Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

You sent me a text about how I looked on the beach last night, so I stole your eyes and used them to write a poem

Blue moon by the beach,
bottle of cider in your hand.
Blue Hawaii from the little speakers on your expensive phone.
I am at home in how good this all is.
You wore my favourite colour,
and you seemed to shine with the stars,
my heart taking flight, in the most grounded way.
Your skirt spun as you danced, with nobody in particular,
and I wished with all my heart that you’d fall in love with me.

There aren’t often nights like this,
where I can really feel the lovely loneliness of the night,
and though you’re out of my reach,
I can reach for you, with nobody else in my way,
grasping for a dream that will never come true, in peace.

It’s okay if you just want to drink and dance.
It’s okay if it’s only a paper moon.
I painted it blue, for you,
and we can build a life beneath its silvery sheen,
that will last as long as we let it,
if you’d like to.

You think you’re so pretty, don’t you?

Posted in Writing, Blog, Creative Writing

Mean Woman Blues

As sun set,
you carved a love letter on an old oak tree,
and I sat, submerged in the grass with a weary sigh,
my eyes rolling as you presented me with yet another grand romantic gesture.

Don’t you know that I’ve seen it all before?
There is not a path that you can take me down that I haven’t already walked.
I know the end of the book, because I’ve watched it being written,
the ink,
sinking into my skin by the pens of my past paramours.

If we cut down the tree,
we could count up the rings and read her story.
Inside of me,
there are no rings,
just the echoes of gestures and earnest promises,
passion that plateaued, when the fires grew cold,
and the shadow of a smile that tried to survive as long as she could,
gathering the courage to believe, despite her head’s solid advice,
that her heart was not to be listened to.

If you cut me down,
you would find a heart,
broken and barely beating,
swollen at the seams, with all the things she used to believe,
all the pain of being passed over,
scrunched up on the sofa as the night wore on,
wondering why she wasn’t enough to come home to, as her lover prowls the streets and the late night scene for someone more appealing.

You say that I never smile,
but I did, for such a long time,
for so many who couldn’t see it,
so, now I’m “mean”,
now I’m a storm cloud,
and you are out in the open,
just asking for trouble,
knowing that all I do is rain,
but waiting underneath my path, with a smile and a solemn promise to love me,
as if I haven’t heard it all before.

I don’t let you cut me down,
because the truth will ring out,
and your carved initials next to mine will not keep the pain from pouring and pouring like a burst bank.
This is what I must become.
I have been a victim of my lover’s weakness,
so I became wicked.
This is what I have become.
This is what love has done to me.

You say that I never smile,
but I did for such a long time.

I just don’t believe in it anymore.

I got a woman mean as she can be
Sometimes I think she’s almost mean as me

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I’m Still Fond Of You

You still bore me to beautiful, brazen tears,
brown eyes brimming with books that I’ll write,
all about the secrets we slept next to,
eyelids and final words, heavy, still weighing on hearts and minds, years later.

You are boring,
but it isn’t your fault.
I can see you,
trying to control the cosmos as you speak,
panicked, purple veins on your forehead,
stamping all over the youth that used to sleep there.

There are monsters that made a home in your mind,
and I am like catnip to the captive monsters you’ve managed to quieten down.
I can see them jumping and jeering behind your blue eyes as you pause, bite your tongue, anchor your stare on my full, firm lips and drink down as much oxygen as you can accept,
drowning them in defiant silence.

You won’t like anything that I’ve said,
and I’m obnoxiously okay with that.
Sweetness, I was only joking when I said you were my soulmate,
and now I know how your favourite gay (other than me, of course) felt,
when he realised that there were people with real feelings,
who really loved him,
and that people are more than poseable, portable toys.

There are people that really love me,
and I just prop them up in a corner, somewhere shadowed, in the back of my mind,
hoping that they’ll wither and wander towards heaven, like every houseplant I have tried to be a mother to,
but they are fed by something other than water and the sweetness of sunlight,
so they, to my surprise and inconvenience, live,
continuing to love me.

I have monsters too.
I am a slave to them,
that’s how I can see how yours send you sobbing when nobody is looking.
Mine are quite different,
but, much like you, my body is not my own, unless I really struggle,
so I struggle,
as you do,
and I block out every nice, nonsense sentence,
every hopeful, heartbroken glance over a shoulder that has yet to learn not to look back,
and I sing from the trees, like the most ruthless of ravens,
about how boring it all is.

I play that boring, beautiful song to all of my girls,
ever since I met you.

I’m still fond of you.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Just Once, For The Fans

Late nights,
languishing and losing at the endless game we play,
always your girl,
always in the dark about what you think about when our lips lose control,
and love is let down,
one more time, for the fans.

Just one more passionate poem about you,
until the next time I get nostalgic,
one more taste of frantic, fruit salad flavoured forgiveness,
before I go back to swallowing my sins and my pride.

You call me, and I’m captivated,
fascinated by the strength of your sapphire eyes and the soft, strawberry song of your kiss.
This is too much for me,
but I won’t give it up,
because for some deluded, dismal reason,
I still believe in us.

When I think about all the midnight texts,
silent but electric sunsets,
summers apart,
aching for the reunion of my gasping gaze and your surreal smile,
I just have to hold it all to my heart,
just once,
I tell myself,
just once,
once more, for the fans.

I have been the rockstar’s girlfriend,
and the rockstar,
the princess of politicians and the princess of paupers,
a goddess and a ghoul,
daughter of the damned,
and a tearful ingénue,
but for you,
I played my simplest and most sublime role,
the one I miss the most.

Let me play it again,
just once, for the fans.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Her Jazz Singer

She spotted me on cloud nine,
singing jazz to the soft, spring rain,
and snatched me up right away.

Everybody belongs to somebody,
but I was still waiting to be found when she came upon me,
and in an instant,
it felt so right to fall into her arms,
so right to fall at her mercy,
to falter at the first hurdle of holding myself with dignity,
I have searched for a sweetheart for so long,
and suddenly,
there she was.

So, there I was,
spotted, spoiled on cloud nine,
bathing away my bad dreams and singing sweet fantasies to the soft, spring rain,
and growing ever more beautiful, ever more ethereal under her eye.