?

The answer is simple: Because I just can. Because while
I often see the wars, and different things on a horrific
Scale, my faith is something that will always prevail.
Just because some people decide to abuse their free will,
Don’t mistake this God’s attempt at gaining a cheap
Thrill because I can assure you that’s not the case. You
Might think I’m naïve in standing in this place and preaching
About what God is to me, but I understand that Faith isn’t
Something you can see and not something you should attempt
To force on another, so don’t mistake this please, my sisters
And brothers as an attempt to convert you to Christianity.
You should consider this as more of a plea: If you don’t
Want my opinions, don’t force your own onto me.

Monday 16 April 2012

Unable to sleep


While you’re at home cuddled in bed with various dreams
Running through your head, I’ll be here awake, with no
Dreams to make because my eyes simply won’t close,
There isn’t a reason, or rather, there isn’t a reason
That anyone knows. And for fear of encouraging
Me to start an addiction my doctor won’t give
Me tablets for this particular affliction so I’ll
Have to stare at the ceiling instead, and lie
In the unloving, distant arms of my cold
Bed and hope that I’ll drift away; that
Perhaps I’ll close my eyes and it will
Suddenly be day, although I doubt
That will be the outcome of
Night number six hundred
And seventy one of lying
Here, counting sheep,
Always unable to
Sleep.

Sunday 15 April 2012

Metaphorical sex


I want words spilt out across the floors,
Someone who can’t keep his hands off my metaphors,
Similes and assonance sprayed up the wall,
As the pace of our meter takes a rise, then a fall,
I want hot, heavy breathing, a quickening pace,
With figurative language smeared all over the place,
A long exclamation tucked inside parentheses,
Form and content so dirty, academics will freeze,
Rhymes and quick sentences bounced off each other,
Intricate oxymorons that make us both shudder,
We’re swapping trade secrets, using every trick,
Wrapped up in practically perfect iambic.

Saturday 14 April 2012

A textual encounter

I analyse everything you say
Down to the very last kiss,

Paying close attention to the letters you miss,
But you probably just do it to abbrevi8.

Texting lingo isn't what I do best
But I still try and match you x for x.

Thursday 12 April 2012

Faulty wiring


Nothing feels how it did. Even the things that always
Felt good. Nothing ever feels quite how it should since
This mental invasion of the depressive kind. It’s almost
Like my mind isn’t my mind, but rather, a car on loan;
And while I’m fiddling with the gear shift to try and get
Home I just seem to be getting most lost, and more out
Of control. Knowing my luck I’ll steer into a ditch, or
Fall into a black hole never to be seen again by family,
Eventually forgotten by friends. Is that how it will end?
Some tragic accident that everyone says they could see
Coming inevitably, they’ll all say they knew something
Tragic would get me even though none of them told me
That. Does this count as a suicidal thought? Hopefully
Not, it will only result in increased medication from
The doctor and increased trepidation from everyone
Who’s close enough to me to know that these smiles
Are false, and my laughter is a show. It’s not a suicide
Thought, I think far too highly of myself for such
Behaviour so don’t worry, you’re in no danger of finding
Me hanging from the towel rail, clutching personalised
Mail to all my family to explain why I simply had to die.
I like living. Love, in fact. And once my mind is back in
Tact I’ll love it even more. Now if only someone could
Teach me to drive.

Wednesday 11 April 2012

Oh Doc


Oh Doc, what am I today? Hard to say. The paranoia
Is getting a little better, so I won’t be needing that
Referral letter, although I appreciate the time you
Spent throwing it together. Now, you know I don’t
Like to self-diagnose, but I think this all might have
Something to do with the weather. I’ve been reading
About that, oh what’s it called, it was a story about a
Young woman who, when confronted with grey skies
And rain, just constantly bawled! Seasonal something
Or other disorder. And while we’re discussing my
Problems, I’m starting to become a bit of a hoarder,
And I feel this sudden wave of anxiety wash all over
Me at the prospect of throwing things away. The
Depression? Oh that’s not too bad. I spend most of
These days anxious rather than sad, but I’m sure
That I’m heading for some kind of low spell, but
For the time being I’m doing quite well. Mother
Seems to think that I’m more psychotic than ever,
So I tried to explain to the impact of the weather
That I’m sure you agree upon, if you wouldn’t mind,
When you have a second, could you confirm that
For my mum? So now we’ve gone through my few
New afflictions, can we get onto the matter of my
Next prescription?

