Anxiety is an animal
Anxiety is a carnivorous beast
Anxiety grips onto you and doesn’t let go, digging its fangs in
Anxiety has painful fangs
Anxiety has claws (retractable)
Anxiety sits on the edge of a table, meowing morosely
Anxiety digs its claws in when it doesn’t want to do something
Anxiety reminds you it needs feeding
Anxiety hisses, bites and scratches
Anxiety eats ferociously, draining you.
Anxiety gives you disdainful looks
Anxiety reminds you it needs feeding
Anxiety has tiny fangs
Anxiety reminds you again it needs feeding
Anxiety looks down at you with its hairy body from the top shelf
Anxiety will sit with you, out of spite
Anxiety is only doing so to remind you he needs feeding
Anxiety might fall asleep
Anxiety might bite your hand while you fall asleep, he needs food
Anxiety is fed
Anxiety might possibly maybe if you-are-really-very-nice allow you to pet him.
Anxiety falls asleep
You fall asleep







Anxiety reminds you he needs feeding, loudly.

Who here loves *******?!!!
I mean, dogs
Obviously…
Immature people.

I love ***** shows.

Seeing them all groomed to perfection, not a hair out off place
A shame some cute faces will just go to waste.
While some may whine and some may resist,
If it’s not monetised, well… does it exist?

Lined up in a row
Look at them go
Praying and hoping to win best in show, just for a itty bitty wittle headpat, while the owner gets useful things like money.
Cause a dog can’t use money, that’s just silly

Nails perfectly trimmed
Intelligence dimmed
Watch how they walk with a little trot, so proud of themselves,
its like they forgot they only have the same rights as their owners in 6 countries.
But dogs don’t need equal working rights, that’s just silly

Look its absurd
When they whine all their words
Clogging up space with their frilly likes and their silly ums that totally like inconveniences like everyone because they have to um like listen to a ***** talk for um longer than they like totally like um have to like ***.

But they aren’t so bad, especially when you’ve had
A ***** that wont behave, a ***** that’s gone mad
Howling at the moon with their wandering wombs
It’s like there’s no party, only balloons.
If a ***** wears pants, do they go on all fours
Or do they get sent home for showing more than their paws.

Gasp at how they growl, protecting their hairy bodies, which, silly them, they don’t own.

They must be culled
Anger dulled
Knock in their thick skulls they are nothing but a *****.

We all love ***** shows, we love the ******* even more.
So come on ladies, get down on all fours.

If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of our English classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is
the decapitation of innocent
grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher
the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem


Now you were never one for boredom;
you enjoyed sitting on the grass, getting a soggy ***,
you enjoyed the crunch of crackers snapping on your tongue,
you really enjoyed
and I still do not know why
making up haikus
you enjoyed the long languorous spaces between lines...





and I guess that really was just you.
But recently the silence has been getting short its rudely interrupted
by forced laughs and nervous glances from eyes that recently went shopping


You jump at every crunch or crack, scared of well…
I don’t know .

And your poetry,
Well, you barely write anymore because you just can’t seem to muster up the energy and you’re just tired and its nothing to worry about and it doesn’t matter anyway because you have an English essay due tomorrow yeah-


And the grass misses your ***


And I miss you


And there’s someone in your place, a lethargic parody, too frightened to pick up the phone, frightened by nothing at all
There’s a black hole in the shape of a friend
hidden behind the comets of comedy and asteroids of avoidance there’s a small hole


I reach in… grasping for a hand,
I catch glimpses. tufts of hair. old coffee smiles
but… nothing
so, I try again

I reach in, grasping for a hand, or even a bone
I catch glimpses of skin, hair, teeth, bone. Nothing
and each time I throw myself into the silent abyss,
batter past the comets and asteroids and reach into that dark expanse I find less and less,
I miss you


I am right outside,
whenever you’re ready to,
we can talk a bit


I’m trying my best ,
and I really care for you ,
but haikus are dumb
accept it, it’s true.


