Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, politics, Writing

Black Girls In The White House

Back seat of the car,

I had almost forgotten that history was underway,

parked up by Asda,

thinking about strawberry laces,

while a race came to an end,

a race that was tied up in race,.

Breaking news on every station.

Hope had won!

That’s what they said anyway.

My grandad had it on the radio,

a calm voice,

that sounded like it wanted to shout,

but was restrained,

just as it had been trained.

Hope had won,

and I didn’t realise that I cared before,

but my grandad turned to the back seat,

where I was waiting for my compass to guide me.

My compass smiled,

said that a man just like me had won,

that hope had won,

that warring sides had found some peace,

found themselves in a man who had the best of both of them.

I smiled too,

on a path to understanding,

on a clear path,

where roses grew of all colours,

free and friendly,

stems embracing as I walked by.

The world was a rainbow,

the war was over,

a black and white man had won the White House,

and a black and white girl had heard about it,

from thousands of miles away,

and she felt so accomplished,

so ready to accomplish.

Of course,

that wasn’t the end of the story.

It never is,

never could be.

The roses died,

the path twisted and turned,

lights went out,

wars found a second wind,

and the rainbows faded.

My compass tried to guide me,

but I stopped believing,

wandering aimlessly,

trying to find that moment again,

when I felt like people would understand me,

even accept me,

and the world would be less hectic,

but it never came.

The story continues.

Today,

there are more girls like me,

seeing confetti fall down on a black Vice President,

a female black Vice President,

fought for by black women,

the leaders,

who are never listened to,

and we have another chance,

to let roses grow,

along clear paths,

for black girls to walk towards beautiful,

powerful images of themselves.

Let those girls see the confetti,

hide their excited eyes from the death threats that fall among it,

let them see the confetti,

and know that a path exists for them too.

Let them see the confetti,

don’t let them see the way the world tries to devour and destroy them,

just for tonight,

let them see the confetti,

let them see themselves at that desk.

Black girls in the White House.

Posted in Blog

Postcards From The Calais Jungle

A choice between dictatorship or destitution,

was never really a choice,

just a cycle,

that catches hold of you,

unfolds until it covers the ground,

swelling into the sky,

swarming your soul.

You know there’s nothing left behind you,

no real peace on the path you follow,

but you walk anyway.

Death,

your constant companion,

that takes many forms on your journey,

looming threateningly as you leave,

on the faded face of the city that will always have your heart.

Death kneels beside the shattered segments of your heart,

cruel smirk,

as she keeps your sister for herself.

She keeps you awake at night,

asking what you could have done differently?

Who you could have saved?

Why couldn’t it be you instead?

Why did this have to happen to you?

You start to wonder,

if you can answer any of those questions,

and if death deserves the answers,

because whether she is sent by the men who stormed your serenity,

or the guards,

and their gas canisters,

that will meet you soon,

you start to feel like death would never be satisfied,

with any explanation.

(Death is possibly a regular reader of the Daily Mail…)

Death stalks you,

in the streets of Calais,

beckoning in the dark,

with bright red eyes,

under a truck,

telling you to take a risk,

and maybe you will,

only to be met with suspicion,

where sympathy should be,

because people who wear contact lenses,

made from tabloids,

cannot see the way that death trails you,

tormenting you.

Or maybe you will join death,

and she will steal you for herself this time.

Tomorrow’s headlines,

a collection of “God, what a tragedy, but don’t expect me to take any responsibility.”

from every alleged leader in the Palace of Westminster.

Maybe you won’t kneel beneath the roaring engine,

returning to your tent,

to contemplate the road,

and what waits,

across the way,

death edging closer to your face,

scarlet eyes,

staring.

Starving,

scarlet stares.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, politics, Writing

Naughty Tory

He said he was a bad husband,

but not a bad man,

not a criminal.

He says the case has been dropped.

He is a disgusting, slobbery mess.

He says it’s a misunderstanding.

He is chanting like a school yard maniac.

He says he’s a good man.

He had his face on her face.

He says he’s a victim.

He is a liar.

