Not in Norfolk

Paper chains

You held me together.
I am a paper chain of dolls, so delicate.
So frail.
You could tear me up with ease.
You held me together.
I tear up so easily.
So delicate. Not dainty.
(I’m anything but dainty).

You held me together.
Like pins on a dress makers dress,
without them, I’m a mess.
You held me together.
You promised forever.
Forever and a day.
But you left me
and I am not ok.

You held me together.
I’m like a worn old sock on a washing line,
held on tight by a lone wooden peg.
I am not fine.
You held me together.
Im blown about by the wind,
rained on, trampled on in the mud.
This will not come out in the wash.

You held me together.
You never said it would be easy.
You never said it would be so hard.
My heart hurts every single moment
Of every single day.
And I am not ok.

You held me together.
Then took me apart.
Bit by bit, part by part.
Pieces of my heart, my soul, my mind.
You used to hold me together,
but I’ve lost some of my parts,
torn apart and thrown away.

I don’t need you to hold me together.
I just need to be ok.

B side

There are seven B sides and two A sides in this one…

The B side
Side B.
The side you rarely let anyone see.
It's the side they paid for.
Your A side leaves them wanting more.
Don't dull your light.
Don't go and hide 
behind your A side.
You should shine 
in your own right.
In your own light.
So don't hide Half the world away.
Wake up Maggie, I think I got something to say.
God only knows that you're the Sweetest thing,
if you'd just let your B side sing.
Be the Man who sold the world.
Don't put up with Life on Mars
or Fast Cars.
Do it For you.
Good riddance to your Brain stew.

The end

In the end, we all begin.
You, me, them, us.
The door may have closed
and the dark may be heavy,
but the sun will always rise.
I'll write it out.
These thoughts,
these memories.
I'll write it in a letter,
pop it in an envelope
and let the dark 
envelop me.
It'll open, in time.
And those memories will fade.
But I will still be here.
As in the end, we all begin.  

Leave your hat on

There are twelve hats in this one – see if you can find them all!

You fascinate her
up there on top of the world.
A cowboy on his steed.
You bowl her away,
like a pork pie at a banquet
or a homerun at a baseball match.

You fedora.
She makes your thoughts go floppy,
your heart flat line.
You act somber, oh, but inside
your mind wants to trill because of
her hair, her car, her boat, her shoes.  
Everything.  Even her hat. 

String

We are tied together,
you and I and her.
You carry us with you
on your back
in your rucksack
of memories.
Just carrying us around.
Why won't you let us down?
It must get so heavy
dragging us
wherever you go.
Like a prisoner with his ball and chain
or a dog shackled to the garden gate.
Let us go.
We'll still be with you.
But beside you.
Not behind you 
dragging you down
weighing you down
making you frown
watching you drown.
We are strands of the same string.
We smile and laugh at the same things.
Yet you walk this world
as if you were born alone
as if our past were made up
and not your own.
So unpack that rucksack.
Pull at that small strand of string.
You never know what it might bring.

The shadow

Even the darkest night
will end.
And the sun will rise.
The sun will always rise.

There is a shadow.
Where there is light,
there is always dark.
There is a shadow 
that creeps over you.
The shadow that hides
the real you.
The shadow that takes
the whole of you
until you know
who you are no more.
The shadow that eats
you from the inside out.

The clothing you wear
no longer makes any sense.
The make-up you put on
is no longer real.
Everything gets scraped off
scraped back
to the very beginning.

I am Benjamin Button.

I am in a world 
I no longer understand
as I cannot see past this
dark, dark shadow
that has cast over me.

My skin is itching.
It no longer fits.
But how can I explain this to you?
Who can I tell?
Who even gives a ?
Who would understand 
what was happening?
What would they say?
"Look for the light"
they would scream and shout.
But all I see is grey.

Even the darkest night
will end.
There is a shadow.
But the sun will rise.

My bed is my comfort.
I can't even shower.
I torture myself
hour after hour.
I asked for help.
I crossed my fingers.
And tried my hardest
not to listen to those
bullying mean thoughts
that linger.

For, as loud as they shout;
'Nobody likes you,
why aren't you dead?'
They are just thoughts inside my head.

It is just thoughts.
Not me.
Not you.
It is just those thoughts that wish me dead.
These thoughts are not facts.
That, I cannot forget.
They are not the truth.
I am me.

My thoughts are not me.
They try to destruct me
and make me regret.
I am not my
critical, mythical,
analytical voice.

I am separate from that noise.
That white noise.
The noise that makes 
my world so grey.
Knowing I am separate
from that voice
just gives me
so much choice.

I choose what to do now.
How to react.
I feel so much stronger now.
And that is a fact.
A fact.
A reality.
My reality.

Even the darkest night
will end.
But the sun will rise.

I take a small white pill
religiously.
Every single day.
I recognise the signs now,
that things may not
be going my way.  
And I talk a lot now,
something I never used to do.
I explore how I feel
and I use that emotional wheel
to keep me on an even keel.

Because even the darkest night
will end.
And the sun will rise.

I sound like it's easy.
It really is not.
But those days of sunshine
when it is so gloriously hot
and you raise your face 
upwards, onwards, toward
the sky
and at the end of the day
you realise 
that you haven't even
questioned why.
And that makes that day.
A good day.

And those days will get longer,
and that shadow will fall
but eventually you realise
that they were right.
There is light
amongst it all.  