The spot of grass is waiting right where you left off,
the crackers in the tin are there just waiting to be scoffed.
if ever in that silence
you feel yourself alone
just know that in my house,
you’ve found yourself a home.

A conversation over a cup of coffee
(Sainsbury’s low quality)

The kettle burbles in the background
Bartering bubbles for blatant babbling

The granules flop, shake if they stop
Right from the top, into brown slop.  

Stir with a spoon,
Stare into the eye of the storm:

Vanilla swirls, auburn curls,
Minding their manners, glances from girls.

Hazelnut eyes, thinking they’re wise.
Smile contradicting the, frankly, **** skies.

Pupils dilate,
Chalk dusted slate,
Tea leaves are telling me this must be fate

Dumb conversation,
Mind saying more,
Something unsaid seems to open a door

I’d rather its shut, its dangerous but
Sugar, im just an emotional ****

I’ll let you in, this time you win
‘Another coffee?’
You ask, with a grin.

Oh
to be the girl in those adverts ,
Light,
skinny,
beautiful
A tragic line
to every gentle rib
I fetishise her fragile fingers
A monstrous beast reflected in the mirror, the worst possibility.

Tis poetic, there she stares
Says her lines; remaining fair,
Into my face, My acting is heavy handed and awkward
She’s a consumable reality,
She’s easy on the eyes
The fragile female,
salvageable.

We are a tragedy of ages, her Juliet, I Faustus
They silently boo while I slop onto the stage
A lazy slob,The **** of society, just don’t eat you fat ****. men like curvy girls We don’t want to see you, You’re so brave!  You’re the problem, it’s not hard hide your mass from view, unkempt, repulsive, vile. hide yourself it offends my sharp eyes.
I open my drooling mouth to speak, but there are chins smothering my mouth
My eyes clouded by greasy cellulite
I don’t want to exist like this.

So just stop eating.


I’d give an arm and a leg,
my pale teeth,
my parasitic possibility
my child

If you were to ask me what boredom was, I’d tell you were boring and to stop asking stupid questions, but if you really persisted, I would tell you boredom is the tick tock on the white clock on the white wall of your childhood maths classroom.
it’s the thrill of seeing how many dried crackers you can cram into your mouth before your mouth becomes a cracked and dried desert. Boredom is
making up haikus,
Alone but not quite knowing,
How many syllables go on each line
Boredom is haikus.
Boredom is the decapitation of innocent grass blades as you listen to an unenthused sports teacher, the blood of your unwitting enemies splattered on your fingers.
Boredom is this boring poem

A winds whistle from your eye’s view’s
An open mind or something new.
Open hearted, open toe shoed,
A place to go to greet the blue.

The shifting sands surround your sandals.
The sun shimmers, unsure, awaiting.
The sea wanders all hues of blue.

So you step, and sense a ripple.
You stop.
You step and sense a ripple,
But this time know that sand is fickle
And time is ticking quicker quick,
The sand beneath you growing slick
And tilting till you lose your height
And tumble down
the sandy
bank.

Plonk

You see some toes,
feet, some ankles,
knees,
hips,
torso.
A sand crusted face, a gentle smile
A strong hand.
You stand together, arm in arm.
There’s a sense of calm .

Now you know,
However quick the sands may shift
Whatever distance you may drift.
Your hearts forever intertwine,
When you face the sands of time.

Did you notice the crisis going on outside,
It’s terrible really they’re trying to hide
Atrocities behind a wall of big lies
The badness of this is incredibly sized.

So get out and help, you useless ****,
Shout and whisper you absolute schmuck,
March and stamp and tiptoe around red tape,
Call it ****** harassment, but I wouldn’t call it ****,
Donate and berate but most of all-

**** THE GOVERNMENT,

(Tenderly, like a lover, to not upset the way of things of course.)

