the wheelchair,
the cobbled street.
happy because –
happy.
No reasons
to be seen.
a stray boy
interacting with
nothing.
filthy hair,
head slumped low
but bobbing with
every guffaw.
Small town poverty,
invisible life.
a semi-stoned
shadow lurching
from side to
side in the
dimming
light.
Author: writersamr (Page 29 of 45)
āI write songs I canāt listen to.ā – Professor Green
Me too. I write poems I canāt read.
I want to write poems I canāt read.
They would probably be my best poems.
Gonna wear a tight-fitting dress to a party tomorrow and not even worry about how weird my belly looks cuz I canāt help that thereās a flat bit where my bowel used to be that makes the rest of my belly stick out more so Iām just gonna be comfortable with my post-op / post-cancer body instead of feeling self-conscious, mmkay?
If enough people see your scars
do they get any lighter?
if more people know why
there is a cavity
where your bowel should be
does your stomach stick out
a little less?
Is there power in more pairs
of eyes?
I feel better for being known
a tiny bit better.
I feel stronger for standing
up, validated, vindicated,
now that I have ācome outā
in a sense, as a person who
has been brave, who has
seen things
no pair of eyes should
have to see. Maybe now
Iāll feel a little more free
too, a little more of a
loose cannon, with no
need for explanation.
I should now already be
justified in anything
I say or do about this.
I only hope those new
pairs of eyes can see
that this is a
terrible, and terribly
important part
of me.
I had an article published on Quiet Revolution! It is:
An open letter to everyone who has ever made me feel like there is something wrong with meāunintentionally or otherwise.
Read it here:
http://www.quietrev.com/portraits/sam-rose/
Hope it is relatable – Iāve had some really nice comments on it already, which is awesome!
Iām not shy
I donāt have low confidence
I donāt prefer quiet environments
I am usually quite happy and cheerful
I donāt dislike you (probably)
Iām not bored (probably)
Iām not mysterious or thinking deep thoughts
I donāt need you to speak up for me or talk to other people for me
I donāt need you to help me to be louder or to invite me to talk
Calling me quiet like itās a bad thing (or doing any of these)Ā does make me want to hit you
*emphasis on the ASS
Add your own to this list in the comments!
What do brave cancer patients/survivors do that cancer patients/survivors who arenāt brave donāt do?
What do strong cancer patients/survivors do that cancer
patients/survivors who arenāt strong donāt do?
searching for someone
who gives a fuck and
isnāt afraid to say so:
sometimes they are
closer than you think,
even if they are further
away than others you
had previously pinned
your hopes on.
What colour is cancer?
Not the colour of cheerful ribbons.
Not the pink of awareness,
or fun-run t-shirts, or a
decorative brooch.
The colour of cancer is blood red to me,
the kind of red that makes my
stomach flip over.
Red trespassing where it isnāt
supposed to be. The white walls
of the disinfected hospital.
The white of my motherās tissue.
The pastel pattern of a gaping surgical gown.
The colour of a sleepless night, of shadows
morphing into hallucinations.
The blinding light of sunshine intruding
through curtains opened at 8am sharp.
The deep shining orange-red of
my insides. The dark green of
bile. The non-colour of cardboard
sick bowls and bed pans.
The colour of thick, opaque days
I couldnāt see past. The colours I see now
when I turn around.
Crumbling brown soil on my brotherās grave.
The darkest thoughts of my own resting place.
The ugliest palette.