Tuesday 10 April 2012

In the shower


I wrote this while I was in the shower,
Struck by some divine creative power,
The words were somehow weaved into my head,
No doubt the work of some needle and thread.
It’s like I’m surrounded my rhymes, only I can see;
Inspired as the water washes over me.
I read uninspired words: lather, rinse, repeat,
With the monotonous tone of an instructions sheet.
Bewildering as to why people can’t take the time,
To have a quick shower, and come up with a rhyme.

High tide


I'm sat in the window, with wild hair
And no make up, a poor show, staring
Out at the only friend I can trust. She
Knows so many secrets she must be
Ready to burst but she's the only
One I can rely on, you see, the only
One who's always here for me. Twice
A day she checks in and offers advice,
Don't get me wrong it's not always
Nice in fact, sometimes she can be a
Little too rough, although I suppose
There are times when we need love
To be tough. Waving her arms erratically
She puts everything right with the
World, and seems to put everything
Right on the inside. And when her job
Is done she disappears, and leaves me
Waiting for the next high tide.

Cave rescue


Send in cave rescue, I'm trapped under this mess,
Lost underneath memories I tried hard to repress.
But now it seems the repression has thrown me off
Track, and inevitably all these memories have flood
Back. Like how you said you loved me, then said,
"No, I lied." Like how you told me I was such an influence
It felt like I was right there, inside; like that time
You said we were perfect, said I somehow nurtured
Your mind, then, without warning, you became brutal,
Un-kind. So somebody help me, free me from these binds,
Relieve me from the burden of my very own mind.
There seems so much pressure on my head, and my
Ticker, talk to the rescue team, beg them to tunnel
In quicker. So send in cave rescue, I'm trapped under
This mess, I know it's a complicated affair but if they
Can just do their best I'll finish the job, and try to
Wriggle myself free, and finally shift this burden,
Bearing down on me.

The depth of children's TV


What a disillusion we offer children when
We turn on the TV and immediately show
The love affair of Minnie and Mickey. We
Change the channel so they can see
Other children playing grown-up pranks,
And I believe there's one show that has
A character who is just a plank, of wood I
Mean, that's a not a metaphor, that kind
Of technique would be no use to a child
Who's barely turned four. What really
Frustrates me is the portrayal of love,
That cartoons make out to have the grace
Of dove rather than the growl of a
Beast, that will attack your heart like its
Favourite feast. Apparently it's just a
Case of falling asleep, and then into your
Life Prince Charming will creep, he'll kiss
Your dry lips and whisk you away and
He'll love you dearly for each following
Day. Then there's Rapunzel, Rapunzel,
Let down your hair, kids should know in
Reality there would be no man there.
Reality really offers something else, that
Leaves your questioning your very own
Self-wealth; it's merely heartache to
Watch romantic, children's TV, it simply
Sets you up for romance that will cease
To be. I think it's safe to say the likes of
Me have been damaged for life by
Disney TV. Now I'll sit and watch Cinderella,
And wait for Prince Charming again.
Take note of this moral, dear children.

The End.

