tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86248238067164417442024-03-19T12:57:24.528-07:00The Poetry CornerUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger84125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-80067008615953870892013-11-15T13:09:00.000-08:002013-11-15T13:09:01.030-08:00i know girls i know girls who don't eat for a week before they see their boyfriends.<br />
<br />
i know girls who stand in front of the mirror and mentally will themselves<br />
<br />
to be physically thinner even though their bmi tells the rest of the world that<br />
<br />
they are severely underweight. i know girls who hate everything they<br />
<br />
will eat, and everything they ate.<br />
<br />
<br />
i know girls who dress provocatively, because your brains do not<br />
<br />
attract people as much as a freshly-shaved slab of thigh meat. i know<br />
<br />
girls who get into debt for the sake of a little black dress because<br />
<br />
as long as you look easy, it doesn't matter if you can't make ends<br />
<br />
meet. i know girls who date boys they don't like based on the justification,<br />
<br />
'well, a girl's got to eat.'<br />
<br />
<br />
i know girls who refuse to speak out, refuse to make eye contact,<br />
<br />
in the hope that they'll leave with a small shred of ego in tact because,<br />
<br />
some girls seem to be easy prey.<br />
<br />
<br />
i know some girls who are full of words, that they're not quite sure how to say.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-15597458210171158842013-11-15T12:47:00.002-08:002013-11-15T12:47:50.339-08:00when you talk to me like that do you know how you sound when you talk to me like that?<br />
<br />
for a split second, i don't even know you. you become a stranger<br />
<br />
that, given the choice, i wouldn't even associate myself with.<br />
<br />
<br />
you ball up your words and hurl them as grenades, aiming for<br />
<br />
areas that will suffer most from the impact and, if by some miracle<br />
<br />
i remain in tact, you'll find something heavier to catapult my way.<br />
<br />
<br />
there's hardly anything i can do or say, not without the risk of<br />
<br />
making things even worse which seems to be the relentless curse<br />
<br />
tied to the action of me opening my mouth.<br />
<br />
<br />
i will stutter out vowels that you will punctuate with your<br />
<br />
unimpressed scowls and soon i will begin to search for my<br />
<br />
rock, that i may crawl back under it, where i am safe. ish.<br />
<br />
<br />
you use unflattering adjectives in a grammatically incorrect<br />
<br />
manner, pieced together with a wrench and rusty spanner as<br />
<br />
if i'm not worthy of full and proper insults.<br />
<br />
<br />
do you know how you sound when you talk to me like that?<br />
<br />
for a split second, i don't even know you.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-92224383852875108622013-11-05T03:03:00.001-08:002013-11-05T03:03:59.026-08:00out of sightOut of sight, out of mind. That's how it's been,<div>How it will always be. While I burn with anguish</div><div>In the absence of you; you fail to notice the</div><div>Absence of me. You will remember when you</div><div>See me, or when you're alone; when you need</div><div>Company via the phone, or when you remember</div><div>You have an 'other half'. The fact remains</div><div>You can easily live without me -- </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-72453148440459648032013-10-28T10:27:00.000-07:002013-10-28T10:27:37.350-07:00why i writebecause there are voices in my head that need to come out.<br />
<br />
because there are words that i can't simply say, i need to<br />
<br />
SHOUT and what better way, than through the medium of<br />
<br />
literature. because there are stories that my own voice can't<br />
<br />
remember well enough to tell; because there are accusations<br />
<br />
that my voice isn't loud enough to yell; because there are<br />
<br />
some things, that need a more permanent home on paper, to<br />
<br />
prevent them being swept away by the air. because it's in me,<br />
<br />
to write. because somewhere in my veins there are several<br />
<br />
different strains of literature, and they need a way to come<br />
<br />
out. it feels like lately, my own heartbeat rumbles along in<br />
