Sam Alexandra Rose

Tag: spilled ink

  • my mother says I am impressive.

    my mother says I am impressive.
    what does that mean?
    I yo-yo between
    the ridiculousness of her words
    and the incredulity
    that she would say something
    that she didn’t believe, therefore
    it must surely be true.
    my mother says I am impressive.
    parents are biased.
    parents see what they want to see.
    parents are wrong sometimes.
    but sometimes I still believe her
    and want to thank her
    for relieving my guilt with her praise.
    my mother says I am impressive.

    Written on Friday 1st
    January, 2016 at 21:50

  • Stray Boy

    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.

  • searching

    searching for someone
    who gives a fuck and
    isn’t 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.

  • Awaiting

    Awaiting acutely,
    aching and awake –
    far too awake, alert,
    I wait
    for days.
    Artificial acrobatics, an
    armful of blood
    gone
    anxiety escalated,
    awaiting alleviation.
    After Thursday,
    agitation quietened,
    quickly quelled,
    dispelled until next time,
    assessments and appointments,
    awaiting a verdict again –
    not-so-merry-go-round.

  • all that is lost

    Hopeless, heaving, havoc-
    wreaking, hateful, half-time
    happenings, so harrowing, have you
    any idea the hope that is lost,
    the ways I have lost, so many ways
    I was hoping to hop, to trot and
    to heave my belongings, my half of
    this world as it rots, the happiness
    happening but not, the haste in
    which my direction changes with the
    wind, a hurricane forming in the
    epicentre of hours of homecoming,
    if only I could. If only home hadn’t
    been lost. But hoping hasn’t made
    anything happen, only the
    actions of the whirlwind, the
    heaviest of houses heaving
    their bodies down, and I was
    a house, I was a heart that had no
    reason to hope, just a haze, a happy
    helpful haze, now history, now
    hungry, hurt, homeless, hopeless.
    If only I could come home to my better
    self, my halting, healthy, half-
    baked, wisdomless self. If
    only I could come home to all that is
    lost, all that I lost.

  • You

    I need to do something
    to stop my hands from shaking

    you could be the thing
    that stops my hands from shaking

  • Free Time

    What am I doing with that look on my face?
    That pained expression that’s so hard to erase.
    What am I doing with this armful of feelings?
    Trying to put them down and decipher the meanings.
    What am I doing with this life all a-jumble?
    Watching it rumbling past with a grumble.

    I don’t want to progress, I just want to move backwards –
    There’s no meaning in PPC and AdWords.
    My soul is attached to a man with a guitar
    who pours out his feelings, leaves my mouth ajar
    because he’s plucked my thoughts right out of my brain
    and now I don’t think, just hear his soaring refrain.

    Most of the time we have is spoken for
    I want to recycle old hours, relive them once more
    and contemplate the minutes that make up my days,
    rewind to my younger, more naïve ways,
    go back to being like a carefree pup
    and be granted permission to stop growing up.

    But that just can’t happen, so what do I do?
    Make the most of my free time when I’m with you,
    daydream about leaving the old nine-to-five
    and just make the most of being here and alive.

  • how the years have changed me

    how the years have changed me.
    what if the best years of my life
    have been and gone already?
    In a way I wish I had never grown up.

  • Diamonds in the Asphalt

    I remember lying on my belly
    in the playground at six years old,
    grazed elbows and broken fingernails,
    trying to pick glistening stones
    out of their asphalt prison
    because I thought they were diamonds.

    There are a billion stars under our
    feet, twinkling in their icy garb,
    and so many people don’t notice them.
    These days they are all I want to see.

  • A Poem A Day

    A poem a day doesn’t keep
    the bad thoughts away.
    It just replicates them on
    the page – 

    but it’s better
    than letting them fester
    deep inside your brain.