"Despair"

metallic shimmer

of despair


my spirit

shattered

beyond repair


aspirations

faded

beyond recognition


left with nothing

and why

should anyone

care

"Angels"

A dark angel swam across the moat,

And scaled the walls of your castle,

Just to gain admission.


You hear his anguished

Cries, from the outside: like those of

Cathy's ghost.


The Angel of Light, meanwhile,

Asks only your permission


To come inside, and allow her to

Defrost your heart.

"Nightmare"

shaken

awake

by the nightmare

sleep's brief

sweet sanctuary

instantly shattered

immersed in

these feelings

haunted

terror pure terror

your terror my terror

shaken

I face

the early hours

the unending nightmare

alone

"Words Like"

thoughts

more tears


words like

resolution

closure


tears

more thoughts


will this pain

ever end

"Can't Not"

I still remember what you said

that you couldn't let people get too close

let them get inside

your mind

and I didn't want to any more

because

it hurts so much

too much

to care

but if I meet new people

now

I end up caring

anyway

and then one day

maybe

they can hurt me

really hurt me

is that what they mean

by phrases like

you leave yourself open

I suppose so

but I tried

to slam my heart and mind

shut

and failed

because I still care

and I still

can't not

"New Start"

how do I feel

really feel

about a new start

healing my spirit

piecing together the shards of my heart


even though inside I am falling apart

lost

tossed aside


my dreams

I want to give them away

every one

to the highest bidder

lowest bidder

any random bidder


I would like to throw them

item by item

from an apartment window

let the wind take them

let the wind carry this pain

away

"Pure"

initially

there is something pure

about the raw emotions

something sacred in those tears


fast forward

another year

another

another


enduring

day after day

hurting

is pure agony

"Falling"

I should be grateful for this life
to hear a blackbird calling
sunlight filtered through emerald leaves

I should stop myself from falling

but I can't

"Speak My Mind"

Dreams wrap themselves around me, moist and warm.

I came inside to shelter from the storm.

They won't give me a straight response until

they have processed my application form.



When life gets weird, so does my poetry.

I don't get paid for this. My words are free.

I speak my mind and, hey - you know, guess what?

I don't care if you disapprove of me -



or so I tell myself, but is it true?

I'll sometimes water down a point of view

these days, in case it gets misunderstood -

tone down my language, if they ask me to.



What happened to the spirit of my youth?

I remember when the sky was my roof.

When did I start to feel too insecure

to speak my mind, and hit them with the truth?

"Numbers": alternative version - including extra line, found in the handwritten words (rough draft in notepad), and a minor adjustment to the next line...

You would love to put me on trial.

Meanwhile,

my mind is full of words,

and in-yer-face neon signs,

and pale moonlight,

illuminating my

private night sky.


Numbers - digits -

they leave my imagination numb.

They're hostile - no fun.

Probably explains

my grade F in Maths,

blending as much as contrasting

with straight As in English -

Language and Literature, both.


I am not the number

scrawled upon the file

that you pretend not to keep on me.


Stop ringing. Facebook me - or Tweet me, if you must.

My soul is telephone phobic,

and ex-directory,

and I have taken the receiver off the hook already.


I really don't want to bin

this pile of Falmer jeans.

Yes, they represent a previous decade's styles.

And no, they probably wouldn't

fit me, anyway.


Talk to me

and not the number

on my file.


Even if the dial on your scales

won't stop in time,

I might still be worthwhile.


I visited The Wizard of OZ,

and he told me

that Victoria B. is really

no thinner than me.

She simply owns clothes

in smaller sizes,

into which she can fit with ease.

That's why they invented

stores such as Marks and Spencer,

and "vanity sizing"

to fit your wildest dreams.


It's not about make-up.

It's not about glamour.

It's not about attendance at church.

And it's definitely not about

the results of my Maths GCSE.


Don't attempt to quantify me.

