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Born
Some of us are born heartbroken from the initial
To final push .
We are the ones that don’t cry until we get a pat on the back
We are the ones that know the doctors’ have a hypocratic oath to enforce .
Life is forced upon those who don’t ask…
The ties must be cut with or without a puppet curtsey or kneel in prayer.
The law states we have a duty to care for ourselves
for others ..
The laws – they diminish a heart beaten with a wooden spoon .
Zero tolerance.. humanity is a price we have come to despair.
Punitive the fare we must pay. The care sector,our families who wish no t pretence
to smile on arrival at a wake.
We live for our reasons . We betray our feelings .
Perhaps it’s when the sun denies we are in treason
we dare shed a tear for our shadow
Some of us born heartbroken ’til we die.. we become the life savers or the enablers of the lie.
#writetoexpress
Today
Walked out my front door
First time in 5 days, I turned right for a change of scenery chucking out the rubbish – the highlight of this today
Beneath my feet the concrete was still grey
My demeanour resembled the bland council houses’ unimaginative choice of decorating on the cheap -resembling a prison … whatever . No , I’m done rhyming today.
What prompts these feathered words typed and on display – a bird not in flight
Wings tinged with blue a sorrowful sight to see no fight
Eyes bright with dewy deadpan light.
Eyes screeching victoriously: I found the worm special of the day!
How do I say , justify , describe the way my heart swooned the wrong way. I looked up at the sky thankful for the first time in many years for its consistent rays.
A distraction , a ruse – I knew it was dead . I’m ashamed to admit I didn’t move him onto a more dignified path. I was afraid he’d come back to life.
Circled around him in a hesitantly callous way
How dare he interrupt a quiet walk-the first in almost a week from sunday?
Did I imagine it semi fluttering whilst I walked past him with my bin liner full of litter ?
I profess to love watching those with wings -airborne soaring . I’m envious. A speculative visual adorned with glittered hues , proof that life moves in every way.
I confess I have a phobia of dead birds. Past memories of one I wasn’t able to save in my childhood
Direction moved me to walk the other way from a lifeless soul left to rot on a staircase.
I’m ashamed.
New dawn
New day?
Eulogising Tatiana
Today ,I wasn’t prepared though my gut knew better than to be not blase but scared.
A fleeting hope that the healers could give you a boost
The hardest decision was to accept that your time was up.I had to cut you loose.
I’m numb, guilty, wishing I had you for a few more nights.
Allowing your sorrowful suffocating soul seconds more would add to this punishing plight & dreams of death – faeces, dead babies, deer, filthy flies and discarded driftwood souls drunk on flotsam
Waived inner strength; sight to ignite a courageous carcass of hope
Never mind , my Tatiana. You breathe free , unleashed from the God’s who wouldn’t let you rest.
You were too remarkable to ignore.
Your status has soared
A wing span of your choice.
These words don’t do justice
I love you
This is your eulogy
An ode to your life with no apology.
So cold,
so sweet ,
so fair…
Life and death
The mortal twins
The janus of the past , the future
You -the triplet was my greatest moment of
present present.
And Then there are the days
And then there are the days when the rain has stopped.
sunshine will follow the rain.
By all accounts I should feel the warmth.
My smile aches.
My heart
Breaks.
My cheeks are strewn not by rain this time but more tears.
I feel a part of me dying. I think of all the tears I’ve overcome, the one I’ve mopped up.
I think about how other people struggle, and see them get up again and again until, one day they don’t.
In these twisted moments of my melancholy; my heart beats even faster- than when I’m even tempered.
I realise I won’t die from heart ache or an abundance of leaked tears.
I won’t dehydrate.
I won’t become the next corpse poised in fledgling flight to arouse its soul.
So many words and questions I wish to ask.
I answer them myself-in moments of cowardice . In these moments of despair, I search for strength.
I love to see people I care about prosper.
I cry because
.. I shouldn’t have regrets.. but I’m beginning to wonder if I should….
