I miss you a lot, like crazy
I want to ask you, stay
Show you my scars
The hole in my heart
But I cannot (ask)
You’re a riddle, still
Figuring out yourself
I’m just a plain page, unworthy of your time
I need you, but
You’re not mine anymore
Belonging to other streetlights, on the river
Under dazzling eyes, red in the night
Across an open sea, far (away)
naked and cold a lonely night
deep darkness hiding the sin
concealing the poison
head spinning, heart beating, blank mind
this unexpected but awaited escape
one last thought
quickly thinking it through
looking for that ounce of regret
not finding it
and then grabbing the bottle by the neck
bending a fork
naked and cold
We write our stories on crinkled coffee shop napkins, with cheap jet black eyeliner. Rough at the edges, smudged lines; fairytales but with tragic endings and without sparkling bliss.
Rays of sun through glass windows compete with our clouded minds and rainy eyes. Sorrows braided into galaxies, puddles made into swimming pools.
We are just spilled paint in an art portfolio, the shards in a broken mirror.
She could not help it. The laughter had taken over her being and now she only existed as the uncontrollable exhales. That was all she was; which was far more than she had ever been. A shell or perhaps a mask. Covering up the lack of substance and personality.
It wasn’t her fault; at least not entirely. The world could’ve have been a bit more understanding of her chaotic creativity. But the way it always goes she was branded a lunatic.
At first she’d fight it. Tell people off. Stand up for her beliefs. Eventually she stopped. Her efforts were all for nothing. Realising she would never be seen as anything but, she instead became it. She did not own it; she was consumed. The very essence of her being had abandoned its independence and was now solely an image of what other people saw in her. Their prejudice; most of all their belief that she would never be anything but.
And so it goes. The different become freaks and individuality withers and dies.
After talking – and not talking
After lingering looks
After dancing – dancing too close
Before regreting – and not regreting
Before wondering – wondering what might be
During fairy lights
During happening – and not happening
During moments – moments when time stands still
In her dreams she ran away
Her orange paws hitting the snow
Leaving a trail of swirling snowflakes
Through which only her white tipped tail was visible
I’ve lost my words,
hopelessly swirling downwards
Without them I’m nothing
more than empty vowels.
Give me your letters,
stitch them together,
string them up by their holes.
No punctuation, no dots or semi colon
will keep me from your story.
Give me a question mark,
and I have an exclamation point
Just for your paragraph.
I feel like I need to preface this. It’s ehm… It is what it is. It’s very sappy and cheesy and sad and cliche but I wrote this when I was feeling all of that so it fits, I guess. It’s not a poem but it might be poetry. Just like life.
You are everything,
I could’ve had,
I could’ve wanted.
Dark green eyes
show a sparkling soul
and a world I want to revisit.
You hold me close,
stars dancing above our heads
And I know that in another world,
There are no black empty holes.
that in another galaxy,
My wish upon that falling star
might come true.
You say in a light year
or half a year
Our orbits might collide
and we will be
Moonlight and Stardust
My love has two left feet
She waddles about and I cannot help
laughing when she dances around the Christmas tree
My love has one lazy eye
Sometimes I occasionally hide
from her in plain sight when she wants me to help make pie
My love is the one
I forever shall deeply and truly love
even if a bit whimsy she still holds this love of mine
The onlooker couldn’t help but stop and observe, on the other side of the street five teenagers huddled together as the sky viciously kept pouring down on them. They were a strange sight, all of them completely different but somehow connected. Maybe it was the look of naïve adventure in their eyes, or maybe it was their love for the lamp lit city around them, that brought them together.
Making a move for it the girl with short black hair and short black fringe took the lead. Following her Shaun the Sheep backpack, oversized blue, red and yellow 80’s jacket the other four struggled to keep up with the pace of her DrMartens at first, but they all caught up eventually, disappearing into the Waterloo tube station.
The onlooker couldn’t help but follow, tailing after the ginger ponytail, charcoal skirt and green jacket of the girl running at the end of their odd little group.
Dreading but also longing for the drops of water falling from the sky they all emerged from the station, The ginger ponytail quickly protecting herself with an umbrella. She said something to the girl with long blond hair, a black bomber and 90’s mum jeans, running in front of her. To the onlooker it sounded unfamiliar but the onlooker did not have time to think about it, before a car rushed by them and suddenly the ginger ponytail, mum jeans and the fourth and last girl-with a loose curly bun and green checkered jacket- in their odd equation were hit with the sudden sensation of it raining horizontally. They all stopped in a moment of pure shock in which the guy running, behind the 80’s jacket, with a buzzed head hidden under a cap wearing a black, white and red satin bomber, turned around and exclaimed “That was like something out of a movie”, before they all unfroze again. They ran around a corner and the onlooker tried to follow but lost the unusual quintet as the onlooker got blocked by all the people rushing to take cover from the still crying sky.
Trying to shake off the feeling of losing something valuable the onlooker couldn’t help but imagine where the 80’s jacket, cap, curly bun, mum jeans and ginger ponytail hade gone. The onlooker imagined them in a fairylit pub with brick walls and a cat roaming around, a place only a few people knew about, a place for writers and enthusiasts like themselves. The onlooker imagined them ordering drinks, talking about the 80’s jacket and the curly bun’s stay in Paris-books, bottles of wine and Shakespeare and co- and their upcoming month in the same city- Halloween, a tiny apartment and even more wine- as both girls sipped on a glass of their favourite drink which seemed to magically refill every time the curly bun reached for her bag. The onlooker imagined the cap passionately talking about politics, immigration, brexit and the hopes of the future, a future where their generation was the one making the decision, a generation of change. Lastly the onlooker imagined the mom jeans and the ginger ponytail devouring every second of every conversation, realising that moving might have been one of the best decisions they have ever made and maybe just maybe they wouldn’t go home next year, but rather keep moving, keep exploring.