I wrote this in response to this prompt I found on reddit, and thought I would share it with all of you.
I hope you enjoy what I’ve written, and if you wanted to try it out, head on over and see what you can come up with!
Two Girls Walk Into A Bar
I am echoed,
she is served first,
sips and strikes up something.
We have Cádiz in common,
but not exploration.
I’ve returned weary,
my eyes benching baggage,
nightcap and nap are miles away,
because she talks,
and she talks,
and she talks.
I am talking to myself.
chained to the conversation,
dragged on the back of a verbal moped.
I’ve always heard I talk too much,
I hear it on delay,
long after I am done talking,
she suffers the same affliction.
We share a scar,
back of the neck,
please don’t ask further.
I have more,
from wilderness wandering,
and her left ring finger is decorated,
with the one treasure I never found.
I came here to pick up shells,
yet I’ve picked up a man.
He stares until I’m shy,
and laughs until I love.
Lust, it must be lust.
I cannot list a single thing
beyond his body,
that I cannot live without.
This could be the end of my resistance,
and the start of realisation.
It could easily be everything.
It could well be wishful thinking.
I walk away,
a channel to him
on top of my wrist’s Chanel,
simply saying “I hope you’ll call.”
He thinks he’s so old fashioned,
but those eyes are brand new.
I don’t want this to exist,
essential and engrossing.
It’s gross how caught up I am,
thinking like Juliet.
Poison propelled by blade,
with no priest to blame.
I’ve promised myself a passion free period of time,
nights of collecting sleep and shells,
and yet, if we never met again,
I’d raise the tide with my tears.
Graves and hearts will be empty,
as they keep our corpses to hide behind.
They decorate with dishonesty
and plant pain in purity.
It never changes.
You arrive home,
dinner and discussion.
Your luxury is living,
untouched by untrust.
You have trust in those,
who vandalise the virtue,
of a world you pretend is equal.
It is always nothing to do with you,
especially because you insist on that.
Another stitch in the “All Lives Matter!” blanket,
which only covers those
who wish to cover their eyes.
There is no innocence in ignoring,
and no absolving in abstaining.
Some would say I’m a bit set in my ways. It wouldn’t be an unfair criticism. I tend to go to the same places, wear the same products, eat the same things, and generally just keep a routine. This is all fine, I suppose, my adventures are normally in my writing. I send my characters into wild situations, because I simply don’t have it in me to deviate from my usual carousel, but recently, I decided to jump off the usual painted horse, and see what else the fairground of life had to offer.
I have a blog, I’m interested in other blogs, so I thought heading out to a blogging event would be a great way to see what else is out there, and so off I went to London, to attend the Blogger’s Ball.
The Blogger’s Ball was an event organised by Scarlett, who has an absolutely beautiful blog that I’m sure you’ll love, and centred around giving Bloggers and vloggers the chance to interact with each other as well as with brands.
I was nervous, then again, I always am, but I was determined to put myself out there and try something new, and it turns out, I tried a lot of new things, and contrary to my initial worries, it was fine. I have always disliked trying new things, because I worry that I won’t like it, and that for a time, as short as it may be, I will be stuck with that choice. If I try a new food and hate it, it’s stuck in my mouth until I deal with that, if I try a new outfit, I might not have time to change into something else, if I watch a new show, I might hate it but feel obliged to finish it because it keeps showing up in my “continue watching” list on Netflix. These are all ridiculous fears, because they aren’t that big of a deal, but they exist, and they wander round my head on a constant basis.
The Bloggers Ball for me was an afternoon of new experiences, and one I’m glad I was a part of. Meeting people who were passionate about the same things, and had faced some of the same difficulties as me was enlightening, and comforting. Sometimes, I feel like I’m just typing to myself, and it can feel lonely, to be collecting so many thoughts in a space to show to a world that might not even want to see, but meeting other people who had thought exactly the same made me realise that a) I wasn’t alone in that, b) More people are probably listening than I realise c) whether people are or aren’t listening, it doesn’t matter, it just matters that you have fun.