<br />
the same rhythm of Shakespeare's feet and that kind of bond<br />
<br />
isn't a coincidence. i write so i am not ignored. so i leave an<br />
<br />
imprint on this world even if it is just a footprint on the vast<br />
<br />
space of the internet. even if i only ever write poems that<br />
<br />
people will always forget, consciously. i live in hope that<br />
<br />
subconsciously, they're carrying a piece of me and that, will<br />
<br />
be a good enough justification, of why i spent my life writing.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-7198605613300428392013-10-20T10:21:00.000-07:002013-10-20T10:21:01.382-07:00fat girls don't get laidthey tell me i'm a clown, as a term of endearment. they mean it<br />
<br />
in a nice way although i'm never sure what to say when they brand<br />
<br />
me as the funny one. it feels like a polite synonym for the ugly one.<br />
<br />
the one that people don't notice, that is, until i crack a joke; then,<br />
<br />
i'm the bell of the ball. free entertainment for all. i'll admit that in<br />
<br />
the right situation, i'm a fucking hoot, but that doesn't compensate<br />
<br />
for the fact that my sex appeal is on mute and some idiot lost my<br />
<br />
remote. the globe of my gut will shudder with pleasure at every<br />
<br />
inappropriate joke i endeavour but at the end of the night, no one<br />
<br />
wants to go home with the funny, fat chick. no. she isn't the right<br />
<br />
kind of stimulant for a di-<br />
<br />
so i will remain a clown. i will spit out one-liners and cruel verbal<br />
<br />
concoctions with a sarcastic spin, i'll be so open that you'll think<br />
<br />
i've let you all in but actually, i'm a closed book. a big book. with<br />
<br />
pages torn and stained. by the sad and hurtful reality, that<br />
<br />
fat girls don't get laid.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-29093582646698098562013-09-05T06:27:00.001-07:002013-09-05T06:27:42.484-07:00forcing it I’m forcing it. I give myself prompts to try igniting<br />
An idea that will turn into some form of writing<br />
And then I lose my patience when it all fails.<br />
I hover over the page, holding my innards, entrails,<br />
I’m just looking for something to throw them into.<br />
As I bear down to write, my pen rips straight through,<br />
My notebook and I know I’m trying, way too hard,<br />
That whatever I force out, I will eventually discard,<br />
Only to tear another page from the spine of my book,<br />
I’ll scribble my name and shout, ‘<i>I wrote something, look!</i>’<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-59132619509989952752013-09-04T04:09:00.000-07:002013-09-04T04:09:08.849-07:00a loose threadthere is a loose thread lingering just below my hairline,<br />
curiosity says I should pull it, see what I find,<br />
that on the other end there might be treasures of the mind.<br />
<br />
it may be a guide to a world that I can then explore,<br />
it may be the doorbell to a previously unopened door,<br />
or it may lasso me, tug me, lifeless, to the floor.<br />
<br />
there is a loose thread lingering just below my hairline,<br />
logic says I should just leave it, it might not be mine.<br />
‘<i>Or it might be the only thread holding together your mind.</i>’<br />
<br />
is this how curiosity killed the cat?<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-56228056466766485552013-09-04T02:10:00.001-07:002013-09-04T02:10:00.322-07:00tick to-<span style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">The clocked never ticked as loudly as it did on the day you left. As if the clock was also bereft.</span><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">As if my rhymes and its chimes were the only things that could move us past the tragedy of losing a member of the household. As if the clock, also had a story that needed to be told.</div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">It ticked out of sync with the rest of the clocks, like the pendulum was suffering a severe state of shock and time, suddenly wasn't important. </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">As I waved goodbye to the poetry I thought was my calling, the clock waved goodbye, and time started falling. We both developed some mechanical faults in the absence of you. </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-52305347045310682542013-09-04T01:10:00.001-07:002013-09-04T01:10:15.065-07:00good morning, world / clever worldGood morning, world, I say, glumly.