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.