I hold a deep love for October:
the beginning, the constant.
the cosy warmth swaddling us
against the fast-approaching winter.
October is orange in the trees, orange
falling to the ground, orange
lighting up the sky.
Carving out contentment in pumpkins
for the very first time. Singing and
dancing and carefree, slippers and
dressing gowns, excitement entangled
in comfort and certitude.
Tag: poetry (Page 15 of 24)
My chapbook is available with 25% off this weekend! Just use code GWW25 at the checkout.
Here’s the link: http://ow.ly/PfMEh
And an extract:
And a big, big hug for anyone who checks it out – you are awesome! <3
I left a piece of myself in Gothenburg,
and I couldn’t find it in the signs at Heathrow.
Nothing was written in beautiful Swedish,
just in the boring English I already know.
I tried to bring pieces of Gothenburg home –
a backpack full of Kex bars and Ballerina biscuits;
a blue and yellow t-shirt; socks declaring
‘I heart Sweden’; novelty fridge magnets.
But the soft toy moose on the refrigerator
reminds me that sometimes you’re not moving on
to bigger and better things – sometimes
you’re just plain old moving on.
Because there is nothing bigger and nothing better
than the places you adore,
your passions and the dreams you hold –
they’re what’s worth living for.
So one day I will visit again,
I’ll go back when I’m more fluent.
There’s still so much the city can teach me,
I’ll always be a willing student.
And that’s what I said to the wing of the plane
as I tried not to be sad about leaving,
watching the lush green city getting smaller,
trying so hard to clutch onto Sweden.
I got home from my trip to Gothenburg on Friday. I didn’t want to leave. Coming back to England felt so wrong, and far too early. But it was awesome, and if I were to dedicate this poem to anyone I would dedicate it to Pewdiepie, because his videos inspired me to learn Swedish, and to visit Sweden, and he gave me a whole new passion for learning a language and visiting a new country. I’m so grateful for that. <3 *brofist*
what if I never break?
what if I walk forever undamaged
never dying
never meeting an
end
what if
I never
see
what kills me
so greatly
that would be the
best thing
so we’re going down this route?
let’s pretend this is fiction.
I
can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t
there’s
too much of it
there’s
just too much of it
when
will it end
when
will it go away
I
just can’t I’m sorry
I can’t go anywhere without it
It’s
been a bad week.
It’s
not like I’m holding onto it
I
just can’t let it go – it’s holding onto me
so
what am I supposed to do?
I
can only apologise to myself
again
it’s
been five years since I found out what was going to happen
five
years since that photo was taken
when
I forced a smile for the flash
when
I had something to say but just couldn’t
when
I was silent
when
you didn’t fucking notice
when
I was in shock and it felt sort of like
no
big deal
when
I didn’t cry
I
am worse now
I
am feeling now
I
am five years late
it’s
been a cancerous week, alright?
and
I don’t mean that like how the
songs
and the sayings bandy it around
not
“I’m as serious as cancer
when
I say rhythm is a dancer”
but
actual cancer in forums, songs, tv
where
I don’t expect it – cancer creeping
up
on me, thrown around everywhere
and
I have to deal with it
and
I fucking can’t
I
just fucking can’t
it’s
Friday and I’m drinking and
there
is probably something wrong with this
and
no I’m not sorry
but
there is no need for you to worry
only
me
and
it’s only me
let
me deal with this
I’ll
take care of it
somehow
in
the morning things will be
better
or worse
I’m
not sure
I’d
love to share this but I can’t
I’d
fucking love to share this but I can’t
I’m just trying to keep afloat today.
There is a reason why the number twelve
is at the top of the clock face.
It’s because each hour is an aspiration,
every day completion an accomplishment.
but this is
mouth-numbingly painful
Remember when you were a kid and
you thought working for a living was fun?
Sitting behind your travel agency and
putting plastic coins in your till, acting like
a tiny adult in your plastic world with your
plastic kitchen oven and washing machine,
teaching your dolls their ABCs, putting
plastic food in your plastic shopping basket,
pretending to eat with your plastic cutlery,
because it was interesting and new.
But adulthood is repetition. Adulthood is
buying toilet roll and running out of toilet roll
and going food shopping and washing up
and deciding and eating and commuting
and buying toilet roll and running out of toilet roll
and sitting and paying and waiting for the weekend
and shopping and making appointments and
washing clothes and cleaning and remembering
appointments and running out of toilet roll
and making packed lunches and buying toilet roll
and running out of toilet roll.
I wrote a poem for you and then
looked up at the ceiling. I don’t
know why, because there’s
nobody there, or so I told myself,
but now, now I feel something
like eyes on me through a two-way
mirror or the haziness of an
early morning reverie.
I don’t know if you are or not, but
be with me,
be with me.
I wish they hadn’t given you
a front row seat to your own
private horror show.
I wish you could have stayed and just
watched mine from afar instead
and helped me pick up the pieces after.
You would have been equipped
with just the right broom to sweep
up the room, and then you could have
gone on your way, doing all the things
you had hoped you’d be able to do,
once upon a day.
In the dusty haze of dusk
when the sun glistens
and the night listens
for its cue
there you are
as the early summer heat
meets defeat
and the pitter-patter drizzle
sizzles on the street
I see you
when glassy daylight shatters
and all that’s left is midnight matter
your glowing eyes amidst crazed chatter
I have the best view
[there you are
I see you
I have the best view]
