We are a group of people drawn together
through our inability to recognise
when we are on fire.
And after the fire has been put out,
if we survive, we share an inability
to recognise ourselves.
Page 43 of 45
A few weeks ago, my mother asked me why I like Professor Green. It’s a fair question, since I’m usually much more of a rock chick – I like Alkaline Trio, 30 Seconds to Mars, Slipknot, Muse, My Chemical Romance, Placebo, and countless others. So it was reasonable of her to ask why I like Professor…
Reblogging this post from myself from a year or two ago, because I saw Professor Green at O2 Academy in Birmingham on Saturday, after a long time waiting for his rescheduled tour dates, and it was brilliant. That feeling I get when I’m at a gig and just… all the feels, I dunno. It’s hard to put into words. But this still is the reason – I love Pro Green because he gets me so much. Like, the whole second verse of Lullaby is just… yep. I’m a writer and I can’t even say what I’m trying to say. He said something like that once, too. Bloody love him.
But the point of things I never have went from
Being a reason for the things that I do
To just being an excuse that I’d use
I’ve gotta take responsibility for the things I do
Find something other than negativity for my fuel
But I feed off it, even when I don’t seem bothered
I hide everything that’s going on inside
Guess it’s been a while since I’ve been honest, I need help
But I deny it and even lie to myself like I’m fine.
I have nothing to write about.
Everything is going right. I am alive.
Nobody died today, not in my world.
I haven’t been thinking about it,
and if I’m not thinking about it,
I’m generally not feeling tortured,
so what is there to do?
I cope with life’s mundane problems
by repeating to myself
“worse things have happened,
worse things have happened”
and so even if I think I’m not
thinking about it, I’m still
sort of thinking about it.
But that’s okay.
Worse things have happened.
We’re still alive.
Written on Tuesday 9th December, 2014 at 23:19
I’m not allowed to have regrets
but if I could go back in time
I would tell my 22 year old self
that it’s okay to cry and to be scared.
If I could go into the future
I would tell my 30 year old self
to go back in time and tell my 26 year old self
that it’s okay to have regrets, actually.
It’s not enough for words to be true
it’s not enough for words to evoke empathy –
they have to poke and prod with their meaning,
they have to scope out your hollows and fill them,
first x-raying and identifying your sores
(search and destroy)
before deepening – yet at the same time,
patching up –
the wounds of your particular
broken organ.
Written on Tuesday 2nd December, 2014 at 22:26
They are not all wonderful years,
but they are years, for sure,
years that overrule minutes and days, years
enhanced by whirls and swirls of colour
induced by Jack and coke, a joke
or two, puns and double entendres,
lights residing alongside tunnels,
stars and stripes and banners and my silly
ideas, my far-flung dreams, contrasted by
your grounding foundations so I’m a flag waving
at the end of a pole instead of a loose cannon
shooting through the shepherd’s delight,
uncontrollable like nothing I’ve ever seen
before – I’m staring back at myself like
in a hall of mirrors at the funfair. I recognise
myself but at the same time I really don’t.
Obstacles aren’t so bad; they at least make us
pause for breath before continuing on to the
next year and the next.
Written on Friday 28th November, 2014 at 22:15
I write a poem; type out my thoughts
one-handed, a glass of bourbon in the
other. Tap out the title at the top and
declare the date and time of writing at
the bottom. An old ritual. Open a new
document. Write another. Add my time-
stamp. I write a blog post. Later I decide
I’m drunk and it isn’t very good, so I edit
it, still drunk. It’s probably better. I start
on the Scotch. Write another poem.
Restart the soul-spilling.
The timestamps get later and later.
maybe if I make myself
small enough
I’ll
dis
ap
pe
a
r
.
I can’t fillet, I can’t fillet.