I also learned that lavender chocolate was a thing. I have to be real, lavender is my thing. I love the smell of lavender, I love how it looks, I love the colour. You would not believe how much lavender related merchandise I have. If you could be a stan of a plant, I would be a lavender stan. It was at the booth for Seed and Bean chocolate, who have basically done a public service by creating guilt free chocolate, that I discovered lavender chocolate. What you need to know is that lavender chocolate is delicious. How do I know this? Well, I tried some. Now, this may seem like nothing to many, but to me, it is a huge deal. I don’t do new food. I don’t really do new anything, as I’ve spoken about previously. However, I love lavender, and I’m fond of chocolate too, so I decided, on a day where I had promised to try something new, to try lavender chocolate. I made a good choice, a great choice even. It wasn’t overpowering, which I’d been expecting, but subtle and unique, and honestly, I feel like it was a metaphor for the day as a whole. There are things that I love, that if I took a little further, I could love even more, I just have to try and overcome that fear of taking the first step (or bite) and just get stuck into life.
The bloggers ball was a glittering image of all I could be, in my brave new world, and what I could have missed out on, had I kept to the smooth and steady path of my routine. To see so many people reaching for their goals and making things happen for themselves was awesome, and it inspired me to do the exact same. I’m going to try new things (definitely more lavender chocolate) and just see what happens!
Unrelated, but hopefully welcome, below are some new poems 🙂
You fell asleep as I fell in love,
and I loved the longing,
obsessed with obsessing
over each luscious line,
across your forehead,
and out your mouth.
I knew your tales were as tall as your frame,
your humour as blue as your dangerous eyes,
your intentions as pure as a puddle of mud,
and your feelings for me were fickle, perhaps.
I still stayed,
just in case I was wrong,
on your lap,
an obedient optimist,
without the strength,
to be anything but yours.
Regret burns as it trickles down my throat,
chased by the chasers and shot by shots,
nothing will let me forget.
I can’t see what I’ve done,
through a curtain of crying,
and an image of myself,
that I assure myself I’ve yet to lose.
If I were to admit to my affliction,
and under the drunken distraction,
I already have,
but if truth were to dive into denial,
and swim past my defences,
my heart would break,
as easily as yours did.
El Hombre Y Su Flor
I prayed for rain,
when I didn’t trust myself
to grasp what I needed.
and it’s in your nature
to keep my head to the sun,
and my ego fed, and ever growing.
infecting every inch of earth we found,
when I thought
I had burrowed beneath myself,
far from the beaks of birds,
and the might of man,
you nurtured a near dead heart,
until I flourished.
Floral, fanciful and free.
Undressed of my old life,
at the mercy of future’s fashion.
on a travelling cloud towards clarity,
until I found myself at the front of the line,
heading for the unforgiving uncertainty.
Perhaps there is a door,
now I’m dressed up, nice and new,
and I will find a handle,
and get a handle on what happens next.
God and good times
live in every inch of you.
It never clashed,
because you were born to be loved,
and to step two three, step two three
and enchant the bad boys at the bar.
Dancing turns to diamonds,
when every man on the island
is under your spell,
but your focus is familia,
and your face is so familiar,
at the chapel and the clubs.
The darling of the dancehall,
and the honey of the heavens,
you’ll party until life turns up the lights
and you’re played out to paradise.
Brexit Stage Right
There is no dainty divorce,
no hands held under the table
as the ink dries,
and the leftovers are torn to shreds,
so each who is “right” gets a piece.
Dress up your disdain,
for those you’ll leave behind,
for a few more years
of way back when,
and political correctness gone “sane”.
Yet, your “sanity” is frivolous,
and logicless and limitless.
an innocent R was unrolled
as it arrived at your door,
in an effort to please you,
but it was met with your own.
Your R is less lax,
frightening and frightened,
of the unknown,
and the uncharted.
Take it back,
was the plan for the never been taken,
while the never yet lived,
will never get to live.
Where Does Love Live?
pistol whipped by passion,
less is more
until the door closes,
and the world is not witness
to the the damnation
of desperate love.
at the thought of each other,
at the thought of another.
