writing

One by One we Lose

We lost the sensation in our toes (first),
Roots shot up to the knees…

And itched, and glitched,
Our growth we glitched

We tried to swim a mountain
Wailed to climb a sea
But all we felt was solitude
And broke our arms to flee.

This spike and thorn against my ribs,
The bitter sting and King of Kings
Bit by bit we fell and failed
Until we lost the sensation in our toes.

Prickle

Here’s how to write a poem: rhyme glitch with glitch, works like a charm.

writing

The Difference in Today

Yesterday I disappeared
My mind light years away from certainty.

You found me lovely and said you loved me
Between cold toes and rotting fruit,
And then the matter dissolved and shrank.
Evolved into a bitter hatred

It took all but two lingering seconds.

Come Monday I’ll decide that I’m not numb for no good reason.
Cheating peace by faking happiness.
You’re no longer worth my time.
I’m no longer worth my time.

The difference in today
Is it took quicker for me to die.

Jiffy

I stopped writing for ages and sunk back into a deep depression and realised all I feel is nothing. But I kept reading your amazing poems and felt inspired.

…I still can’t write for shit.

writing

Life Olympics

Visualise defeat, hanging by its tender threads,
Dread pushed down to box proportions
Packed and sealed and ready to discard.
Guarded by the mighty brain,
We pray,
We pray,
It’s blind and deft to complex terrain.

Visualise light, bursting through a dampened flint,
Printed there in rainbow colours
Dancing fox-trot in your mischievous eyes.
Wise human,
Wise being,
You can achieve anything you want in this world.

Champion

If life were a game of Olympics I would get bronze for everything. Because mediocrity is key. I strive to be consistently average.

writing

Catholic School in Black and White

Picture this. My secondary school was single sex. Single sex and a Grammar school. Single sex and a Grammar school and Catholic.

We wore purple. For years after I never wore purple again.

We were called ‘purple-virgins’ and ‘Ribena bottles’ and girls would meet with the brother-school after the final bell rang to show off how short their skirts were rolled up (tight, so tight we all had tire belts around our stomachs). We compromised faux-muffin-tops for showing off our knees and thighs.

The only thing that wasn’t purple were these hideous black mafia coats that were compulsory to wear. I was tiny, probably the shortest in the year so my awkwardness stuck out when the black coat swathed by body. We had grey tracksuits for Physical Education and almost every piece of uniform had our school crest patched on.

Purple, dressed in shades of purple.

I hated secondary school. I hated trying to fit in, trying to change myself on a bi-weekly basis for other cooler, more popular girls, girls who could pull off the colour purple. It was a nightmare, an insecure mess of a dream turned inky violet I just wanted to escape.

Now and then I see old teachers, old now, they’re old, and the bitter bitch inside of me urges me to walk up to them and tell them that they ruined my life, it’s true, they did (because I’m bitter).

Purple

writing

Bruising in Watercolour

This one pooled over a stark shade of blue,
Spilled spitefully on top of tender reds and yellows.

Hollow shell of thistle plum, cut brittle on the midnight run.

Bruising violet, violence riotous reaching for an answer,
Cancer spreading forcibly from lavender stem to petal.
The bruise was only penny sized and dispersed like poisoned hives
Contrived and grew like orchid buds, flooding to the corners.

Purple

feel like i just need to write just to feel less hopeless about everything around me.

writing

Things That Stay

They had projected sharpie onto me
Black and smudged and permanent.

Then I lost the label declining in denial
Rifle ready in my hand to cause a riot
Black ink spreading til my lips were sealed in quiet
Detrimental poisoning caused me lastingly riled

Deranged, hopped up, unbalanced, more,
Torn from the bladder,
Left strewn on the floor.
A tag in which was covered in matter.
Burned thirteen times, stamped on, stabbed,
Dragged through wild winds and pinned
Still pinned, and permanent to my skin.

Label

Girls in school were so mean. Girls in Catholic grammar single sex schools were downright nasty.

writing

Three Times Over

This world wasn’t meant for me.

Not for my existence, or my anxiety, or my depression, taking up necessary atoms and photons and neutrons and particles to help make the earth spin on its axis.

This world doesn’t belong to me.

I let it go unwillingly with volatile and timid hands, the very pair that left me maimed and afraid to face society. Instead I developed a habit of losing things.

This world will drive me insane.

By midnight you’ll have loved and left me stranded on a platform with no way to stay asleep and no destination but still nervous of having to wake up the next day.

Nervous

oh, i’m still here.