why i write

because there are voices in my head that need to come out.

because there are words that i can't simply say, i need to

SHOUT and what better way, than through the medium of

literature. because there are stories that my own voice can't

remember well enough to tell; because there are accusations

that my voice isn't loud enough to yell; because there are

some things, that need a more permanent home on paper, to

prevent them being swept away by the air. because it's in me,

to write. because somewhere in my veins there are several

different strains of literature, and they need a way to come

out. it feels like lately, my own heartbeat rumbles along in

the same rhythm of Shakespeare's feet and that kind of bond

isn't a coincidence. i write so i am not ignored. so i leave an

imprint on this world even if it is just a footprint on the vast

space of the internet. even if i only ever write poems that

people will always forget, consciously. i live in hope that

subconsciously, they're carrying a piece of me and that, will

be a good enough justification, of why i spent my life writing.

fat girls don't get laid

they tell me i'm a clown, as a term of endearment. they mean it

in a nice way although i'm never sure what to say when they brand

me as the funny one. it feels like a polite synonym for the ugly one.

the one that people don't notice, that is, until i crack a joke; then,

i'm the bell of the ball. free entertainment for all. i'll admit that in

the right situation, i'm a fucking hoot, but that doesn't compensate

for the fact that my sex appeal is on mute and some idiot lost my

remote. the globe of my gut will shudder with pleasure at every

inappropriate joke i endeavour but at the end of the night, no one

wants to go home with the funny, fat chick. no. she isn't the right

kind of stimulant for a di-

so i will remain a clown. i will spit out one-liners and cruel verbal

concoctions with a sarcastic spin, i'll be so open that you'll think

i've let you all in but actually, i'm a closed book. a big book. with

pages torn and stained. by the sad and hurtful reality, that

fat girls don't get laid.

forcing it

I’m forcing it. I give myself prompts to try igniting
An idea that will turn into some form of writing
And then I lose my patience when it all fails.
I hover over the page, holding my innards, entrails,
I’m just looking for something to throw them into.
As I bear down to write, my pen rips straight through,
My notebook and I know I’m trying, way too hard,
That whatever I force out, I will eventually discard,
Only to tear another page from the spine of my book,
I’ll scribble my name and shout, ‘I wrote something, look!’

a loose thread

there is a loose thread lingering just below my hairline,
curiosity says I should pull it, see what I find,
that on the other end there might be treasures of the mind.

it may be a guide to a world that I can then explore,
it may be the doorbell to a previously unopened door,
or it may lasso me, tug me, lifeless, to the floor.

there is a loose thread lingering just below my hairline,
logic says I should just leave it, it might not be mine.
‘Or it might be the only thread holding together your mind.’

is this how curiosity killed the cat?

tick to-

The clocked never ticked as loudly as it did on the day you left. As if the clock was also bereft.

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.

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. 

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. 

good morning, world / clever world

Good morning, world, I say, glumly.

Good morning, girl, the world says back.

While the world wanders around, smugly,

I spend my days looking for what I lack.

A love life, that's complicated. Too much time.

A sex life? That's somewhere, long ago dead.

Some talent, I had it once, had a knack for rhyme,

But when I try to pen a poem, it gets stuck in my head.

Good evening, world, I say, defeated.

Good evening, girl, the world says back. 

World, why do I feel so shamefully conceited?

Girl, why are you always looking for the things you lack? 

stalker

I scrawled across your mirror in black eye-liner.
It was a wonderful surprise for you to find late at
Night, when you got home from your new date.

‘I told you that shirt would look good on you.’

Probably not as surprising as the piece of paper,
Pinned to the back of your bathroom door to talk
To you before you went back to our bedroom.

‘The tie was too much for a first date, though.’

There was a flutter of rage and panic intertwined
As you groped around in your pocket for the key
That you felt sure I had given back to you earlier.

‘Sleep tight.’

I wrote in red lipstick on your sheets.