He sits in a palace,

full of bad husbands,

delusional dinner partners,

good men,

who’ve just had bad luck.

Broken girls,

who are all allegedly scheming,

to say those same bad words,

those shameful verses.

I said no.

I tried to run.

He chased me.

He hurt me.

He said he was a bad husband.

He was telling the truth.

He said he wasn’t a bad man.

He lied.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The United Kingdom Of Great Struggle and Northern Suffering

I live in a rich nation.

Four glittering goldmines,

held together by the honey,

of busy, obedient bees,

who are fed by applause,

and emoji filled tweets,

that work to the soundtrack,

of a suited somebody,

in a chaotic chamber,

who reminds them that they are rich.

img_9211

I live in a prosperous place.

Proud.

Great.

United.

I do not remember a time,

when I could walk down the street,

without seeing struggling shops,

hungry, homeless souls,

among the busy, blind bees,

who snitch on their neighbours,

for not clapping,

for taking too many walks,

for spending what little they have

on the wrong type of comfort.

img_9213

I live in a wealthy realm.

Errol Graham starved to death.

The safety net slips away,

again,

and the people are strangled with it,

by a tsunami of suited somebodies,

who repeat,

as we recoil,

that we are rich.

We are rich.

We are rich.

A death rattle of a starving, screaming kingdom,

that will never see the safety of palace walls,

and Downing Street apartments.

img_9214

I live in a rich nation,

where people die for being poor.

 

 

 

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Blinded By The Light

I used to dream about the sea,

waiting for the waves to wash my days away,

but I’m too tired to dream,

I close my eyes,

and there is nothing.

They say I’m bleak,

as if the world hasn’t grown slower,

and lost its colour,

as I grew taller.

Maybe I’ve been bleak,

for so long,

that it has grown on me,

like moss and weeds,

a terror attack here,

an anxiety attack there,

the economy and I,

are apathetic,

crumbling,

climbing from the depths,

then crumbling back down again.

I can’t even picture a house anymore,

there used to be babies,

but now they are cats,

in a house,

that shrunk down to a flat,

and I’m still not sure,

if my hopes are low enough,

to avoid being decapitated,

by the rages of reality.

Tonty Blair,

put a dream in my head,

with his vaccines,

and funded schools,

but sometimes,

dreams get delayed,

and sometimes,

they get murdered.

I used to dream about the sea,

waiting to wake up without wanting to run away,

but I never quite got there,

pacing empty, echoing pavements.

I want to be one of those kids,

who found their way out of Thatcher’s Britain,

with a playlist,

that brought the streets back to life.

I want to hear a way out,

a way to escape,

but it always evades me,

because life isn’t a movie,

(I know, I know),

and it just goes on,

unsatisfying and terrifying as it always was.

Thatcher’s dead,

still haunting the country she said she loved,

my bootstraps have told me to fuck off,

and let them sleep,

but all we have is each other,

and life isn’t a movie,

or a Springsteen song,

it’s just a thing that happens,

when two people meet,

lose control,

and then expect the result to survive.

I’m not trying to sound ungrateful,

sometimes,

I enjoy being alive,

but sometimes,

it feels like a burden I don’t deserve,

and it’s hard to articulate that,

without being sectioned.

I suppose I survived,

so far,

so what?

It’s just dumb luck,

and I’m a dumb girl,

who’s been on an endless ghost train.

Life isn’t a movie,

it’s not a Springsteen song,

it’s a haunted house,

full of a hunted generation,

that knows nothing but being overwhelmed,

on a constant basis,

as wars break out,

as often as our skin used to,

and our future funds tanks and missiles.

I miss when I didn’t know about the news.

I miss when life did feel like a movie,

or a song,

by anyone.

I miss when my only worry,

was if I’d ever kiss a boy,

and why I wanted to kiss girls too.

I miss when I could say tomorrow would be better,

without the sound of bitter,

jaded laughter,

in the back of my mind,

that refuses to believe.

I can’t press pause,

and take a breath,

I can only take it as it comes,

and try not to romanticise death,

because I have to be here for a reason,

I just don’t know what it is.

Nothing happens, just because.

I didn’t happen, just because.