A Fucked Up Mess (1/9/14)

This is kinda old but I figured I’d post it anyway.

You have no shirt. You smell like morning
Sweat and soap and fabric softener
Sweetest smell I’ve ever known.
You wipe the food from your mouth, and I
Wonder what your lips would feel like against my thigh.
I want you to go on holding me
In that way that only you can do
Only you can make me feel
Like I’m not broken any more.
I watch your eyes as I hide secrets behind mine
Do you ever think about what we could be?
I crave your touch at 3AM
And wonder if you’d do it if I asked.
We are fucked up, fucking up,
Fucking in this mess I dreamt up.

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Creative Writing Response to an Image (30/11/2011)

Sadly I have lost the original image that I was given for this piece, but it was very simple – a medieval painting of a group of men sitting around a table with various books and manuscripts in front of them. They looked to be discussing something.
This piece was written as part of my application to Royal Holloway University for a Creative Writing degree – they must have liked it, because I was offered a place, though I ultimately decided not to go there.

“This book, it is complete and utter tripe,”
Said the first, a well-learnéd man of wealth.
“Guidelines on how to live a moral life.
My mind is already in perfect health.”

“You misunderstand the author’s intent,”
His companion, the second rich man, said.
“He means that with our possessions we must be content.
For we only have them so long before we are dead.”

”You’re both wrong,” The third, a scientist, broke
“He shows us that objects have no value
To the living or the dead, any mortal folk
To him, not even him, or me, or you.”

“May I suggest,” said the fourth, so slowly,
“That it symbolises God’s Kingdom come?”
“You may not,” the fifth, the merchant, told him.
“Your claim is irrelevant, you are wrong.”

Then the servant, who had come to assist,
Looked at the page with a sudden idea.
“Excuse me.” He held up the manuscript
“But does it not show the recipe for beer?”

Untitled Fairytale (19/10/2010)

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.

Pinky Finger (18/10/2010)

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.
Silence.
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.