Seventeen

Danced in pretty circles

For those four years of your life,

Over hardwood floors, across dimly lit hallways,

Even in hotel rooms too, sometimes


Our love was rather shining

And brilliant once,

Wasn’t it, my love?

Nothing lasts forever, so I guess

We had to break


Count until it’s over,

– Pause –

One, two, three,

Take a deep breath now,

You will be okay


Step, pivot, flounce, break


Have I skipped over it?

Have I missed it somehow,

Perchance,

I’m continually poised,

Simply waiting to fall apart


Wanting,

I want to feel that buckling,

That  b r e a k i n g  inside my heart

But I fear I’ve lost it

Where have you gone?


Bring me back a beat, a pace

I’ll be happy with that,

Honest,

For I’m moving forward too fast

And it scares me


Teach me how to dance again,

And I will be your cause,

One lifetime love to happen again,

I loved you once, I’m sure


I think I miss you

I know I once loved you

But everything is normal now

It’s much too much to bear


A lifetime love

So sorry to be missed,

But I’ll remember you always,

Remembering our first and

very

last

kiss

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Dark Green Pebbles For Eyes

Dark green pebbles for eyes,

Staring out, out of glass jars,

A naked pond standing for all to see,

Stark, black and green,

I climb out and people scream, they run, they hide,

I won’t hurt them, only him,

I thirst for the water that contains me,

It’s murky, dank and bleak,

I’m drowning in it, see my arms wave and crash,

Still I can still see, see,

Staring, peeping at you,

Rising up, up from the deep black hole,

Because I have been waiting,

And I have dark green pebbles for eyes.

Your Daughter

Oh, girl, let your hair down low
All over me, yeah,
I want you all over me. Climb on now, hard and fast
Just let me cram in as many sexual innuendos as I can,
Watch me
And they’ll play it on the radio
They’ll play it to little ones who I’ll mold into one of my very own

Say, who cares if this song don’t rhyme
I just wanna cash in on other girls’ insecurities
Most of them barely even hit puberty
Oh well, we say, this shit sells
Why make the world a little better when
You can make it look ugly?
We’ll make the little girls hate themselves and,
Yeah, we’ll think it’s funny

I know sex sells and
I’m so original for using it in my lyrics, who’d have thought that’s the way to make
Money?

I know it’s disgusting, so please go ahead
Go ahead and tell yourself you hate it
That you abhor it, that it’s wrong
But you’ll still watch it, buy it, and get it to the charts,
Buy it, Buy it, and let your daughter paste it all over her bedroom walls in sparkly little hearts
I may be an image, a brand, and a lie
But only I have the power to make your baby girl cry.

Cry my name and shout it, scream it, blast it through the walls
Go and buy her that cake with my face on it
For I’m the only thing she adores
She’ll find other boys soon to give her a big fat diamond ring
But for now I hold the key, the key, yes, the key
to screw with her own insignificant self worth
I’ll shape her own perception of herself,
And make her feel lost when she realises that she can never,
Ever be with the construct that defines itself as ‘me’.

Because,

really,

just

who

makes

money

being

authentic

anymore?

W O R D S

Do I startle you?
I can engulf you,
I can make your tongue swell,
Swivel dance do twists unthinkable slither upside down,
Into the grooves at the roof of your mouth,
You’ll take me to your grave,
Til Death do us part, my sweetheart,
I will be etched into your cold slab of stone,
Immortalised there,
Forever

The Kitten & The Blonde Boy

 

A heavy fabric coat hangs on the doorknob, cowboy brooch fastened on the collar,
Turn the latch,
Once inside, you will drown in the clutter held within,
Eeyore sits sentry on the wardrobe, books are encased delicately behind glass;
Uglies hidden in a lower cabinet, the beauties sitting proud on the shelves,
A tall and blonde boyfriend sits on the bed frame,
Absorbed in the videogame he avidly plays,
Carefully colour coordinated DVD cases stand boldly in a bookcase,
Propped up against the wall: they are standing soldiers,
A kitten, black and white and inquisitive, watches you,
As you turn about the damp, chipped, white walls,
She is full of light and she dances about your feet,
Catching your laces as you wander about the room,
What a sight! The mess, the clutter, the bounding boulders of dirty clothes piled  high!
You sit on the bed, with the kitten and the blonde boy,
You lie back and watch the swirls on the ceiling,
You are happy, with the kitten and the blonde boy by your side,
Next year will be very strange indeed.

 

What Love Was Theirs

 

 

She used to think that the one she loved shined marvelously for her, and only her. But the starlight shining bright has faltered and it’s grown dim. She doesn’t know what to think of her beloved any longer, now that she has become changed. What they had was a love story, bursting pinks and violet reds, churning out love and sweet things ripe with passion. It was all over the place, people didn’t know where to look.
Now she scalds her tongue on the love that’s burnt and it tastes bitter. Invisibility used to be her shield, the thing that kept her hidden, but now she cries out to the one who refuses to know her. The One. Who, like a child, is ignorant of her squalor.
Staying forever young and forever sixteen is bullshit. Everybody knows it. Unless you want to die, cased in your tomb like a precious thing inside a cabinet, at the ripe old age of a nearly wasted adulthood. At least the coffin does not show glass, so admirers can press their fingertips up against the glass. Their oily noses. Their eyes that are pearls.
Disrespectful.
What love was theirs was untouchable, almost a secret. But jealousy thrashed it, caged it so it remains weak but does not die. It can’t escape from the confines of her heart. A winter passing can last forever inside a broken heart; it begins to get cold, icy winds pick up speed and all parts of the body are left freezing. Dying. But strong enough to keep going indefinitely, for however long until the love gets fixed.
The Best Day is a fictional plaything, constructed inside the mind to make you feel better. So what you thought was the best day that time will never be and you will never get it back. It’ll stay locked inside you forever. A favourite song is no longer important, as it pulls the dregs of those memories up to the surface.
And, oh, it’s far too much to bear.

Poetry

In a seminar class today, we were asked to write no more – and no less – than 30 words to describe an object that was placed in front of us. We were, in turn, allowed to touch, feel, see, hear – and if we were brave enough – taste our object and see what images and words our minds could conjure up and make appear on our blank pieces of paper. After this, we were asked to write a poem, picking 8 words from our list to put into verse form.

Here, is my poem:

D E A D

Ached, splintered

Rough hard mud

Murky, broken

Feel free to leave a comment and guess what my object was.
Looking forward to reading them!

TTFN. x