Where do we rest us,
our messy, maddening moments?
In our thoughts,
outside the door,
and in our bodies,
when in private.
we’ve been to all three Charing stations,
each marked with kisses on the map.
Searching for sanctuary
outside knowing looks,
and incriminating emails.
Remembers our rhythm,
or lack thereof in his case.
Foundations of fondness,
insulated by innuendo.
but never vintage enough for the season.
Such a young boy,
was my old boy,
too young for my old heart,
but old enough to know he can’t fix it.
For you, I will.
I’ll never ask it of you,
until you ask it of me.
I’ve thought, of course,
narrowed down the narratives,
as I pinned you down,
wrote us down.
I’ll give you a happy ending,
even though I’m not the touching type,
I might never get you,
but as long as I have you,
I’m not sure I need the instructions,
the destructions could be waiting within,
and I’m better not knowing,
the damage I could do.
For you, I will.
Quite what, I’m not sure,
yet if you ask it of me,
for you, I will.
Not Quite Twins
Each pinnacle reached,
by dismembering my memories,
and crushing new culture where it doesn’t want to fit.
I gaze at each gift
from those who came before me,
that adorns a face I have wished away,
in daily betrayals of who I am.
Butchered the beauty unrecognised,
and painted myself untrue for the world.
This is becoming a speech,
also wished into new form,
until I forget the self I was born with.
She has vanished,
elusive and annoyed,
until I dream.
At night, she uncloaks,
unveils personal truth,
that covers my cunning contour,
unassimilated and unassuming,
she is the purest love I have ever known.
Hola amigos reflexivos,
I hope you’ve all been well. I’ve got some new poetry below which you can check out.
I’ve also been working on some short stories, which aren’t quite finished yet, but are coming along quite nicely. I was inspired after reading the work of my friend that gave me a deeper appreciation of the short story.
Don’t get me wrong, I was always into them, but I’ve never really written them, and so it was fun to delve further into a medium I didn’t often explore. I’ll hopefully post them soon. Of course, they’re romantic (this is me), but there’s a little difference that I’m hoping makes them exciting.
I had a great time working with new characters and scenarios, and it was a great writing experience to do something a little different, so hopefully you’ll enjoy them.
You Get Less For Murder
I’ve tried digging the nails you helped me paint,
under your glowing ground floor to dig deeper.
I wanted to pick parts of my idealism away,
in the hopes that I could plan an escape.
I broke a nail.
Your lips launched on the stinging sensation,
until my frightened finger was calm,
and only shook because it was shy.
I’m getting used to the idea,
like I became used to the in-out-in-out night time respiratory adventures,
and the face you try not to make when I tell you I’m willing to cook.
I count both, the breaths, the culinary reluctance.
Both polite, both pushing my heart to keep up the good work.
I see your stomach ache face in milk sans soy,
and your name is spelled, subtle in the presumptuous playlist we made.
I know, I’ll love you forever.
I just hope you can love me too.
Comparing And Crediting
Even though your eyes
have nothing in common
with the pollution and pain of the ocean,
I see them in wanderlust waves,
dancing to the dunes
and lapping at my legs.
You have no connection
to my compulsion to breathe,
no matter what I’ve told you.
Sometimes I feel it’s me doing you a favour,
but I’d honestly be doing it anyway.
I’ll still let you take the credit,
for the air arranges neatly in my lungs,
no longer pushing and shoving,
since I first breathed for you.
I could easily pick the sun
from a line up that included your smile,
but as bright and beautiful as all things are,
I’d only pick the sun to escape
the gracious glare of your glorious grimace.
The Incarceration Of Mimi
Everyone loves a sing song,
you have them every night in sing sing.
Pad the planks of your prison palace,
butterflies break from the boundaries,
and your eyes plead,
when your lips can’t,
for them to return for you someday.
The grotesque glamour of the diamond dragon,
tail trapping a princess,
in a kingdom she couldn’t explore.
Perhaps, all that glitters is your spirit,
still shining, and still standing,
under more strain than your smile will show.