"Slammed Doors"

crazy cascade

of confusion

under no illusion

no delusion

no safety net

no comfort at all

no hope

of anything

worth living for

any more

bruised

too many times now

by too many

slammed-in-face doors

"Another Boring Poem"

I run out of dull "updates"

for Facebook and Twitter –

so I write boring poems, like this one, instead.

Yes, you already know that I suffer from migraines –

and that, prior to noon,

I can’t always get out of bed.



I should wait until I have something to say:

something fresh, new and very upbeat.

If I wait for that moment,

it may never arrive.

If I wait to feel hungry,

then I just won’t eat.

"So Scared"

What are you doing,

body?

I'm scared.

How can this be repaired?

How -

with a body so damaged,

a spirit so shattered,

a mind just so scared?

"Final"

trapped
here
within the
revolving doors
of desperation
caught
peace of mind
duly sought
but never found
mind unsound
dreams hit ground
devastation
final destination

"Not Mine"

my dark recollections

extensive selection

buried

but why


to hide their shame

not mine


rewind

review

history redefined


remain true

at all times

to myself

"Innocence Was Brilliant"

it's that moment when you realise

that the shelves of London record stores

aren't necessarily paved

with copies of "Gambler"



that Oxtail soup really involves an ox's tail



that the pretty cows that you admired

in the field by the local park

were never really going to

return the following year with calves

which you believed

simply

because a lady told you so

"Disappointing Daughter"

Meet their disappointing daughter,

with her disappointing ways.

They would oh-so-love to humour her,

but it really never pays.

What's wrong with that girl, anyway?

She's always in a daze.

Why won't she join in with their games?

Her brother always plays.

It's not that they're ashamed of her -

but some of her displays -

and, let's face it, in public, too...

Such a disappointing daughter:

imperfect;

human;

got drunk when younger;

went out with a few dodgy blokes,

when younger -

such a disappointing daughter,

with her disappointing - unforgivably

disappointing - ways.

"Depression"

I scrape my motivation off the floor –

Pretend that I can face another day.

I might appear to go on as before,

But am not really here. What can I say?



It’s self-indulgent to write poetry

Like this, so I try not to, but I fail.

I realise that this is "me, me, me".

Who are these other people who all sail



Through life? They have problems, too. I know that.

Start with compassion. That’s what Buddha said.

What conclusion am I to arrive at?

Who knows? Must drag myself out of this bed



Each day, and it is getting very hard to.

I guess that it is just the same for you.

"Deep Down Inside"

Stillness of spirit:

momentary absence of action,

and this quietude of mind.



Universal love – pure unity –

a sudden sense of

clarity.



There is a sacred place,

which we each of us can find

deep down inside.

"Numbers"

You would love to put me on trial.

Meanwhile,

my mind is full of words,

and in-yer-face neon signs,

and pale moonlight,

illuminating my

private night sky.


Numbers - digits -

they leave my imagination numb -

which probably explains

my grade F in Maths,

blending as much as contrasting

with straight As in English -

Language and Literature, both.


I am not the number

scrawled upon the file

that you pretend not to keep on me.


Stop ringing. Facebook me - or Tweet me, if you must.

My soul is telephone phobic,

and ex-directory,

and I have taken the receiver off the hook already.


I really don't want to bin

this pile of Falmer jeans.

Yes, they represent a previous decade's styles.

And no, they probably wouldn't

fit me, anyway.


Talk to me

and not the number

on my file.


Even if the dial on your scales

won't stop in time,

I might still be worthwhile.


I visited The Wizard of OZ,

and he told me

that Victoria B. is really

no thinner than me.

She simply owns clothes

in smaller sizes,

into which she can fit with ease.

That's why they invented

stores such as Marks and Spencer,

and "vanity sizing"

to fit your wildest dreams.


It's not about make-up.

It's not about glamour.

It's not about attendance at church.

And it's definitely not about

the results of my Maths GCSE.


Don't attempt to quantify me.

"Parallel Paths" (for Josie)

slices of midnight

silver my heart



moonlit dancers

worlds apart



my mind racing

memory dating

tracing our

separate histories

parallel paths

"Descending Chords"

She knows that her bloke is screwing

someone else.