<div>Good morning, girl, the world says back.</div><div>While the world wanders around, smugly,</div><div>I spend my days looking for what I lack.</div><div><br></div><div>A love life, that's complicated. Too much time.</div><div>A sex life? That's somewhere, long ago dead.</div><div>Some talent, I had it once, had a knack for rhyme,</div><div>But when I try to pen a poem, it gets stuck in my head.</div><div><br></div><div>Good evening, world, I say, defeated.</div><div>Good evening, girl, the world says back. </div><div>World, why do I feel so shamefully conceited?</div><div>Girl, why are you always looking for the things you lack? </div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-77338037644430984902013-09-03T10:26:00.002-07:002013-09-03T10:26:41.925-07:00stalkerI scrawled across your mirror in black eye-liner.<br />
It was a wonderful surprise for you to find late at<br />
Night, when you got home from your new date.<br />
<br />
<i>‘I told you that shirt would look good on you.’</i><br />
<br />
Probably not as surprising as the piece of paper,<br />
Pinned to the back of your bathroom door to talk<br />
To you before you went back to our bedroom.<br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>‘The tie was too much for a first date, though.’</i><br />
<br />
There was a flutter of rage and panic intertwined<br />
As you groped around in your pocket for the key<br />
That you felt sure I had given back to you earlier.<br />
<br />
<i>‘Sleep tight.’</i><br />
<br />
I wrote in red lipstick on your sheets.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-20657363761144594962013-06-17T08:23:00.001-07:002013-06-17T08:23:31.831-07:00wasteland There is the unsettling crunch of something that<br />
Used to be alive, beneath your feet, as you navigate<br />
Throughout the broken chairs. Their tables are<br />
Long missing. There is a discarded picture<br />
<br />
Of a couple kissing; God only knows how it found<br />
Its way here. It is faded and torn at the edges;<br />
Representative of how you feel as you shift through<br />
This world and wonder whether anything you see<br />
<br />
Is even real. The sky is black, and although you’re<br />
Killing time in the hope that sunlight will attack<br />
You eventually crunch your way through to the<br />
Reality that this world is as good as it gets.<br />
<br />
Full of regrets, you question:<br />
<br />
<b>How the hell do we escape this wasteland?</b><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-51523131630766843602013-06-17T08:03:00.001-07:002013-06-17T08:03:48.037-07:00snowThe sky is blue until the snow falls. And then<br />
The world becomes a blinding light of a reality<br />
Where daylight seems endless. The clarity of<br />
White forces us to see things<br />
<br />
That we aren’t all ready to see. The sprinkling<br />
Turns into the suffocation of a universe and you,<br />
You stand there and watch the snow scatter<br />
Confusion across your landscape. And you<br />
Thoroughly dread the day<br />
<br />
When someone walks across your snow.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-58264014219384431212013-05-16T07:17:00.002-07:002013-05-16T07:17:43.822-07:00unfinished reading <br />
On my bed, there is a detective novel entitled <i>The Dead</i> that<br />
I am three chapters into reading; after the boredom of the first<br />
Two, the words are bleeding into each other but, I’m determined<br />
To find out who killed that prostitute.<br />
<br />
In the kitchen, balanced on the toaster, is a collection of poetry,<br />
The title of which I forget. I seem to have cherry-picked the best<br />
Bits and discarded the rest with the loose intention of finding out<br />
What the other writers wanted to say.<br />
<br />
On the dining room table you’ll find <i>Shakespeare’s Collected Works</i><br />
That has been treated unkind, the binding is fragile, unstable. I left<br />
It to rest on the table with the intention of finding out if there was<br />
Method in Hamlet’s madness.<br />
<br />
On the wall in my study, at eye-level, so when I rise it’s the first<br />