The stars are shippers,
kept young by the scenes we play out,
and the dreams we send up,
and the arrogant apprehension of our affection.
We know we have an audience,
and we play like Kardashians,
the cosmos slipping off their seats,
while we cut to a commercial.
Let me imagine,
that my path is more,
than a million alarms,
a million commutes,
a million missed moments,
lost to traffic jams and unpaid overtime.
Let me be more than a widow
to my dreams,
by the death knell of kneeling to reality.
I’m not ready to weep
for the wishes on wasted, defeated stars,
or to blow out the candles on every ambition,
carefully constructed with optimistic oxygen on fantasy flames.
They told me to dream in dollars,
but the American Dream, is unavailable in my country,
or in the country of origin,
Exchange my investment at the post office,
and head back home.
Coppers smash through the windscreen,
of a car I’ll never afford,
on the road to a house I’ll never own,
in a tepid town,
that doesn’t open up to “my sort”.
Won’t you give me one more moment,
to pretend something could change.
Let me get my fix,
of the aspiration I’m addicted to.
Scrubbing, Spritzing and Holding
She can scrub my lipstick from your collar,
nude stained when nude,
vanished by vanish.
God damn it, she tries.
She can spritz my perfume from your coats,
the virtue of vanilla never appealed to you,
in scent or in sex,
but god damn it, she tries.
She can hold you hostage in your home,
hold you to your vows.
More than my lips and candy bling are stained on your soul,
but god damn it, she’ll try.
I wait, painted and perfumed,
for the cautious, callous call.
I start scrubbing and spritzing too,
holding myself hostage,
but in my heart,
I know it’s been too late, for too long,
and God damn it, I’ve tried.
You were sweet as cotton candy,
so they pulled and picked,
until your stick,
fell to the fame,
and those very same consumers,
threw up an ending,
that Hollywood would never approve.
with low morals,
and an even lower neckline
spread rumours all about town.
She said that we’ve had every single man,
in every single place,
and every single hole,
in every single way.
We? I ask you.
I wish she had invited me along,
I could have done with a change of schedule,
from Netflix binges
and self pity.
In His Life
I’m no McCartney,
but he had Lennon looks.
Yellow couch with all our secrets,
made redundant by a room full of news.
We deviated from the map we sketched,
ran past the landlord,
changed the locks on ourselves.
Bloody brother and sister,
not born by bone,
glued by a tempestuous tenancy,
and game nights.
I type your name
on my tongue every chance I get.
I’ve slammed the backspace key
so many times that it has stopped working,
leaving no choice but to download you,
and cry, consumed by your virus.
If you were to say that I wasn’t your file type,
or that I didn’t fit in your drive,
or that you couldn’t spare the run time
then I could delete every devoted daydream,
send myself to sleep mode,
you leave me warm and whirring.
Nothing But Longing
His eyes firmly on the camera,
glazed and distant,
as his patrons preferred.
He felt a sensation that he called tiredness,
but today, he couldn’t pretend
that it was anything less than apathy.
He went through the motions,
fingers down his chest,
fingers through his hair,
fingers on his unmentionables,
but despite his fingers,
and those of others exploring his body,
he felt nothing but longing.
He couldn’t wish for an ending,
so that he could go home,
because there was no home to go to,
and nothing to do when he arrived there. There was an apartment,
respectable in size,
and tacky in décor
according to his own inner monologue,
and the criticisms of occasional hook ups,
but it wasn’t a home.
It wouldn’t be again,
until his little bird,
returned to the nest.
You, Or Nobody
You were contained fire.
Light and warmth, without destruction.
You cooked the raw ingredients of my making,
without burning the flavour I thought I had lost.
Before you, I had heat everywhere but my heart,
I thought of thawing, but it wasn’t who I was,
or who I told myself I was,
to keep what lay underneath safe,
from hungry hands under the table.
it was you,
That was the exact request of the recipe,
no stand ins,
or nothing rises,
and nothing shall be devoured.
I am charred, and tasteless.
Our flavour has lingered on my lips too long,
that I crave you more with every second.