Wednesday 4 April 2012

Allergic reaction


Nausea, vomiting, regular fatigue, doctors approach
Me with intrigue, unsure of what’s wrong. “Have you
Had these symptoms long? Have you recently been
Given a different prescription? It seems like you might
Need urgent medical attention.” I reach the height of
My symptoms, dizziness leads me to faint. “We need
To admit her, before it’s too late!” So taken into
The hospital, thrown in a bed with wires intermittently
Placed from heart up to head; they want to
Keep me in for observation, so they can act quick
In case of sudden deterioration. “You can’t think of
Anything new that might have this effect?” they ask
Me, expecting too much of a university-reject, I shrug
And deliriously ask for a hug whilst explaining that my
Heart has been straining. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Well Doc, I recently met the most amazing boy I’ve
Ever seen. It’s like he slipped into my life from Heaven,
Or the sky, and whenever we speak my mouth becomes
Dry, my lips are contained within a worrying white
Streak and I feel starved of air, and incredibly weak;
Just when I think I’m handling things well, I suddenly
Can’t breathe and my lips start to swell. Honestly, the
Affect doesn’t seem to be that much, deteriorated
Breathing and the odd facial flush, I doubt all this has
Anything to do with him. “My dear, I don’t know why
The other doctor kept you in. There is no mystery
Here at to what these are symptoms of: you’re not
Ill at all, you’re simply in love.”

Tuesday 3 April 2012

Fix me


Can you imagine a grinding sound in your mind? A noise
Of the most annoying kind, like your hemispheres are
Raging against each other and bringing you to tears in
The process. The cogs are churning, oil is burning out
Quicker than you can top up your tank and you’re left
Feeling depressed, generally rank inside your own mind.
I’m looking for some kind of resolution to this mental
Intrusion but I’ve been left blind. Somebody fix me?

Get Involved!



Monday 2 April 2012

Content with poetry


I’m not looking for something in-depth,
Meaningful, or particularly interesting.
I don’t want to be in a position where
My heart is on a string, but the rope
Is in someone else’s pocket. I don’t
Want to remove the padlock from my
Heart, or give someone the key to unlock
It. I’m looking for someone with some-
Thing to say, someone capable of the
Analysis of Hemingway or a detailed
Discussion of poetry; but under no
Circumstances will I be inclined to let
Someone analyse me. I’m content in
Staying as an anomaly. Deep intellect
Is all I need to keep me warm at night,
I have no need for someone there,
Pestering me to let them hold me tight
When the only comfort I need is from
The characters of a good book. Don’t give
Me that look, you can’t honestly say
You’re content with someone being there
Every hour of every day. When you sleep,
When you wake, when you try to take
Five minutes alone and can’t even find peace
Inside your own home. Oh, you like that?
The comfort of having someone there for
You, displaying emotions that seem to
Be true, (pardon my cynicism towards
Romanticism, I suppose you’re entitled
To dream…). Well that’s all well and good
But I’m afraid it’s not for me. No, I think
I’ll remain content with good poetry.

Don't wake me


Don’t wake me,
I’m not ready for the sunlight.

Don’t make me,
Everything seems too bright.

Don’t shake me,
I’ll wake up when I’m ready.

Don’t break me,
I’m trying to take things steady.

Don’t wake me,
Just leave me here to sleep.

Don’t make me,
If forced, I’m sure to weep.

Don’t shake me,
You’ll mix up my insides, and fears.

Don’t break me,
You’ll release a lifetime’s worth of tears.

Don’t wake me,
I’m not ready for the sunlight,
It’s all just too bright,
Staring into a painful light,
Something here just isn’t right,
It’s sure to lead to shock, fright.

Don’t wake me. I’m not ready.

Painting in Words


Blue.

Yellow.

Orange.

Sometimes green.

White.

Purple… actually no, never purple.

Red.

-- Darling, I painted you in words, using nothing but colour.

You haven't met my mum


Some people, who have wonderful lives,
Go home every night to children and wives,
Have a healthy bank balance and a holiday home,
In their lives misery is generally unknown.
Then something strikes and the world falls apart,
The smallest of things they will take to heart,
And rather than chasing their problems out of town,
They’ll throw in the towel, let them get ‘em down.
The smallest of things can break a human spirit,
The tiniest problems brings a whole lot more with it.
When these people lose hope and give up on fun,
I say to them, “You haven’t met my mum.”