Thing there to greet my eyes is a post-it. <i>Will you ever finish a book? </i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-13485814686672952772013-05-16T07:10:00.000-07:002013-05-16T07:10:53.271-07:00to my pet <br />
I may not understand how you sleep for twenty hours out of the<br />
Day but do not for a second think that I judge you for it. If anything,<br />
I adore it. In a similar fashion to how I adore that high-pitched<br />
Bark that emerges from between your square-set jaw every time<br />
I rest a treat on the floor and tell you to wait a second before you<br />
Devour it. Something that I do not adore, but am somewhat<br />
Jealous of, is your ability to find a wonderful scent in the most<br />
Disgusting of things. Your olfactory abilities put mine to shame<br />
And while I breeze through life smelling everything the same, you<br />
Rediscover the smell of grass every time you go outside. In the<br />
Same way you discover the scent of meat every time we sneak<br />
Half of our dinner out of a restaurant for your dining pleasure too.<br />
I swear, you eat better than some humans do. I don’t understand<br />
Dog greeting, and how it becomes appropriate to sniff someone<br />
Else’s junk upon meeting but hey, it’s just your way. I suppose the<br />
Saving grace is that you’re usually the one being sniffed so, at<br />
Least your nose is clean. I love that you have an intrinsic ability to<br />
Just know when one of us needs a reassuring lick on the arm; in<br />
The same way that we know, when you move to the little sofa to<br />
Be on your own, you do not want to be cuddled, but that’s part<br />
Of your charm. I don’t understand how someone who can’t speak<br />
Has become the best company for me throughout the day; how<br />
Someone who doesn’t comprehend language can always pinpoint<br />
The right thing to say; how someone, who isn’t even a someone,<br />
Has become one of my favourite someones in the world. I don’t<br />
Understand how anyone could ever look into those eyes and<br />
Willingly hurt you, or desert you, do anything but love you. I<br />
Don’t understand how we got so lucky, to have such a perfect pet.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-43624639980150747702013-05-03T09:43:00.002-07:002013-05-03T09:44:38.280-07:00why must we rhyme all the time <br />
If there is anything about literature that I truly hate,<br />
It’s the effort that it takes us to try and negotiate<br />
Rhyming words into the closing of parallel lines.<br />
I’m honestly asking you this: Who has the time?<br />
You might find that your poem fits and flows better,<br />
If you stop worrying about the final cluster of letters,<br />
If you stopped forcing unwilling images to come out,<br />
And if you stopped filling your lines with so much self-doubt.<br />
So when you next think of a rhyme that doesn’t fit, show it,<br />
Because a poem doesn’t fit a rhyme, a poem fits the poet.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-45337275994906565272013-05-03T09:24:00.002-07:002013-05-03T09:24:23.607-07:00a mid-afternoon anti-climax <br />
She had been sat on the park bench for two hours, thirty-<br />
Two minutes and approximately fifty-one seconds when the<br />
Man, who had been circling the park for twenty-eight minutes,<br />
Asked her if the end of the seat was free. It could have been<br />
The start of a Match.com advert, easily. All they needed was<br />
Some soft guitar sounds in the background and a cameraman<br />
To catch her smile at a suggestive angle and it would have<br />
Been ready for television. Unfortunately the scene was only<br />
Privy to my vision but, it certainly gave me some romantic<br />
Hope. He asked her if she smoked. She smiled and no as he<br />
Awkwardly slipped the pack of Mayfair smooth back in his<br />
Pocket; although his lighter falling in between the grooves of<br />
The bench kind of ruined the subtlety. She inadvertently<br />
Smiled at me but, we both knew she was really smiling at him.<br />
He told her he was trying to quit and she said, <i>You’re not doing</i><br />
<i>A very good job of it</i> with another smile, and something that<br />
Looked like a wink, although it could have been a confused<br />
Blink. She didn’t seem like the winking type. He asked her<br />
What her name was and I didn’t catch but whatever it was,<br />