Why aren’t you looking for missing kids
Why aren’t you crying at the dead body
Why aren’t you saying what Russia forbids
Why aren’t you crying at the dead body
Why aren’t you aching from every pore
Why aren’t you crying at the dead body
Why aren’t you saving all of the ******
Why aren’t you crying at the dead bodies
Why aren’t you giving your money to us?
Why, aren’t you someone the people can trust?

Did you notice the crisis going on within,
It’s terrible really, a huge massive din
Is crashing and smashing alone in your head
You can’t ever stop, unless you are dead.

Oh wait, you posted a brightly coloured infographic on your instagram story?
You’re good, never mind.

I am broken, I am worn
Broken from another’s scorn.

Rebuilt with random other parts,
Held together with one heart.

I run on lost time
Air tastes divine
Treating the world
like it’s some ****** up shrine,
Leaving my stuffing all over the floor
Once strangers soon strangers cause they’re wanting more.

Reminding you how it could always be worse
How all bad things will run their course

But a marathon leaves you panting heaving
broken,
breathless.
Stuffed eyes, sewed shut mouth.

I am broken, I will be reborn
Mending from a mother’s scorn
Rebuilt with once strangers other parts
Held together by their hearts.

You, to me, run like clockwork.
Which is to say:

In sections , your insides spin at insidious speeds, whirring a blur of gold silver copper gold silver copper-
In others, they crawl, wrestling, pushing, heaving, scraping and screeching.
A cacophony of cogs, the crashes spark thoughts.
Thoughts that think of everything,
Thoughts that think your mate can sing
Thoughts you thunk when you where drunk,
Thoughts you think you thought you’d thunk,
Thoughts that form into ideas,
Thoughts that show eternal fears.
Thoughts you thought you thought you’d thunk,
Thoughts you think you thought you’d thought but nought comes to mind about the thought you thought you’d thought about thinking the thought you’d thunk,
Thunk, Thunk , Clunk.

These lighting shards that shatter and glow,
They seem to know which way to go.
Conjoin with fractured other parts,
To hold together another heart.

But all they see, is a calm face.
That subtly shifts from day to night.
So unaware of any fright.
Tick, tick, tock.

You are the all encompassing
Incomprehensible complex
A never ending clockwork
Spinning deeper and deeper
Swirling deeper, deeper
Twirling, deeper, deeper, deeper

Dirt and diamond and daisies and you,
Contain all in life i know to be true.
Clockwork you.

I will never have a utility
Never sit pretty on a shelf
Never have a use
For somebody else

I will never be advertised
On a bright flashy sign
Saying hey here, look dear
Don’t she look divine

I will never be sold
I will never be bought
And as long as I live I’ll never be caught

For there’s no hunter for a catch like me
And there are plenty a pretty fish in the sea

Drinking her is a terrible experience
The furious fizz fizzles on your tounge, insisting on its existence in your mouth
The facade of fun from the fucia bottle flickers,
leaving you with clear liquid suffering
It flagrantly fizzes around your mouth, flicking your tastebuds.
It’s funny she says.
Then the facade of fizz fizzles,
You taste hatred
A bitter thirst.
An acrid stench of fear, inflicted on others
An unrelenting
Slog
Of equal suffering.

I do not know who made fizzy water,
but i would like to have a chat.

Aloof in the wind, perfectly poised to the sun.
Dressed in the disguise of men he’d seen in movies.
Waiting, in the wrinkles of leather jackets
Waiting, intoxicating scent of cigarettes
Hiding with teeth infested vines
Hiding, fingers meshed into the roots
Cowering, it can’t hide from a mind so sharp it wounds him
A disgusting entity , suffering.
Oozing, contorting to fit the eye of the beholder
Repulsive vines splutter bitter sap that once seemed so sweet to me

When he says I’m not fat ,
but a bit overweight.
When I’m hot enough to ****,
but never to date.

