two faces bore into my mind –
the pair hold one another
with their eyes,
a golden thread,
so warm and kind
that I try to warm
my hands on it.
their arms flow into gentle shapes
that
chase
the
words
that weave into their sentences.
laughter ripples the air,
as I sit in the corner
and watch a screen and think and
pray
that my loneliness isn’t too obvious
to them.
Tag Archives: poetry
food fit for kings
munch, munch, munch
fatten them all up,
birds cows pigs
go on,
plump ‘em up.
2077 a year to remember,
starving land and starving man,
perhaps it could be stopped for
wouldn’t it be wonderful
to nourish our land?
to let baby calves
stay with their mothers
instead of being ripped apart
limb
by
limb and
slapped up by greasy lips?
wouldn’t it be wonderful
to thrive on plant-based foods
rather than smushed gristle and bones
that we crave at drive-thrus,
treating our kids on a Friday night to
a fabulous feast of
pig fat and chicken beaks.
wouldn’t it be wonderful
to listen
to our bodies
that need garlic and parsley
to fight carcinogens,
no dairy or poultry!
Oh 2077 –
the year of death and decay,
and that’s just the plants and animals,
for your grand-children
will be left nothing organic or tangible,
nothing at all
but dead land and empty seas.
Silky riches slip between my fingertips,
diamonds and pink bugattis,
alabaster-white jets and infinity pools.
Pass by and expect to break necks as
he drinks in my crimson allure –
tipsy
with flushed cheeks,
oh the way
this dress captures my shape
like cat-like models
in opulent magazines.
My curves flow in a river of luxury,
and all for tenner
a new identity,
a whole new me.
one
Voices build fortresses
from our fingertips, lips
and movements,
so please
don’t worry when you feel
lost and muffled,
beneath a swirl of heart-wrenching metaphors and one-of-a-kind ideas.
Remember!
It only takes one sperm to create Life
one to inspire others through his/her dreams,
one to propose a nuclear war,
for one can change everything.
When you’re alone and
at the darkest point of night –
slumped over a fresh page and some blue ink –
pour, flow and set your thoughts into curves,
shed your clothes and cover yourself in smears and smudges,
and when you feel the words are awk/ward
and stil-ted
write on
because no matter what you say,
your voice will always have a place,
nestled perfectly in the space
between the Greats.
on the clock blues
W o r k means that weekends and free-days are drowned in drink because I can’t let thoughts break me
W o r k means catty remarks and a shattered self-esteem because her words are biting
W o r k means cleaning and appeasing people because I’m too scared to pursue my dreams
W o r k means silent breaks and unnecessary trips to the loo because of social anxiety
W o r k means bed-time is the new Paradise because I’d rather sleep and escape reality
W o r k is the space in time where I do not exist and it’s slowly destroying me
swirlygirl* 