Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Bread

Breadcrumbs were seated behind us,

in the car,

as my eyes followed you,

following the sat nav,

and avoiding my eyelashes,

that were loudly shouting

“Look at me,

so that I know

that you love me.”

We scaled the sky,

breadcrumbs,

closing their eyes,

afraid of heights,

and I thought of how I’d miss the sight

of you cleaning your car,

when I was gone,

far from you,

the mountains,

the bread I bought but never intended to eat,

the way you asked if I was frightened,

by the reckless way you drove,

the way I found myself,

sitting on the lap of fear,

but denying its presence,

because you were present.

I miss you,

like your car probably misses the nice man at the car wash,

who takes good care of her,

and smiles as he holds her in his arms,

wiping away the stresses of the world.

I don’t know why I’m fixating on the bread.

I watched you take a bite,
the next morning,

as I wrote poetry,

about the way you’d held me the night before.

You astounded me,

and even though you were by my side,

my body burned for you,

not just with desire,

but a desperate,

pleading,

needy kind of ache.

“Look at me,

so that I know

that you love me.”

You kissed me,

instead,

and my lips told my mind,

that sometimes,

a man can look,

with more than one of his senses.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Concerned Whispers and Online Rumours

I think you knew it couldn’t last.

Eventually,

I’d self immolate.

Immortal,

in your favourite dress,

your favourite girl,

self destructing,

for everyone to see,

gently taking the whole world with me,

dancing myself to death,

to a song I wrote,

from concerned whispers,

and online rumours.

img_7875

I was born dead,

appearing,

and then disappearing at will,

my brown eyes,

always overflowing with fucking feeling,

and I tried to tell you,

again and again,

as loud as a person can,

until my throat was sore,

and my pen was out of ink,

that I was nothing but trouble,

dancing in the street,

with strangers,

to a song I wrote,

from concerned whispers,

and online rumours.

img_7877

They say I was born mad.

Can you hear it my love?

It’s so beautiful.

They say my lips aren’t real.

Sing along,

if you can bring yourself to pretend,

for my sake,

that you’re into the lo-fi bedroom pop,

(he’s not…

I’m not mad about it.

I’m not)

I pour onto my label’s table,

to tell them,

that I’m not over being into you.

They say I love you just a little too much.

How much is too much?

img_7878

I am on fire.

I am immortal.

My accountant is crying,

but my audience is growing,

and the sun stays up too late,

to see how it ends.

There is a mad girl,

who was born dead,

dancing in the street,

because it was only a matter of time,

before she came to life

and let her heart get out of control.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Gemini

You went mad,

because you thought I didn’t find you funny,

and you had spent every day,

before you found me,

thinking that was all you were.

It’s not that I am resigned to remaining miserable,

no,

that’s not it at all,

and I do,

on occasion,

find you amazing,

amusing,

downright confusing,

delightful,

insightful,

interesting,

and bemusing.

You are a snowstorm of sentimentality,

that swirls all around me.

I reach up,

gripping on to each new aspect of you,

that I discover,

until I am snowed under,

melting and freezing all together,

a sun tanned slushy,

trying to sum up,

all the ways I want you.

So,

don’t think,

that I don’t laugh,

sometimes,

it just has to be internal,

because I am just overwhelmed,

by the eternal ways,

you find to surprise me,

by bringing a new kind of joy to my day,

every time I see you.


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