When I am called brave for just wearing a dress,
But they say I’ll lose weight just after that stress.

Because I am called brave cause I dare to exist.
Because my fat hand can’t fit right around my fat wrist.

No matter what’s won
Theres just more to lose.
Never cry love, only sing blues
Cause fat, when in love, is the funniest sight
Reserved for comedians on a dark and late night.


Because I am a journey waiting to happen
Because I am not a person,
just a fat one.


When I’ve drawn out in sharpie where I’d take the scissors.
When In social settings I start to wither,

When somebody thin starts to talk about weight
My heart starts to race,
And reddens my face,
What if I am called out and called a disgrace.

Because if they are disgusting when they are size 8
Then what am I?


So Please,
allow me a moment to breathe,
Reset, internally scream.

Then smile back, polite as can be.
Because you refuse to understand what it’s like to be me.

The time would be 3:00, had it not been hidden behind the countdown
10
9
8
The wavering vrrrrrrrrrrrrr of the microwave is not enough to wake
The naive parental mind, causing the ideal image to break
7
6
5
The ping
Of the microwave waits
4
Torn between warmth and fear
3
2
It is this moment when the panic sets in,
lunges
for the door

and

stabs
the miniature metallic square
The pop of door
The stench of soggy noodles

And so she is safe

Until another 3:00

Sometimes, your silence is a cold- blooded creature
Unpredictable, uncontrollable, unknowable.
How will I approach this prickly animal?
my hands hover,
unknowing

Other times it is a fireplace,
Warm from a far, but you know not to get too close.
My hands hover.

But today, your silence is a handwarmer,
Small, familiar and soft.
I’ll sit with it in my hand a while until it goes cold.

Some people know what it’s like
To feel a knot in the back of your throat
To feel that knot untying, loosening a seam
To know that there’s a hole  
To try and fill that hole
To know that there’s a hole that cannot be filled
To try and fill that hole.

Some people know what it’s like
To feel that brief blissful void
To know the release into nothingness
To think without weight
Only to become heavier.

Some people know what it’s like,
To want to be like them
To wait to be like them
To try to be like them, effortlessly
To fail to be like them, painstakingly.

And some People know, they are not alone

Sure, she was
pretty.
Pretty as a doll.
Porcelain skin,
Stoic,
elegant.
Everyone said so;
therefore
everyone knew so.
But,
she was never beautiful.
Never having that smile that soars across your face, reaching the rising heights of your cheeks,
heat flowing through the cracks of your skin made from memories passed.
Encircling your eyes, forcing the green leaves to wither,
facing the tight chill of another winter.

Eyes awaken, olives on the branch
Skin turning fiery now… it’s laughter!
A shuddering of skin
juddering and jiggling
Cracks are forming where sapphire squeezes out and down the mountainside, leaving its trail.
Youth is wasted on the young?
As if youth is something to be owned.

Once upon a Christmas eve,
A family sat round a fire
Dad’s he’s late, he’s blaming Steve
Some cables needed to be rewired
A house he finds,
Is full of smiles,
So off he goes on his way.
Grabs baubles from the attic,
and also, grandmothers ****** investigation files

The child, eager with a sparkly blue notebook, rushes to peek inside
Crowe, it reads, Age 33, with thirty-three stabs to her side.
Oh how dramatic, Oh how fun what a wonderful thing he had brought
As seen on tv and on the big screen but never in this way before.
She stared at the words and pondered and scribed and found a new area of thought
Thinking of A Woman Dead!
But not that way of course, in the fun kind of way.
Didn’t think of the dead woman.

Now and then, the blue notebook sparkles out of the corner of my eye
I cradle the crumpled pages in my arms, the notes that I took.
The notes, cold, combined with my father’s colder memories
The good Damsel murdered by a bad ex-lover
An unfortunately common situation.
Another woman lost and alone,  
Another statistic.
Oh well.