Daughter of Rose
I am Daisy
Daughter of Rose
Who needs love, loyalty, laughter
Who loves music, silence, decadence
Who sees lonely people, people better off, empty glasses once full of hope
Who hates curves on herself, being misunderstood, bad odour
Who fears abandonment, rejection, gossips too
Who dreams of career growth, success, beauty to blossom from within
Who has found forgotten poems, memory gaps, words unable to recognise as her own
Resident of no fixed abode
Willows.
Why* if* when * who
Why do we close our eyes when we sleep?
When we cry?
If we imagine?
Who we kiss?
This is because the most beautiful things in
the world is unseen.
Old soul
OTHER WORDLY .
Unfathomable to relate how a portrait of an unaffected cherub
mirrors
a forgotten dimension to
the paradigm LONER.
PENSIVE – angelic eyes
unfreeze momentarily — expressions animate the oil painted canvas.
Voice barely audible -mouths out to me
Who is this new persona?
Blood of my labour sworn to tell the gospel TRUTH.
Astonished -wrinkles crease — at time ‘s wildfulness to penetrate her innocence—
She’s not looking back at her youth.
BULLIED
The cycle continues-
Elders blame the outsider for a lack of faith in conventional —Spirituality.
ELDER peers down through an intoxicating incensed haze.
Measure me up.
Squares me up.
On humble grounds
I stand a full head above her broad shoulders.
Closer to her divine maker
pious prayers hail down
the blame game
the name game.
Tortured soul seeker
Scarpers for the licks of hell’s flames.
trips over underwood
poltergeists log a strategic placed guilt ambush
rotting the core of this circle of life’s CONTINUITY.
AUTHORITY ISSUES.
Time will decide whether we are cosmic twins born 3 decades APART.
This is her descent to destiny .
roughly sketched into this world-
pallid , charcoal smudged into silence.
An artist confronted with his frailty to conceive life.
Mourns the leftover clots of a being.
Miscariage – remnants of nurture -a mere puddle of blood outlining his corrosive flaw.
A splattering of colours, tears stained by remorse.
a howl of def toned melancholy
The artist sips a cup of penny total tea.
recomposed.
A sighed relief-
she has -AWAKENED.
ALONE – – is she fated too?
-The rebels never conforms
Transience
Stricken by the awareness of my own
MORTALITY.
INQUISITIVE betrayed by her translucence
frown rouges her cheeks in introspection.
familiar strange words
Alienation effect prompts a impulsive turn around
the past
curses
damning this loner to truly see.
An epiphany of divine INSIGHT
UNDER or OVER ACHIEVER perfection adorned with feathers of liberty –
don’t try to please anyone!
A storm intervenes obscuring the BIGGER PICTURE-
Save that energy
for life
is a gift and
It’s your greatest fight.
RESPONSIBLE for so much — tempted by earth’s seasonal affective disorder
Why does she have to be mortal?
Wings hook into shoulder blades
Reduced to a puppet attached by silver linings.
aerial view-
panoramic
circular murmuration
obsessive.
Eyes strain ,blood shot.
Wind exhales mustard peppered vapours
orchestrating sight to follow a new PERSPECTIVE.
WISDOM revealed by the crooked halo’d questions
glitterer
shimmers her every inflection.
the yearn of experience — to keep heavens babe toothless , unaware of the survival evolution taking place
Within.
TENACIOUS – I overlook her every smile
from above
stitched up my heart
remains
the scapegoat
the seeker.
until a moment forces me to find a burial ground
Unwillingly close my eyes –
the universe screeches –velocity erases all time.
Formless parts full up spaces amongst the dirt.
await for these settlers to wipe all memory from this life.
Old souls are never alone for eternity.
We have one another to rise above our hurt.
knowledge is power, wisdom is happiness and truth is freedom
Catch 22
Fall – leaves turn shades of browns and greens.
my heart dips and I don’t feel that same sense of summer’s beams.
Alone. I look to my left. Creativity shines- glitter, stilettos- latex, white faux fur coats. All legs.
Like a string of pearls flung across a room, a musky scent wafts across my midst.