He thought it was nice. He didn’t say so but you could tell;<br />
The way he echoed her, the way it fell from his lips, it was<br />
A name that his tongue liked to say. <i>I’m Stephen, Stephen</i><br />
<i>Grey</i> he said with a handshake, which was a mistake; one<br />
Does not shake hands when one is cruising in a park. I<br />
Watched them for one hour, forty-three minutes and<br />
Twenty-nine seconds. As the sun started to fall asleep it<br />
Soon became apparent their love bubble would soon thrust<br />
Them back into the open world. The question all stories seem<br />
To end with, does the boy get the girl? He took out his wallet,<br />
Withdrew a business card, and paused for a moment to look<br />
At her hard. There was something beautiful about a woman<br />
In fading sunlight. <i>Nah</i>, she said, <i>You’re alright. It’s been nice</i><br />
<i>Talking though, have a wonderful night.</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-27315625520806914882013-05-03T09:02:00.002-07:002013-05-03T09:02:14.189-07:00With thanks to Macklemore <br />
<i>“Can’t you take some of the knowledge you have and like, convert it into the knowledge that your sister has?”</i><br />
<br />
Little did I know that those words would ring in my ear for at least<br />
A year after they had been spoken. My Grandfather, raised on numbers<br />
And brick-laying, probably didn’t really know what he was saying when<br />
He told me be more like my sister. Because what he was really telling<br />
Me to do was ignore the voice in my head that tells me to write; to<br />
Ignore the metaphors that keep me awake at night and the similes,<br />
That I’m always trying to complicate. What he was really telling me to<br />
Do was go against the grain of my brain, disregard the years I had spent<br />
Reading books and absorbing techniques and swap it for a future in<br />
Numbers, which would be bleak, but admittedly more fiscal. What<br />
My Grandfather really wanted was for me to make a career, rather<br />
Than spend my best years writing poetry that the majority of the world<br />
Will never hear, and the few the do, probably won’t even like. He didn’t<br />
Want me to waste a life. But…<br />
<br />
“A life lived for art is never a life wasted.”<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-44532456833750288462013-04-10T12:08:00.001-07:002013-04-10T12:10:49.236-07:00under our carpet<br />
Under our carpet there is the argument from thirteen weeks<br />
Ago about when you mouthed a filthy word to your friend and<br />
Said that is was a joke. It’s sitting there, next to the time that you<br />
Were angry at me for no apparent reason, on top of the day you<br />
Snapped at me before I’d even spoke. Under our carpet is every<br />
Bad mood and every harsh comment that shouldn’t have been<br />
Uttered, but was, even though neither of us are sure of the<br />
Reason because, we’re too busy pretending things haven’t<br />
Happened. Under our carpet is the time you said <i>I think she</i><br />
<i>Might be able to help me understand things</i> like I’m the one<br />
That doesn’t make sense, although, if you raked through our<br />
Past tense you’d find yourself to be just as confusing as me.<br />
Under our carpet are the tears that I’ve cried, and never told<br />
You about, because no one wants a girlfriend that isn’t okay.<br />
<i>But I don’t want a girlfriend who lies</i> I can already hear you<br />
Say as you read that line. Under our carpet is every time I’ve<br />
Told you I’m fine, just because I need to forget whatever it is<br />
That’s been brushed under the carpet this time.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-16558530612409240422013-03-27T13:43:00.001-07:002013-03-27T13:43:14.582-07:00the world needs reassurance <br />
On this cynical globe that I have found myself walking<br />
Around there are many life lessons worth hearing. There<br />
Are many people worth fearing and many sites worth<br />
Seeing and, even when you’re having ‘one of those days’<br />
It’s important to remember how lucky you are for just<br />
Being here. On this perverse planet, lingering boldly<br />
Out in space, there are times when your duvet seems<br />
Like your only safe place and I know from experience<br />
That those are the days when you should definitely<br />