Her descent is captured

in descending chords.



She writes his name in the rain

on window panes.

Then she

smashes a window

and screams -



and listens to cold critics,

who call her lyrics

bitter, twisted, angry, spiteful,

cold.

"Fragile Beauty"

I touch her fragile beauty in the night.

She tries to tell me who she is, but fails.

I pray that everything will be all right.

I stay away from fitting rooms and scales.



I feel her presence with me every day.

She’s someone I should have known: That’s enough.

Fear controlled me, and that got in the way.

Must not set sail – not while the sea’s so rough.



If no-one else can understand, she will.

I know exactly who she is, of course.

I feel her when I’m silent – my mind's still.

Must free my soul of self-torture, remorse,



Hate and all those negative emotions.

Must let go of all such harmful notions.

"File Number"

See the whole picture, and read the subtext.

I don’t know what they’ve got planned for me next.

When have they ever been honest before?

When are they going to show me the door?

I’d like control over my destiny.

I realise that no lunches are free.

They hold all the cards, and they enjoy that.

I think it’s unfair, and that’s where I’m at –

Not that it matters what I think or feel.

I’m a file number, but not someone real.

"The Highest Perch"

You’ll meet few vegetarians at church.

Humanity must have the highest perch.

Christmas without dead turkey would be odd.

Thou shalt kill for a pie from Sweeney Todd.



Want Biblical proof? We can grant your wish:

Jesus fed the five thousand with dead fish.

Let’s empty every ocean of its cod.

Thou shalt kill for a pie from Sweeney Todd.



"All Things Bright and Beautiful", they’re singing.

I enjoy the sound of church bells ringing,

But what have churches got to do with God –

When thou shalt kill for a pie from Sweeney Todd?

"Remembering" (for/about A. S.)

I don’t know very much about Islam.

Eighteen – soon. Is twenty-five too old, then?

He still drinks Special Brew, but won’t eat ham.

He hides me in the downstairs toilet when



His brother is there, and I show up pissed.

He’s wanting an "open relationship".

He makes me feel old-fashioned to resist

Such concepts. Loyalty is just not hip.



He wants me to dress sexier. I try

To please both my new boyfriend and my mum,

Which isn’t easy. I might wonder why

I dress for them, not me. I fear my bum



Is getting bigger. I’m nearly eight stone.

I still can’t get my boyfriend on the phone.

"Games" (for/about A. S.)

At seventeen, she fell in love.

He appeared to feel the same.

Even though alcohol was

Supposedly against his religion,

He introduced her to Special Brew.

Corrupting innocents was his favourite game.



She already had a sort of boyfriend,

But she didn’t fancy him all that much.

Her friend was marrying

His brother, though.

The families all approved of the "match".

No pressure – as such.



Her new bloke understood about

Her sort of boyfriend.

Well, he had two additional girlfriends himself.

He favoured "open relationships", anyway.

Such "understanding" was a gift of cash,

In a currency she could, and would, not spend.



Of course, she finished with her sort of boyfriend.

He agreed to chuck the other women:

Yeah, right. If she’s naïve enough to fall for that,

She only has herself to blame.

Her life from now on will take the form

Of a game that she will never be allowed to win.

"All That I Ever Think About" (for/about Stacey)

She told me that she couldn’t
Let anyone get too close,
In case people got inside her mind.
I didn’t say anything –
Such as: Hey, I’m the same.
I’m exactly the same.
That would have been
About me –
Which I am told
Is all that I ever think about. You see? Yeah?
Yeah, right.

"The Right Words"

If only, if only

But I cannot locate the right words

I cannot think of any

Or I fumble around

With wrong ones

Because I can't find the right ones

The right words

The perfect words

If only I could express

Even

Nought point nought nought one

Percent

Of what I really want to say

How I am feeling

If only you could see

Inside

Even a glimpse

And understand me

And we could connect

But I remain lost for words