This poem is recent. Someone commented on how much they liked it when I shared it with others, so here we go.
She could leave her house and go to him
But she won’t.
He could call her up and say he’s sorry and make her smile down the phone
But he won’t.
Pride will eat you alive, once it’s held you back for long enough.
She knows all the borders of the land of sense
She wouldn’t even dare trespass onto stark-raving-lunatic territory.
He won’t ever climb down the rungs of this ladder
Down to humility.
There’s a shadow holding them back and it grips them tight
They’ll drown in it
Despite the air of freedom all around them.
They could do anything they wanted
They could kill that shadow
But why should they?
Pride gnaws away at his heart and at hers when she sees him pass by
Trade’s forbidden, a word is illegal to exchange
Shut off from each other
Infected with pride
This wall isn’t coming down despite the revolutions that take place in her brain at night
And the uprisings that brew in his.
Pride crushes those revolutionaries of love and humility
Sends them packing with sore behinds
And sits on its wall that it built between the two
Between him and her
And that’s first class building work.
This poem was also written when I was 16, but I cannot remember the context in which I wrote it. It is short and unfinished.
Beauty ran from the Beast, and I ran from you.
Ending the story on a high note.
Might have looked like I was scared.
I think that you got the wrong end of the stick.
Never believe what you do not know
Ever afters never come true.
Failed in life and love again.
Only the stars know what happened.
Random balls of burning fire
End their life with a bang.
Very well, I think that I will
End my life without a sound
Running, running, away from you.
This poem was from a file created in 2010, and is about one of my close friends. I was 16.
They told me to let you go.
Will I? Can I?
I don’t want to want you
The same name as he with whom I shared my first
I won’t forget.
Bang on the arm, see you later.
Two hours travelling alone in the dark.
Rain trickles down into my hair.
I miss your smile, your deadpan snark.
Finger the paper inside my Chinese denim
A heart on the label, my heart on my sleeve.
Pull the zip between my fingers
The bracelet with the silver rings.
Black pen across your money, it’s mine.
Took it from you at seven thirty.
I’ll keep it here with the paper memories
And the photo behind my eyes.
I’m a little scared of losing you
Scared of doing what I’ll need to do
I’m sure that if I hold on long enough
I’ll stop wanting to try
I’ll disappear completely
Like the pink varnish on your pinky finger.
While clearing out my old computer, I found a number of poems and pieces of writing that I had never shown anybody. Some of them are old. Some of them are very new. Some of them aren’t even finished.
As an English student, reading and writing has always been a big part of my life. I’ve been massively uninspired lately, and my novel-in-the-works is nearing its fifth year of being incomplete. I am currently on my fifth draft (or attempted draft that spans more than fifty pages) and I am still making changes. I can’t bring myself to even look at old versions of it.
So here lies the solution to my writer’s block: rather than forcing myself to push on and ultimately run into a proverbial wall with my novel, I am putting more effort into my ‘writing on the side’. I have a lot of inspiration right now that can’t be channelled into my book, as it wants to pour out and be raw and free and unhidden by changed names or events.
So this is it.