With love

The mind wanders
to all the places that
hurt the most.

I live with your ghost.

It's there when I open my eyes,
when I brush my teeth,
when I go to sleep.

I miss your voice.
No matter how hard I try,
I can't remember it.

If I'd had a choice,
if I had my way,
you'd still be here.

I have the last card
you sent to me.
I imagine you signing it;
'With love.'

For now, you look after us
from above.
In your own way.

The wild web

Your web of wonders
woven wildly across my path.
Your web
of silver thread
woven from the wonders of this world.

At least while you weave your web
you don't have to contend
with paws
playing with
your knitting balls.

Your web is so neat 
it drips jewels from its
head to its feet
like the richest of Queens
from my wildest dreams.

Your net is cast wide
in a sea of flies
watching, waiting,
patiently plotting
where to weave next.

Your web wavers
wonderfully in the wind.

I just wish I'd kept
my mouth closed
when I walked through it.

A dog’s dinner

Please eat your dinner dog.
You sat there and watched me make it,
the least you can do is eat it.
Don't just sit there and stare at it.

Please eat your dinner dog.
You worked so hard today.
First a sleep, then a play.
Then a sleep, then a play.

Please eat your dinner dog.
It's full of meat and lot's of treats,
to keep you going on your feet
and sniffing all those bums you meet.

Please eat your dinner dog.
You normally munch and crunch and chew
and scrunch and chomp your whole way through 
and end up with it all over you.

You make a right dog's dinner of it.

Just one more

I sit 
at my desk.
The space 
is a mess.
Covered in cups 
and screwed up paper.
I'll tidy it later.

I've work to do.
Emails to send, 
meetings to attend,
hours on end.
What should I spend
my hard-earned money on?

I see you
ladder on shoulder,
even as you got older.
"Just one more window,"
you told her.

You'd walk miles each day
for such little pay.
You'd carry us with you 
on your collection day.
In your big strong arms,
I'd feel so safe.

And now, you are gone.
And those windows are grey,
and I attend those empty meetings
and send empty emails
and your bucket sits empty
and your ladder leans against the wall.

I sit
at my desk.
The space 
is a mess.
Covered in cups
and screwed up paper.
I'll tidy it later.

Trick or treat

Look, it is night.
The doorsteps light up
with faces
carved from childs
imaginations.

Look, it is night.
The rain drives me home.
Car lights blinding car drivers
until I reach the safety of my
own dark door.

Look, it is night.
The stars twinkle
from the safety of 
their blanket in the sky.
There are no faces here
inviting you in.

Look, it is night.
I hide in the shadows
praying that the 
knock on my door
will never come.

Listen, it is night.
I should be in bed.
You DEFINITELY should be in bed
and I'd appreciate it if you
didn't trick or treat here.

Puddles and dreams

Why did you leave me?
Where did you go?
Your heart stopped beating,
in mine you left a hole.

Cars fly past me,
faces smear.
The world keeps turning.
But you're not here.

I see you in windows,
in puddles and dreams,
in photos and memories,
everywhere it seems.

I feel you beside me,
spurring me on,
keeping me going,
keeping me strong.

I wish I could feel you,
just one last time.
Your voice may be forgotten,
but your love is always mine.

Oh rats!

I am the rat of the sky.
I feed from your forgotten food
strewn across the pavement.d
I gorge on your chips
and peck threateningly at your feet.
I glide across the sky
happily cooing at my 
fellow flying 
feral friends.
I swoop and I swirl,
I twist and I twirl,
I fly as high as I can.
I stop sharp in the sky.
My fellow flying rats wonder why?
But quick! I must go!
I swoop down low.
Aha! There's my target!
Innocently walking her dogs round her garden.

The Ship

Come on board!
You're in for a bumpy ride.
This ship will guide you 
through the weather of life.
The waves may crash 
and the rain may fall
but this ship stays strong
amongst it all.
You stand strong
in a sea of smiling faces.
This vessel guiding you,
taking you places,
you never would have been,
and if it weren't for this weather,
you'd never get better.
But you got on board.
You took that step.
It's not smooth sailing from here.

Poetry Poem

I was told to write a poem
in my poetry workshop.
We had ten minutes to write it,
and then we had to stop.

We were given an idea,
something to write about.
But we had to write it quickly
in the time that we were allowed.

I picked up my pen and paper
and stared at it for an age.
I was never going to do it.
I was never going to fill this page.

My palms started sweating,
my heart began to race.
I wish poetry was easy.
I wish I could write like William Yeats.

Our task for the workshop 
was to write about poetry
and write about writing a poem
in ten minutes supposedly.

I was going to write about words
and the form that words can take
but it felt like it was too forced,
it felt a little too fake.

So, I just put pen to paper
to see what would come out.
It could be called a poem I suppose,
but I do still have my doubts.

My Love Song

My love song should be full of
quick glances and stolen kisses
and strong arms and Mr and Mrs
NOT whatever kind of hell this is!

Who squeezes the toothpaste from the middle?
I'm TRYING to keep things civil.

Instead, my love song is full of
pants on the floor
toilet seats left up
a deep rumbling snore
that will ALWAYS wake you up.

Opened post
you seem to forget
burnt toast,
a whole load of upset.

Doors left open,
mud everywhere,
but under it all
is a bucket full of care,
a spade full of lovers,
memories and fun,
fights over the covers,
and you. The one.