Get out of bed, because no one ever shook the world<br />
By the shoulders with a pillow under their head. No, in<br />
This world, you need a helmet. You need crash gear so<br />
When the world comes crumbling in on you, you can<br />
Fight your way out and shout, ‘Hey, world, I’m still<br />
Here.’ You’re right, it is easier said than done. But this<br />
World, despite being beautiful, has bad days, just like<br />
Us, and rather than flap about to make a fuss I think<br />
We should all just breathe deeply, relax, take the<br />
Weight of our shoulders and the burdens off our<br />
Backs and remember, we are lucky to be here. So<br />
When the world tries to tear you down, remind<br />
Yourselves of that. When it treats you like the gum<br />
On its shoe, you hold it with the tenderness of a<br />
Lover and say, ‘Hey, things will be okay.’ Because<br />
Sometimes, the world needs reassurance too.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-77560789042757306232013-03-18T16:01:00.000-07:002013-03-18T16:17:26.575-07:00things aren't always fair<br />
Life is like the playground bully while you are the child.<br />
You are either the child that rolls with the punches, steals<br />
Other children’s lunches and simply takes things as they<br />
Come. Or, you are the child that eats their luncheon meat<br />
Perched on the edge of the toilet seat because you are<br />
Tired of going hungry. Either way you will grow up into<br />
The type of person that says, ‘Life isn’t fair.’ And you’re<br />
Right. When you’re staring up at your ceiling the middle<br />
Of the night, counting bills to the soundtrack of checkout<br />
Tills to try and calculate how to negotiate your way past<br />
The tax man this month, life isn’t fair. Nor is it fair when<br />
You’ve been stuck in traffic long enough to make you late<br />
For work, you miss the Monday morning perk of bacon<br />
Sandwiches <i>and </i>you have to stay late to compensate for<br />
The behaviour of the slow driver in front of you that<br />
Morning. Life isn’t fair when you are caught yawning and<br />
Looked at like you’re being rude when actually, you’re just<br />
Looking for a little oxygen. Life isn’t fair when you need a<br />
Talk and can’t find a friend. Life isn’t fair when the nail<br />
That’s been holding your puncture together finally<br />
Disappears in a bout of bad weather and you find yourself<br />
Driving on steel. Life isn’t fair when the dream you’ve had<br />
Since you were eight shrivels and, you suddenly realise<br />
The possibility was never real. Life isn’t fair when, after<br />
Giving her everything, she says, ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t<br />
Love you anymore.’ And as she leaves she doesn’t even<br />
Close the door. She took your heart and left a draught.<br />
<br />
Sure, life isn’t always fair, but what’s your other route?<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-88353108493504730702013-03-18T15:25:00.001-07:002013-03-18T15:25:04.375-07:00words in my throat<br />
If you were to stretch your slender fingers into my throat, maybe<br />
Even down into my heart to find the things on which I dote you<br />
Would find innards of an usual kind, intestines made of poetry.<br />
From my throat you will pluck words, unwritten, unheard,<br />
Unspoken. They are merely a token. A symbolic offering of the<br />
Inner walls of my mind that verbalise things through lines cute,<br />
And unkind and they, linger here. After years spent bouncing in<br />
Between my two hemispheres they will eventually settle, and<br />
Mature, and await the day when I open the door that entraps<br />
Them within my chords so they may lurch forwards, and be<br />
Set upon the world. But I know, if I were brave enough to hurl<br />
Them, if were to pluck them from my vocal chamber and gently<br />
Uncurl them, I, their creator, would not be ready to let go. They<br />
Are a secret that I, am not ready for the world to know. So I will<br />
Leave them tucked up in the mattress of my larynx, cuddled and<br />
Huddled under my vocal folds that will keep them warm until<br />
They are ready. Until my confidence is stable and my voice is<br />
Steady and then, then I will unleash them on your ears.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-72719231136675233572013-03-16T16:23:00.001-07:002013-03-16T16:23:10.231-07:00that little girl<br />
