I’ve never done this type of poem. The format is straight forward.
- Title 2 syllables
- Description 4 syllables
- Action is 6 syllables
- location 8 syllables
- ending 6 syllables.
- And the final rule is that it can’t rhyme
it won’t hurt much
scrub off the scent of his odour
bleach the bath with your morning shit
love costs more heartache
Passion less magical
Cats demand cuddles
A clean page soaked in wasted words written in yellow ink
The music falls on deaf ears
Unread unopened books will let me down – or will it be my imagination?
I glance around the room of despair comfortably numb for three hours until a child smiles for her mom’s unfounded fears.
so inept by a blackened imagination
colours wither away, winter outsmiles
stilled yet not frozen. those exhiled frowns en route stragglers exhiled to Siberia.
I’m desperately desolate that these nightmares took the by pass . Limits to hope of revelling in reality once more spring
bursts into a yawn , light stretches worn out clinging onto last winter’s stained sweater.
A scream demands tending to kettle whistling for it’s masters attention
it begs summer to part with mercy & grace
so inept by a blackened imagination.
Class is an illusion or an in trusion
Don’t mix your dish clothes with your serviettes
Ever heard of that one?
My Gran drummed that into all of us as much as she could.
She was born with money but lived the life of Cinderella because she was pretty and Grand Mamam remarried and acquired two not so pretty daughters.
She fell pregnant at 16 and was made homeless and went to work as a femme de menage and then trained to be a beautician.
She fell in love again and had my Aunt. Her Love left her like a stolen kiss and she then had two children to look after.
She had to put my aunt and uncle in a children’s home so she could work and survive and send money to them.
It’s not a train smash.
Ever heard of that one before?
My grandpa drummed that into all of us as much as he could.
His parents left Russia in 1918, took on a Polish sounding name and ended up leaving a good life for the slums of Paris.
Grandpa was born in the slums of Paris.
Grandpa took to cruising Paris with the other street kids, always hungry on the lookout for food.
One day Grandpa got a chance to change everything. He got a contract with L’oreal to bring the brand and introduce it to the dark continent that is Africa.
Always an opportunist he took the contract, found my Gran along the way, got married to her (much to the disapproval of my Grans family) and left for Madagascar, then Zimbabwe and finally South Africa.
My Gran couldn’t leave her children. She had to tell grandpa that she couldn’t leave France. He asked why and she only managed to tell him about her daughter – my aunt.
My grandpa took my aunt out of the children’s home and gave her his name that very day. My gran couldn’t bring herself to tell Grandpa about her other son. He would remain a secret until he wrote a salacious book about our family many years later.
Grandpa would have taken on my estranged uncle too if he had known.
They went on to have four more children.
Grandpa made a lot of money and finally got live the life of O Riley in South Africa.
The fridge was never empty again.
I got to live a pretty good life too.
Did having money and class make me a better person?
It got me into a lot of trouble.
I had far too much money from my Dad and my Mom’s side of the family.
I got into plenty of trouble.
I ended up living in squats and places of poverty. I was always more accepted there for wanting to get high than with other wealthy friends.
The reason: I didn’t hide who I was.
I don’t regret becoming a drug addict.
It taught me that just because I was white and privileged that didn’t mean I was exempt from getting hooked on the same drugs that only the poor and coloured ( is a race in South Africa and not a slur), Indian and black community did.
Class doesn’t buy you happiness.
Drug dealers hated me.
They didn’t get why a white girl with seemingly everything would be wanted to live a ghetto life – have black boyfriends and live in squalor.
One thing having class did help me with is get me out of a lot of trouble
Before you say money doesn’t buy class.
I already agree it doesn’t.
But have you ever noticed that some people carry themselves a certain way and others have an inbred look?
This is subjective and
Don’t tell me you haven’t ever had that thought!
That person looks like …. (insert your thoughts here)
What I love about the Word Press community is I don’t have a clue who has money and who doesn’t unless of course, a person tells me.
It still doesn’t make a difference. All Good Writing is classy in my book.
What irritates me is even though I am living on the poverty line not because of choice but because of choices I have made – people who don’t know my financial situation assume that the reason I got my daughter back and managed to manage my mental health issues is because of how I present myself and because I look like I have money.
I communicate well.
Being privileged does not make me make better choices.
It doesn’t make me better in any way.
There are many people who live in poverty who just like me want to learn. crave to learn.
I truly believe ‘knowledge is power’.
I communicate well because I have educated myself.
Everyone should have this chance
I’m in debt because I wanted to study in higher education. I am willing to get into more debt to get my Masters.
The problem with the class is the privileged have a better chance at learning to communicate and getting their point across in a “rational” manner from an early age.
We are all born with emotions. It is as natural as breathing
For many reasons when we display our emotions in society, we are seen as bad and showing ourselves and our family and friends up.
People with mental health issues -Rich or Poor get outcast as soon as they start leading their life in emotion without knowing the rules of how to be “civilised” to try to get what you want.
I didn’t get lucky because of my background.
I got clever and I studied and I learnt. I watched people and how they interact. I went on self-discovery courses to find out what my priorities and beliefs and values were and what makes me tick.
I have had at least one chance to marry for money. A pity the person was double my age, got a great pension and couldn’t communicate unless in anger or affection and drunk.
I have never had a rich boyfriend.
I think the closest I had to a boyfriend with “Money” was a brief love affair with someone in the army who had so many issues that he accused me of only wanting him for his money.
Funny story. I actually crushed on him because he had travelled like me. He had opinions and ideas. He was creative and he made me feel special.
I am married for love.
My mom is not rich any more but she has a lot of class and really great taste in fashion.
