a mid-afternoon anti-climax

She had been sat on the park bench for two hours, thirty-
Two minutes and approximately fifty-one seconds when the
Man, who had been circling the park for twenty-eight minutes,
Asked her if the end of the seat was free. It could have been
The start of a Match.com advert, easily. All they needed was
Some soft guitar sounds in the background and a cameraman
To catch her smile at a suggestive angle and it would have
Been ready for television. Unfortunately the scene was only
Privy to my vision but, it certainly gave me some romantic
Hope. He asked her if she smoked. She smiled and no as he
Awkwardly slipped the pack of Mayfair smooth back in his
Pocket; although his lighter falling in between the grooves of
The bench kind of ruined the subtlety. She inadvertently
Smiled at me but, we both knew she was really smiling at him.
He told her he was trying to quit and she said, You’re not doing
A very good job of it with another smile, and something that
Looked like a wink, although it could have been a confused
Blink. She didn’t seem like the winking type. He asked her
What her name was and I didn’t catch but whatever it was,
He thought it was nice. He didn’t say so but you could tell;
The way he echoed her, the way it fell from his lips, it was
A name that his tongue liked to say. I’m Stephen, Stephen
Grey he said with a handshake, which was a mistake; one
Does not shake hands when one is cruising in a park. I
Watched them for one hour, forty-three minutes and
Twenty-nine seconds. As the sun started to fall asleep it
Soon became apparent their love bubble would soon thrust
Them back into the open world. The question all stories seem
To end with, does the boy get the girl? He took out his wallet,
Withdrew a business card, and paused for a moment to look
 At her hard. There was something beautiful about a woman
In fading sunlight. Nah, she said, You’re alright. It’s been nice
Talking though, have a wonderful night.

With thanks to Macklemore

“Can’t you take some of the knowledge you have and like, convert it into the knowledge that your sister has?”

Little did I know that those words would ring in my ear for at least
A year after they had been spoken. My Grandfather, raised on numbers
And brick-laying, probably didn’t really know what he was saying when
He told me be more like my sister. Because what he was really telling
Me to do was ignore the voice in my head that tells me to write; to
Ignore the metaphors that keep me awake at night and the similes,
That I’m always trying to complicate. What he was really telling me to
Do was go against the grain of my brain, disregard the years I had spent
Reading books and absorbing techniques and swap it for a future in
Numbers, which would be bleak, but admittedly more fiscal. What
My Grandfather really wanted was for me to make a career, rather
Than spend my best years writing poetry that the majority of the world
Will never hear, and the few the do, probably won’t even like. He didn’t
Want me to waste a life. But…

“A life lived for art is never a life wasted.”

under our carpet

Under our carpet there is the argument from thirteen weeks
Ago about when you mouthed a filthy word to your friend and
Said that is was a joke. It’s sitting there, next to the time that you
Were angry at me for no apparent reason, on top of the day you
Snapped at me before I’d even spoke. Under our carpet is every
Bad mood and every harsh comment that shouldn’t have been
Uttered, but was, even though neither of us are sure of the
Reason because, we’re too busy pretending things haven’t
Happened. Under our carpet is the time you said I think she
Might be able to help me understand things like I’m the one
That doesn’t make sense, although, if you raked through our
Past tense you’d find yourself to be just as confusing as me.
Under our carpet are the tears that I’ve cried, and never told
You about, because no one wants a girlfriend that isn’t okay.
But I don’t want a girlfriend who lies I can already hear you
Say as you read that line. Under our carpet is every time I’ve
Told you I’m fine, just because I need to forget whatever it is
That’s been brushed under the carpet this time.

the world needs reassurance

On this cynical globe that I have found myself walking
Around there are many life lessons worth hearing. There
Are many people worth fearing and many sites worth
Seeing and, even when you’re having ‘one of those days’
It’s important to remember how lucky you are for just
Being here.  On this perverse planet, lingering boldly
Out in space, there are times when your duvet seems
Like your only safe place and I know from experience
That those are the days when you should definitely
Get out of bed, because no one ever shook the world
By the shoulders with a pillow under their head. No, in
This world, you need a helmet. You need crash gear so
When the world comes crumbling in on you, you can
Fight your way out and shout, ‘Hey, world, I’m still
Here.’ You’re right, it is easier said than done. But this
World, despite being beautiful, has bad days, just like
Us, and rather than flap about to make a fuss I think
We should all just breathe deeply, relax, take the
Weight of our shoulders and the burdens off our
Backs and remember, we are lucky to be here. So
When the world tries to tear you down, remind
Yourselves of that. When it treats you like the gum
On its shoe, you hold it with the tenderness of a
Lover and say, ‘Hey, things will be okay.’ Because
Sometimes, the world needs reassurance too.