That little girl in the corner. You all take the time to mourn<br />
<br />
Her while I, seem to be the only person who realises she’s still<br />
<br />
Here. Living in fear somewhere deep inside my chest but we’re<br />
<br />
Both trying our very best to keep her hidden. She comes out<br />
<br />
At night. When the bedside light is the only positive glow<br />
<br />
There to comfort either of us and she, just needs someone<br />
<br />
To talk to. And that’s okay, because so do I. We’ll lie there,<br />
<br />
Staring up at the sky we can’t see because of the ceiling<br />
<br />
Baring down heavy and we’ll exchange war stories. Detail<br />
<br />
Our histories. And she’ll tell me that mum is upset again, and<br />
<br />
She doesn’t know why, but by default, dad has told her that<br />
<br />
It’s her fault and parents don’t lie. <i>Sweetie, they do</i>. It’s a<br />
<br />
Truth I don’t have the heart to tell. That little girl, it’s like<br />
<br />
Looking into a mirror; a mirror with chubbier cheeks and<br />
<br />
Hair a bit thinner than the tangled mane that trails behind<br />
<br />
My hunched over ego but a mirror, nevertheless. She’s so<br />
<br />
Pretty in her sunflower sun dress, pouring out her poor<br />
<br />
Childhood issues into a box of tissues and into my eager<br />
<br />
Ears, where I will unknowingly absorb those fears and<br />
<br />
Transfer them into my adult life without fully realising<br />
<br />
What’s happened. Until she asks me if I ever get blamed.<br />
<br />
Suddenly my bravery is tamed. My heart slips into some kind<br />
<br />
Of arrest, even though I’m desperately trying by best to<br />
<br />
Be the brave grown up. But I’m not. Her miniature hand<br />
<br />
Slips into mine and delivers an over-familiar squeeze as<br />
<br />
She pulls herself up onto her knees and burrows back<br />
<br />
Into my chest. <i>I’ll be seeing you tomorrow</i>. I guess.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-43926275184860982102013-03-16T15:21:00.001-07:002013-03-16T15:21:26.416-07:00bananas<br />
Why are those bananas bruised? I bought them two hours ago,<br />
<br />
New and unused, they were green. Perfect bananas if ever I’ve<br />
<br />
Seen them and now, they curve against the inner edge of the<br />
<br />
Glass fruit bowl that cradles them. Pulling away from the man-<br />
<br />
Made light that is glaring down at them, growing bruises. There<br />
<br />
Is something that looks like a graze, that I spot through the haze<br />
<br />
Of my living room lighting. Did they fall? Out of the bag and<br />
<br />
Onto the floor. No. I feel fairly sure they didn’t. Should I eat<br />
<br />
Them, or leave the bruises to linger? I question, pressing one<br />
<br />
Down with my finger and taking a sick pleasure in seeing the<br />
<br />
Bright yellow turn dull brown at my touch. I’ll just let them spoil.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-64273660657637966442013-03-15T14:18:00.001-07:002013-03-15T14:18:53.024-07:00an abandoned shell <br />
The abandoned shell that lingers in the centre of the pavement;<br />
The snail has bravely upped and left and that shell, bereft, feels<br />
The void. It lies in wait. It will anticipate the arrival of its old<br />
Inhabitant because, there’s no place like home. With the over-<br />
Bearing weight of a clumsy size nine, the shell is destroyed.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8624823806716441744.post-71173056911224991692013-03-15T09:19:00.001-07:002013-03-15T09:19:09.884-07:00bending over backwards <br />
A disfigured spine. Rather than a shape it is a something like,<br />
When a young boy collides into a brick wall with his bike<br />
And the tyres won’t sit straight, and it becomes impossible<br />
To negotiate a straight line. The visual qualities of a tree-root,<br />
Underfoot, that after years of accommodating Mother Earth,<br />
Can no longer lie flat. A broken shelf with only one bracket<br />
Intact. Did you hear that crack? Echoing up from the centre<br />
Vertebras of my back. I suspect that’s my old body, taking a<br />
Stand, attempting to gain the upper hand and punish me,<br />
For bending over backwards once too often.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0