Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Red, White and Blue Houses

There’s a redhead in a one bed flat,
with a baby that sobs the blues,
his winter coat can’t stand up to the cold,
and the sirens don’t let him sleep at night.

“That’s just life” she tells him,
rocking him for four futile hours,
her eyes never leaving the broken lock on the front door,
as the song of the unsavoury street outside goes on and on.

She used to be the belle of the ball,
but now nobody calls,
no,
it’s just the cries of her son,
and that familiar song of fights from next door,
the beat of drug deals and dead teens in the dark streets.

She is the mistress of minimum wage living,
the freshest flower at the food bank,
still showing up with a little hope,
smiling as she sees her son’s naive joy.
You can’t make much with donated tins but she piles them as high as she can in the kitchen cupboard, as he sits on the sideboard,
and she promises that one day,
she’ll make him a good man.

She dances in the moonlight to that familiar song,
as it comes to visit through the open window,
holding her boy close,
hoping he’ll find his way out of their hometown.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Have Emptied Out All My Anxieties and Presented Them In A Long Ramble, For The Ease Of My Long Suffering Therapist

I miss being bankrupted by my local cinema for a small popcorn and a milkshake. I miss being alone in the dark, as monsters make chaos on the screen before my eyes, while I imagine an arm around my shoulder and a kiss upon my cheek. I miss being kissed. Kissed by him specifically. The way he pulls away when it is over, but pulls me back closer, as if it will never end. It did end, and now I wait, with great impatience for it to begin again.

More and more of them get infected all the time, spreading it around, building it up like the walls of a prison, and it won’t stop. It never stops. I never stop pointing the finger at the public, because the government has guided me in that direction. It’s definitely not government incompetence, the greed of employers who don’t actually need staff in but insist on it anyway, or the failings of a money first, people last society. No. It’s the people who are wrong. It’s the poor, the worker bees, wings flapping around me, arranging in formation like bars. The Health Secretary, who is often wrong, is definitely not wrong about this. There’s no way out, because every time I get close to the door, it moves, slinking away like a snake, and then I can’t breathe, because the walls are so high, and so devoid of light.

I hate this cold and cruel imitation of life. I know it has to happen, I see endless death and sickness in the late afternoon, every day, and I know, but it doesn’t help. Maybe I’m selfish? But so is everyone else, and I still do as I’m told, so maybe it’s okay if I’m selfish, as long as it stays inside my head? It could be worse. I could see more than the statistics. I could see the end of life, in the flesh. The endless endings that haunt hospital corridors, broken staff who do all they can, but still feel so many numbers, that are in fact real, living, breathing humans slip through their hands. It could be worse. I know it could be worse. I am the worst.

I am a selfish girl. I always knew I was, because I always saw the world through my own lens, with my own inner monologue as the omnipotent (and kind of sultry) voice of God. I am locked up, but I am lucky, because I’m not dead and I’m not sick, and I know that currently, everyone I know is fine too, but I’m losing my mind because I’m locked away and I just want to be… somewhere else.

I just want to be someone else, and fuck, I’m scared that telling the truth is a one way ticket to being sectioned, because there’s no in between in this country, when it comes to that kind of thing. It’s okay not to be okay, but if you say you’re not okay, your family can have you locked away, and I’m already locked away, so I’d rather not be put in more padlocks, because of the lack of nuance by the National Health Service. Talk about your mental health! But not too loudly, or some overworked counsellor that it took you months to get an appointment with might get the wrong idea and tell your doctor that you’re in danger, then it’s off to the madhouse with you, because just needing a break makes you mad, these days. Needing to see the sun with somebody special makes you mad these days. Being despondent after a decade of austerity makes you mad these days. Being tired of simply existing makes you mad these days.

Posted in Blog

Marcus Rashford Is Right

We cry for statues,

but not kids in poverty.

Our tears are wasted.

Our tears should drown us.

The world is starved of kindness.

A shameful cyclone.

A shameful cycle.

The poor will always perish,

but statues live well.

I recall hunger,

optimistic and tired,

so do so many.

We worship the stone,

our government’s soul is stone.

Summer is so long.

 

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

Jeremy Corbyn, naked and alone.

The sky is falling,
afraid of heights,
her throat is scorched from screams,
by the time her brains
paint the pavement.
Mother May wants to talk about Jeremy Corbyn,
naked and alone.

The floor has cracked,
and ripped rib from rib,
lungs lick the street,
abandoned by air.
Mother May wants to talk about Jeremy Corbyn,
naked and alone.

The dead have risen,
feasting on the remains,
the anthem ignored,
by humanity munching its mess.
Mother May wants to talk about Jeremy Corbyn,
naked and alone.


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