Temptations persist. Glamour. Warmth is all I seek. Summer, why do you have to be so cruel?
I know if I cross over to the other side – I’ll be feeling the warmth – it will be pimped out inbox ring styles – I won’t have time to dodge the fists.
My body will burn up an exotic shade of hues. I will have no rest.
Hell is the other side of Summers gluttonous jazz bassline.
One hit. One vein. Blood – artificial nirvana could infiltrate my being.
I won’t have to think of the biting cold that is ringing in my ears. Muffled will be the ice cone, frozen on the edge of my nose. It doesn’t matter who sees that I have been seen.
Bus shelters full, spikes erect from the corporate underground – I can’t sit down. I know it takes fewer muscles to smile than frown.
Energy is all I have to see me through this cycle of undomesticated abuse. October may be Domestic abuse awareness month.
If I hadn’t left my keeper, I would still have a roof over my head.
A blanket.
I would still be touched.
Roughed up.
Better the devil you know – I know every one of his moves. I know when to dissociate –
detach my mind
from my body.
Floating above the marital, martial art stylised bed – I see myself and that devil I married, grabbing folds of my skin. He doesn’t notice the smell of the new conditioner I bought at Asda or how soft the sheets feel now they have been newly spun.
Dryer. I’m dry. He doesn’t notice the lack of moisture. He doesn’t notice that all of that fluid has shot up to my eyeballs. I refuse to let them free flow – I am not her. I’m floating.
Fly on the wall. Caught up in a spiders web. I have to watch. It doesn’t matter if I have a crick in my neck – oh hang on a minute is he choking me?
Leftover food languishing in the sink drain. He switched the waste disposal on to automatic.
Arrested, I am back in bed, under him. Time to vogue with my lips and give him a little pucker.
These white sheets have turned red in his need to let off steam. I come out in blisters hovering underneath his vapour.
Turn my neck – feels like I need a box of throat lozenges for having to get all deep throat.
5 am flashing in stimulant green.
I’m 5 months pregnant. I am going to be late.
Grab the nearest decent clothes. Pull-on my Adidas trainers. Scrape my hair up into a ponytail.
Finally the motivation to go on the run. I don’t have to time myself. I know his schedule well.
An Olympic torch passes into my hand. I’m running for freedom. Liberty is my destination.
I can start over.
Spring – blues, violets, colours in a perfect union – uncompressed. Naturally dressed.
For the first time in months, I feel like I belong. I too am a medley of colours. I blend in.
Natures milkshake collects in my breasts – 4 months to go until I give birth to a miracle of pure life.
Not branded a colour – just innocence – a chance to see a light – work on my soul and tackle it all. This is the only cure.
Vanilla.
I am no Killer.
Life goes in cycles. It passes by fast. There are no traffic jams when you have to pick up your feet and walk.
Eyes cast down, belly protruding.
Christian volunteers crouch down next to me- hand me a card.
Die and be reborn.
They can help me. I just have to give my old life to our saviour. I’ve never met him but he sounds
Forgiving, comforting, caressing- a handwash with extra Aloe vera – calming properties.
All I have to do is offer my unborn child to him and I can enter paradise with the rest of my weary comrades.
Eyes raise up to the bitter sky. I’ve always thought whatever is up there twinkling and winking down at me is having a far better time than me.
My unborn deserves a place in heaven. Earth only promises scars and wild jungle roots to keep it grounded to the spot.
The ultimate sacrifice.
Did I fold in with this cult out of cowardice?
I will drink my poison.
Maybe this winter I will be reunited with the one that let out a sudden cry.
Lead me not into temptation. I lie down, no need to be afraid, child. I close my eyes and sigh.
Hope is my last premise.
* Inspired by domestic violence awareness month*
OCTOBER 2016 (IMAGE SOURCED FROM GOOGLE)
HERE IS A LINK TO A POST I WROTE,ON 11TH MAY 2016 , ABOUT MY OWN PERSONAL EXPERIENCES IN A D.V. RELATIONSHIP , TO RAISE DOMESTIC ABUSE AWARENESS IN MY COMMUNITY AND SOCIETY.
