I tripped over a chair yesterday.
I stubbed my toe the day before.
I head butted the cupboard about five minutes ago.
I’ve broken all my fingers
(I don’t even remember how I did that.)
I hammered my thumb like a rite of passage.
I choked on a sweet aged five.
I nearly drowned in the bath at one point.
I yelled at my mother once.
That is the only time I ever feared for my life!
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 2:29 PM UTC
It is only when you realise,
As you sit in the far corner of the room,
that they are all so far away from you.
So
Distant.
Laughing amongst themselves
In a joke you clearly don’t understand.
Alienated from the throws of conversation
And the formalities of friendship.
You daren’t say a word for the silence that will follow.
A dragging
Periodic
Calculating
Silence.
So you sit, content with your space
In need of something you cannot categorise.
They’re all just
So
Distant.
If the physical space weren’t enough,
Your individuality will seal the deal.
So
Distant.
Nov 9, 2010
Nov 9, 2010 at 2:18 PM UTC
Filled, for no reason,
with hate and anger,
and the only way,
the only way to let it go is through
these god **** tears that keep
falling as though there is
nothing on this dammed Earth that
can stop them and you just keep
thinking this is stupid, you have
no reason to cry or be angry and
feel like your nothing because you
are something, you honest to god
have every right to exist even if
you don't agree with it right now so
how about you ignore yourself, just
let things go like these irregular
lines and **** like that, it really
doesn't matter all that much at least that's
what you should be telling yourself instead
of writing a **** poem which means nothing
to anyone else but yourself but I guess
in a sense that is poetry to some and to others
this is just a rant and they can say
'fuck off.'
Aug 25, 2010
Aug 25, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
Dizzy luvs Lauren
woz ere 2001
This is a pile of –
Who sits here?
me
Chaz 4ever
woz ere 2002
English sux
Love you too babe
“I’m pretty sure this isn’t the function of a table.”
(A found poem using the graffiti found on an exam table)
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 2:24 PM UTC
You are a sick,
disgusting,
repulsive existence.
An irritation on the flesh,
an itching venom under the skin,
A **** that looks so innocent,
yet harbours so much malice.
Rooting yourself in their minds,
an unwelcome guest.
You are a solidified disease hiding amongst others,
blending in until some poor fool
catches your eye.
You root yourself within them as a memory.
Not even Canker can drive you out,
But by this time you’ve done your job,
You’ve wrapped them in your bitter toxin,
And no matter how hard they may scratch,
itch,
pick,
you don’t care,
because you've done your job,
you've ruined someone's day,
So you go looking for others to damage.
It's like a single brush and then ...
... you're gone,
but you’ve left your mark,
you've left your poison
That is your existence,
and for that I must suffer my mistake.
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 2:20 PM UTC
The Chapel was lighted by round-headed windows,
Furnished with most heavenly pictures, lively in colours …
… until 1845
Completely defaced and quite plain,
A few fragments of ancient glass remain,
Once a ****** and child,
Once the altar of Our Lady of Pity,
Once a great black marble platform of the Lady Altar
… until 1845
Now it’s plain table tombs of blue marble,
depressed semicircular arches,
several grave slabs and pale yellows,
And Bishop Langley,
with his coffin and bones three feet below the floor
… until 1845
The Chapel was lighted by round-headed windows,
Furnished with most heavenly pictures, lively in colours …
… and destroyed.
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 2:14 PM UTC