I don't want to grow old,
age and see my face fold.
I don't want my bones to brittle,
and to remember so little.
I don't want to grow old,
my body used to the cold.
I don't want to go grey,
while the rest of me fades away.
I don't want to grow old,
where the shakes take hold.
I don't want to be looked after,
in a place with no laughter.
But when I grow old,
I'll enter the years of gold.
I will watch my children,
give me grandchildren,
where I can experience youth
once again.
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC
It's strange to think,
I could have had a very different life today.
Pens replaced by immunisations and teething gel,
Notebooks become ****** pads and nappies that smell.
Tiptoeing round building blocks and toys that rattle,
every night sleep being a constant battle.
Making bottles of powdered milk throughout the night,
wishing for hours in which I could write.
It's strange to think,
I could have a very different life in ten years.
I could have been an editor of a publishing house,
instead I’ll have to watch re-runs of Mickey Mouse.
Instead I wait for my daughter to come home at 3 o'clock,
while I search her room for that one missing sock.
It's strange to think,
I could have had a very different life.
A negative can sometimes be a positive.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 8:07 AM UTC
The love bite to his neck
reeks of the betrayal
woven into his blood
like a caffeinated web.
He contorts in the aftermath
of cannibalistic copulation,
the last of his eight legs twitch
in a silky spasm before he stills,
dead and defeated
by the mother of his
newly conceived children
cradled in my warm womb.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:42 AM UTC
There was once a little speckled cat, with orange eyes and a silky hat. He lives in a dustbin at the end of the street where he eats pink luncheon meat. His best friend is a grey dormouse with a long tail and his neighbour; a colourful garden snail. He sits and twitches his tickly whiskers all day, drinking peppermint tea from a tiny tray and eating yellow fish from a little dish. On the weekends he plays football with street dogs and tag with green frogs. Before bed he counts each star and strums a little tune on his brown guitar. He’s everyone’s favourite speckled cat, with golden red fur and a silky hat – can you imagine that?
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:38 AM UTC
We were state of the art,
you and I,
for the most part,
when we weren't screaming,
and constantly dreaming.
We were state of the art,
you and I,
for the most part,
when I wasn't crying,
and you weren't lying.
We were state of the art,
you and I,
for the most part,
hidden beneath the sheets,
committing moral deceits.
We were state of the art,
you and I,
for the most part,
even when you was my something,
and I was your nothing.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:53 AM UTC
Your words set deep in my aching bones,
like fresh moss to aging stones.
Your touch feather light across my knees,
like feelings uttered in a summer breeze.
My body craves your wandering hands,
like a moth to a flame in the coldest lands.
My eyes seek your chocolate coated orbs,
like fortune tellers in the depths of crystal *****
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:52 AM UTC
This is for you,
you know who you are,
sat listening to this from a star.
How I grieve for you,
and wish you were here.
I promise I will shed, only a tear.
A brother, a son, a grandchild,
taken from us far too soon
you are missed with each passing moon.
Our Father was stubborn,
unknown to me for eighteen,
if only I knew him when I was thirteen.
I know your pain has gone,
in heaven you are saving me a seat,
so that one day brother and sister can finally meet.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:43 AM UTC
Love is remembering I like red velvet cake,
And not needing an emergency brake.
Love is putting a strawberry in my champagne,
And massaging away all of my pain.
Love is cooking for me late at night,
And kissing me in candlelight.
Love is holding me when I cry,
And never asking why.
Love is accepting the lime in my cider,
And always making my smiles wider.
Love is painting my toes,
And pretending to propose.
Love is you. Love is us. Love is knowing we are enough.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:41 AM UTC
I won’t talk about your illness,
Or your life, certainly not your stillness.
I won’t talk about your childhood,
Or your future, not that I even could.
I won’t talk about how every April I visit your burial site,
Because I wasn’t even there to put you to bed at night.
I won’t talk about how much I miss you,
Because my undeserved tears might just break through.
I won’t talk about why I didn’t say goodbye,
It’s hard to when I didn’t even say hi,
And you were gone in the blink of an eye.
I pretend I am there now, as I read you this,
Wishing I could at least, give you a kiss.
I guess this is your eulogy, or my apology,
The one I can never give you properly.
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 11:35 AM UTC