CLICK ON THE PINK HIGHLIGHTED LINK BELOW
THE FREEDOM PROGRAMME
*photo credit Rhode Island Francesca Woodman, Benjamin Moore *
Perhaps I want to..
I want to stop stuffing my mouth with food
To allow the words I swallow tumble out my own truth .
I want my voice not to sound happy
I want it to be happy.
I want to eat meals without guilt.
I don’t want to be overweight.
I want anorexia to stop carving every single slice of edible part until there is nothing but my skeletal soul
Nothing but the debris of littered thoughts
Soiled emotions
Discarded remnants of self love.
I’m screaming
Pleading for just one match to light up my black holed life
The abyss that taunts
Torments
Each moment
Each breath
Every movement
I want to publish a book of my words
One solarity book to place on my bookshelf
I want to feel sexy without thinking that being curvy is criminal.
I want to feel pretty
Confident that I can eat sushi tonight when my daughter has a McDonald’s happy meal.
I’ve scoured the Just Eat.com menu
The thoughts become lairy loud
It becomes easier to take a valium or a drink
Awash myself clean against the accusations
I’m tainted
Impure
My thighs touch
My breasts are disproportionately imperfect
And,
I don’t want to blame it on Some tasteless comment some child made when I was 12 years old.
My collar bones are disappearing
My butt is bigger
Im not disappearing
I’m not smaller
I want a worthwhile exsistance
I want to claim my happiness
Perhaps my words are my winning ticket to recovery .
Perhaps I need to buy enough ink and paper to print off 6 years of documented writings, poems, plays, stories and musings
I want
I want
I want my body to understand what it needs
I need
I need
I need my mind
To understand
What it wants.
Second life -Mort tell et tea
* This Borderline poem was written a week before I attempted to take my life (again).I ended up in Critical Care in a coma for 7 days & in ICU for a further 6 days. I was discharged from hospital on the 21st of May 2020 *
Please, make sense of reality.
Use a stream of consciousness
words to
Vent,
rant,
rave,
A discovery in recovery
Fathom out sense because words are only as good as the interpreter.
Could add literary success to a Gravatar profile in an E-book
Add a few drafts poured into that fulminate crunched up chaos.
This doesn’t invoke a feeling of literary success.
Trying.
Struggling to convey all words .
Reciprocated words are often misinterpreted
Misheard
Another attempt to convey these words.
Perhaps one person will see this array of affray spread its torment defecating the inner spiral case of the
Mind,
It swirls down these steps in every way.
The moment to call it a day
This draws an outline forever to have the last say.
Hear me proclaim
This
Is
My
Life.
Don’t want to carry on living this way
Shame lingers
It overstays — the bailiff texts for rent arrears
Read,
What is laid down?
Listen
I’m not done yet.
Hanging by a thread it’s tethered
Seen many days to identify as weathered
Hanging by a thread
This is my life purpose!
Final chance to meet my fate
Waited for this all my life
A mystery date with a severed soul mate.
Taught & tethered & weathered is this rope
To late
convinced
I’m no tightrope walker.
I’ve become my own word stalker.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda arrested these rants before my digress
Covert corner
Wait in this hidden corner.
Evidently I’ve learned that survival is innate.
It ain’t easy to digest the days I’m not blessed to eat from a plate.
keep rising up despite a lifetime’s worth of trip-ups.
Until I die
One fine day
I’ll face the final exit of my mortality
I’ll know the truth
Either way it’s gonna end up with a body
Fatality.
Subconsciously know why I feel
It’s called humanity
What do I know about that damp dark corner entertaining souls I’ve yet to meet?
Going to have to wait for a promising future chance we haven’t dreamt of taking yet.
If I lose all memory
Forget those words
soggy, wet, lost to another realm of the bereft
Lest I forget.
I write to recover.
Be happy or die trying.
Simultaneously a resilient species & inconveniently inept.
Daisy in the willows 