The car’s broken down, the kids will miss school,
You’ve spent a whole morning acting the fool,
Crying your eyes out when there’s an easy fix,
Life isn’t so hard when you just know the tricks.
The kids are being naughty, it’s driving you mad,
You don’t understand why they’re acting so bad.
To top it all off, the washing machine’s broke,
So stressed you might just induce a stroke!
You jump to say you’ve had enough of things,
Can’t deal with the hassle normal life brings.
And when self-pity takes over, they’re feeling glum,
I say to them, “You haven’t met my mum.”

So mum got married at 18, to a man who left,
Had to piece together kids both feeling bereft,
Still she powered on with the force of a panzer,
Until 8 years later, she was struck with cancer.
Despite things being hard, unbelievably tough,
She somehow managed to always keep her chin up.
Us kids were a pain, sometimes drove her mad,
Acting out because we suddenly didn’t have dad,
Despite our behaviour, she powered through,
Because that’s what my mum always manages to do.
So when people moan, tell me they’ve have enough,
And that they think their life is just too tough,
Their tiny problems make them wretch and hurl,
And they tell me they’re too weak to face the world,
There’s only really one response that will ever come:
I say to them, “You haven’t met my mum.”

Wonderful feet


No one has ever done these things before. Convinced
I’m strong enough to climb a mountain one day, but the
Next I’m sprawled out on the floor too weak to move from
The body shaped groove on the laminate wood. I try and
Do everything I should and I somehow still fall short, just
As I thought there is clearly something amiss in this and
Although I can’t put my finger on what you’ve done to me,
I’m convinced the only remedy is to allow it to continue
And hopefully the outcome with be a blending of me and
You rather than the torture games we insist on pushing
Each other through. We allow each other to think things
Will be okay, we struggle through every day wondering who,
This time, will be the first to go away. Who will be the one
Who reaches down to give the rug a little tug from under-
Neath the feet of the girl we love, just to take pleasure
In watching her fall to the ground. It could be either of us.
Without sound I pursue the dream of crawling back to
You and ensuring my feelings are heard, and I’ll take the
Risk of being kicked to the curb because God, what
Wonderful feet to be kicked by.

Some valued time alone


I won’t open my curtains today. I’ll sit
In sweet, silent misery, with no words
Left to say. The sun will knock at my
Window begging to be let in, with the
Desperation of a dog that’s been left
Outside too long; and the birds will
Wonder why my window shuts out their
Birdsong. My front door will stay firmly
Locked so I can remain alone, and to
Ensure my loneliness isn’t interrupted
I’ll probably turn off my phone. I don’t
Want to be checked up on, you don’t
Need to ask if I’m okay; what I would
Like is to be left in peace, just for a
Mere fraction of the day.

Literary terms


He covered me in metaphors,
Drizzled them over my skin
Till I was doused in his words.

His alliteration bombarded my body
With beautiful beliefs and ideas.
My luscious lips were his.

He cleverly incorporated sibilance,
Making my body feel sexual
While my mind was sensual.

The use of caesura
Was without flaw.
He left me there, awaiting more.

He even showed me an oxymoron
Through his burning cold touch,
It was a sad joy when he pulled away.

His language was hyperbolic,
By the time he’d finished.
He’d made me into a Goddess.

His final lesson was in grammar.
My thighs were parentheses.
The whole of me was his.