things aren't always fair

Life is like the playground bully while you are the child.
You are either the child that rolls with the punches, steals
Other children’s lunches and simply takes things as they
Come. Or, you are the child that eats their luncheon meat
Perched on the edge of the toilet seat because you are
Tired of going hungry. Either way you will grow up into
The type of person that says, ‘Life isn’t fair.’ And you’re
Right. When you’re staring up at your ceiling the middle
Of the night, counting bills to the soundtrack of checkout
Tills to try and calculate how to negotiate your way past
The tax man this month, life isn’t fair. Nor is it fair when
You’ve been stuck in traffic long enough to make you late
For work, you miss the Monday morning perk of bacon
Sandwiches and you have to stay late to compensate for
The behaviour of the slow driver in front of you that
Morning. Life isn’t fair when you are caught yawning and
Looked at like you’re being rude when actually, you’re just
Looking for a little oxygen. Life isn’t fair when you need a
Talk and can’t find a friend. Life isn’t fair when the nail
That’s been holding your puncture together finally
Disappears in a bout of bad weather and you find yourself
Driving on steel. Life isn’t fair when the dream you’ve had
Since you were eight shrivels and, you suddenly realise
The possibility was never real. Life isn’t fair when, after
Giving her everything, she says, ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t
Love you anymore.’ And as she leaves she doesn’t even
Close the door. She took your heart and left a draught.

Sure, life isn’t always fair, but what’s your other route?

words in my throat

If you were to stretch your slender fingers into my throat, maybe
Even down into my heart to find the things on which I dote you
Would find innards of an usual kind, intestines made of poetry.
From my throat you will pluck words, unwritten, unheard,
Unspoken. They are merely a token. A symbolic offering of the
Inner walls of my mind that verbalise things through lines cute,
And unkind and they, linger here. After years spent bouncing in
Between my two hemispheres they will eventually settle, and
Mature, and await the day when I open the door that entraps
Them within my chords so they may lurch forwards, and be
Set upon the world. But I know, if I were brave enough to hurl
Them, if were to pluck them from my vocal chamber and gently
Uncurl them, I, their creator, would not be ready to let go. They
Are a secret that I, am not ready for the world to know. So I will
Leave them tucked up in the mattress of my larynx, cuddled and
Huddled under my vocal folds that will keep them warm until
They are ready. Until my confidence is stable and my voice is
Steady and then, then I will unleash them on your ears.

that little girl

That little girl in the corner. You all take the time to mourn

Her while I, seem to be the only person who realises she’s still

Here. Living in fear somewhere deep inside my chest but we’re

Both trying our very best to keep her hidden. She comes out

At night. When the bedside light is the only positive glow

There to comfort either of us and she, just needs someone

To talk to. And that’s okay, because so do I. We’ll lie there,

Staring up at the sky we can’t see because of the ceiling

Baring down heavy and we’ll exchange war stories. Detail

Our histories. And she’ll tell me that mum is upset again, and

She doesn’t know why, but by default, dad has told her that

It’s her fault and parents don’t lie. Sweetie, they do. It’s a

Truth I don’t have the heart to tell. That little girl, it’s like

Looking into a mirror; a mirror with chubbier cheeks and

Hair a bit thinner than the tangled mane that trails behind

My hunched over ego but a mirror, nevertheless. She’s so

Pretty in her sunflower sun dress, pouring out her poor

Childhood issues into a box of tissues and into my eager

Ears, where I will unknowingly absorb those fears and

Transfer them into my adult life without fully realising

What’s happened. Until she asks me if I ever get blamed.

Suddenly my bravery is tamed. My heart slips into some kind

Of arrest, even though I’m desperately trying by best to

Be the brave grown up. But I’m not. Her miniature hand

Slips into mine and delivers an over-familiar squeeze as

She pulls herself up onto her knees and burrows back

Into my chest. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. I guess.