She has been my wedding planner and if our day looks privileged: it is because she got clever
We got clever. We got our priorities right.
I am rich in love.
My husband to be was born in a place where everyone who hears the name thinks ghetto, drugs, inbred families and rough around the edges.
Granted Gaz looks like he may smoke a bit of the green stuff.
He has never smoked or taken drugs.
He doesn’t drink. Hasn’t done for nearly 5 years.
He does know how to communicate and get his point across better than a lot of the Rich people I have had the opportunity of conversing with.
His mind is open. He is not ignorant. I love him for that.
We get on so well because we try to put the world to rights, we are inquisitive, always ready to learn and find out about our world and even beyond it.
We laugh. A huge turn on.
Make me laugh or buy me diamonds?
Oooh, what will I go for?
I’m not always distasteful
Some bluds might call me graceful
No more graceful than dying hair red
Taking a bath
A pic of fake Menstruation on social media seems needed as its relatable.
Those who don’t know how it feels when your daughter whispers sweet nothings in your ear
Until you can’t deny she is you blood.
Veins pumping genetics down to her very veneers.
Unlike a gangster with a knife
She can disarm me with one word.
More tears to fall.
She is my life and I feel shame to be told I am a failure according to ‘the perfect mothers’ bible.
Secret whispers in the night with my Bee and our cat
I’m elated by delight of their sight.
I pretend I’m tired
all I want to do is listen to an 8-year old tell me about her life
Virual is alright.
Her self made granny
The architect homes she designed
The way she does things back to front
Kisses her cat before wiping her face
Is it so bad
she has character?
She is a person with grace revelling in her precious nature.
I love her
Forget the love me not.
She heard me say that her dad needs a shaggy cut.
She screamed out in jest that his Mario sweater is replaceble.
Cut and dry
Wife with a belly full of fire.
She lived with an advisor
Who clouted her with words
She holds herself like a raw diamond.
With all my strength I wish I could embrace her with my words
Take away the miscommunication.
She is my blood
She gave birth to me
How could I truly hate her?
She gives advice and tips
Tells me: I’m wiser I’m wiser I’m wiser!
Tell her: I know I know I know!
Indulge her fear to check her memory
Alzheimer’s runs in the family it may not happen to my maternal
Mom and I disconnect because she thinks I’ve misplaced her mind with my mind chasing speedballs
With out thought
Nor thoughts of a future.
Denounced my victories
Declared I should be recovered nor heeded her advise
Disrespected her pain
I wish she could put her life onto paper
For now, I see she wants recondition me to remember where I come from.
I hadn’t forgotten.
Save my daughter who will never forget her cumbersome roots
No Respect for a mothers love
When the child has not lived an age of daughter & mom with 38 years and odd some
Not for the grace of any God did we want the same for outcome for my child of surprise.
She is the one who has become our saviour.
Breaking up the pieces of our past.
How can I tell her to choose between mother or grandmother?
Who’s life is already unstable
20 years from now perhaps she will be a disorderly
Drunk or solicitor with letters after her name.
I’ve has enough of her being held at ransom by the past, ifs and buts
all the songs screeched from
The rabid rats
The stray cats
We once loved them.
I live in a place that’s to become my home again.
Ive sinned in mothers eyes
Because neither being clean off coke, weed & MDMA nor alcohol is enough to placate her that I’m enjoying recovery after waking up from a 5-day coma.
I believe I’m trying my damn hardest to get better.
She doesn’t care when I explain the recovery process.
You have too many issues.
Time to find a semi used snot filled tissue
We powwow with our words
Resulting in bad art titled ‘the splatter’.
I’m not trying to berate her.
My heart breaks.
She falls apart into pieces of bloody flotsam
Salty droplets of water flick her face at high tide.
In another room
A child washes her hair
Cuts out the words she doesn’t think she wants to hear.
She doesn’t understand the possible dynamics of life that awaits.
I hope life and fate won’t degrade her.
My child’s soul is pure.
Please, higher power embalm the one I call my graceful dancer
For I do I love her.
My mom too.
I love her
More than the blank stares and words that are hidden in my mind riddled with bedlam made cancer.
Can you keep a secret?
‘If I told you I care, I still do. A person can only be told ‘to go away’ so many times before they must act on a person’s wishes. It is called respect. It doesn’t mean that person doesn’t care or has changed their mind.
It does mean that person is doing what they need to do.
It doesn’t mean the heart does not suffer- the mind must navigate a lost heart back to a place where some sense can be found.
To leave an ungoverned heart loose, in a world, that professes to and propagates reason over emotion- would be to condemn the heart, to a lifetime of insanity: a world of no sense’.
The untamed heart
It hasn’t taken away everything
there is still me inside.
Don’t forget I rise, fall, stumble, then I suppose because I’m here, I rise.
See even grey lizards can be
Newborn from cinders.
My number is definitely not over
Mother’s nature to beta block a seizure on Kronos’s clock.
merely an earthling in my mortal dregs tried
to take my heartbeat, crush it in my hands
So many times,
Yet here I still am.
I pulverised the very heart of my soul
This beaten path
Led to a southern state in need of heart donors
Many lived as secluded slaves
pieces pulled apart.
I may be flawed but you’re no patron saint
for you have a blood hue lusting for the Big Easy.
See there it is!
Blemished if only so faint.
Self-hatred became queasy & took it out on my star crossed lover
Call it, resting bitch face syndrome.
My love can be seen -it hovers.
Moments of Rapture are fleeting
Take time to bask in my lover’s latest sunshades.
Who’s to say we’ll never meet up with
a black dog again
– a self-made state of oppression.
The Living aint easy.
my relationships my temper and I write to make sense of my thoughts)