Poetic dialogue


There they sat, not talking, at a table for two,
A romantic setting, for a romance that was through.
She shed a tear, and he looked away,
Not knowing exactly what else to say.
Her hand reached for his, he moved it from the table,
She might be crying, but he was hardly stable.
“I’m sorry,” he said, looking down at the floor,
“I just… this isn’t what I want anymore.”
A single teardrop glistening down her cheek,
She had always thought that their future was bleak,
But despite all the arguments, occasional tears,
She thought she might have him for a couple more years.
“There’s nothing that I can do to change your mind?”
She questioned, her voice distraught but still kind,
At the risk of giving more cause to cry,
He uttered, refusing to meet her teardrop eyes,
“There’s someone else. There has been for a while.”
And surprisingly, this was met with a smile.
It seemed like news that should cause her to grieve,
But instead, she bravely stood up to leave,
He was dumbstruck, didn’t realise she was quite so strong.
Then she leaned in and whispered, “I knew all along.”

Poetic lover


Lets sit around and quote poetry.
Piss our day away on worn out
Metaphors and similes we don’t
Understand. We’ll lie hand in hand,
Quoting on demand, anything the
Other wants to hear. And we’ll
Hold dear every syllable, knowing
It was requested and delivered
Specifically for the other. We’ll
Develop labels for ourselves,
Something tragic like “poetic
Lover”, and as we empty the shelves
And pass the books between
Ourselves, we’ll feel a sense of
Fulfilment that can’t come from
Physical contact. We will provide
What previous lovers lacked, by
Quoting the minds of great poets,
Re-creating their romance although
We may not know it. And when we’ve
Run out of quotations and annotations
To read, to stop us both from feeling
Alone, we’ll fall into bed, and make
Poetry of our own.

No Fairytale


Once upon a time,
Without reason or rhyme,
A girl fell in love with a boy.
Their romance so sublime,
That no weapon from time,
Could possibly destroy.

Once upon a year,
Without fright or fear,
A couple fell into wedded bliss.
Held each other quite dear,
Remained close, and near,
Saying words of love with every kiss.

Once upon a day,
They ran out of words to say,
Their bliss suddenly turned sour.
With violence and blood-spray,
The girl went away,
Still missing to this very hour.

In An Artist's Studio


It isn’t one face that looks back from his bed sheets,
But many. In a similar way to his canvas, it has sported
Girls-a-plenty. They lay out their bare selves for him
To paint and explore. He strips their personalities from
Them and lays their bodies on the floor. It’s almost
Interchangeable, the canvas to the bed, either way they
Only exist to him how he constructs them in his head.
A wild lifestyle and bubbly personality is of no real
Interest to he, who makes love to what he paints, and
Paints what other eyes don’t see.

A dying laptop


I’m racing against the laptop battery,
That is currently threatening to die on me,
It’s flashing and stalling, shrinking lower,
Every open window is functioning slower,
It’s pressuring me, pushing me, slipping away,
Urging me to quickly find something to say,
19% remaining, but I know it’s a bluff,
When it slips down to 10 it starts to play tough,
It’ll shut things down, make the speakers beep,
Then suddenly, mid-sentence, it’ll fall asleep.
I’m rushing, I’m panicked! I don’t have the time,
I need another second, a half-decent rhyme,
17%. It’s slowing, starts missing out words,
Half way down the street my anguish is heard.
My creativity cries at the laptop, depraved;
When it slams to a halt, without my document saved.

An intimate encounter


There she was, provocatively perched on
The edge of his desk, pulling the pout
She knew he liked best, where she had
Been for every day that week. She knew
He was weak and that despite his denial,
He’d put down the coffee and business
File and give her a slight caress. Against
His chest he would press her, lowering
His nose to absorb her smell, and they
Both knew that this would not end well.
That crimson red jacket covered so much,
And, still absorbing her scent, he began to
Imagine how good it would be to touch
Her off-white complexion. The seductive
Words that lay within her pierced through
Him, and as much as he tried, he knew
That her attempts would win. To everyone
Else she displayed this hard cover, but she
Admitted she could let it down for a lover
As she eyed at him to free her from her
Overcoat, her words so sensual she could
Have been singing every note. Inevitably,
He locked the office, forgot what he should
Do and admitted defeat. Eagerly tugging
At her jacket to reveal the treat underneath,
As quick as he could. Reading a book never
Felt so good…