I am but a kicking body
In a body of swimmers

Dry weeds look like savanna grasslands

hop off that tractor, sir,
Who are you?

the pitter patter of your voice
you speak sweet nothings
it's just noise.

He told me then that he hated poetry.
thought it useless and indirect.

And then I knew
He is not mine

For all I am is poetry

He turned me and said, 'I like the way you make me see the world'

I feel a some sort of grand calling,
Of its colour or shape, I am unsure.
It is too loud,
I cannot hear it.

This flavour of beckoning,
I fear I must start to run

You’re bigoted and ignorant.
Racist and inhumane.

And yet I must step on egg shells ?!!!

Your brains are scrambled fool

There are times where I feel guilt for living
Because so many have been chosen by men wielding death.
I bleed for them
And turn the knife on myself
But I can’t bleed for much longer.
I cannot choke for much longer.
I am living and must live.
I will try to love and laugh and dance
so that I might parcel up this love,
And send it in thoughts
In ancestry and bloodlines
In life.
To you.

i don't know how to spell existence.

when did I become so afraid to Feel?

Im bleeding white
Porous ache
Poisoned.
Tell me you’re defending
Tell me  I’m barbaric
Tell me to stand by your side
Tell me that’s the only the way that’s right
Tell me to grieve your loss
Tell me that mine’s not real
Tell me I deserve it
Suffocate me.
Conceal.
I’m immobile.
I can’t feel.

Cannibal
You scorn me.

Cannibal
You’ve torn me.

Cannibal
Take the pain
Claim what you’ve won
I don't want it anymore

Ah, if I could exist within the borders of a song

butterflies aside,
there is beauty ahead.
cozy reconnection,
combat boots treading season-old-trodden paths,
baby, let’s rekindle by that kindling fire
and over coffee,
accents of cinnamon and pumpkin
how warm.
those inferno tones,
breeze biting at
cream sherpa that won’t relent.
it might not glisten
or present with port-side flavours of ice cream,
but there is beauty ahead.

Hating myself because
I can't make you love me.

when I'm telling you i love you
i'll say that grass in drought is green
that Thames water is clean
my 50p coin
it glistens
it gleams

In these moments we called fate,
Well, stars aligned and
We found ourselves on
Opposite sides.

Border, bridge,
My fair lady.

Unfastened too quickly
I caught myself by surprise
That I could yell out your name
And pretend I was the same.
I know your bed
But I forgot to learn your game

Another leaf wilts.
It quits the collective.
Choosing solitude over
ancestral pain.
No longer indebted to
this things we call shame

I light a candle over wishes that
you're in my past.
Lets see how long this
candle has to burn
for that promise to last.

My nails are ***** and chipped.
Dusty rose turns rotten.
Jagged edges sharpened
Switch flipped and I'd claw you open.
I'd say you provoked The *****.
But really,
I'm just broken.

It’s not that I’m boy
Crazy. Or desperate for a crush.
It’s just driving me
Crazy. That I’m so unbeloved.
And I don’t want to be a
Maybe. I want to feel like I’m enough.
Cause when it’s
Daily. There’s pain
in the absence of touch.

I’m not ******* boy crazy,
I just want to be loved.

The way you’re talking,
I feel like I’m going bankrupt.

We’re lost in stalemate.

How many masterpieces
does it take
to make a poet?

Wonder's got me counting.

Itchy with the feelings I
can't express.
A 'burst' would be more
Elegant than this
Silent implosion.

Brought into existence for
Thought's sake.
Never to be uttered.
Never to exist in a
Shared plane.

In blurred sight,
I see your faces in the light,
and we're looking at each other
in -3.

Heatwaves
appear
before you words,
Sometimes Scolding.
Always Distorting.

Shrill phone calls.
Never knew nothings
could be so loud

What lies behind the
Lies that
She told
That she looked
Both ways

I’m so tired of hating myself.

One hand on my voice box,
The other smothering my mouth.
Your expectation is deafening,
Can’t seem to get my thoughts out.

A twisted love story,
I thought that you would save me.
But instead, you poisoned me with
Your confidence and bravery.

If jokes are meant for laughter,
Why does their delivery feel amiss.
Why does it feel as though,
I’ve been lured into the role of accomplice.

The victim, my integrity.
The perpetrator my ‘try hard’ smiles.
Next to you it feels as though
My character is constantly on trial.

It may very well be my fault,
A result of insecurity?
Is it that your character’s so perfect,
That I’m reduced to complete inferiority.

‘Tired’ has lost its meaning and value.
But synonyms feel inorganic, staged.

‘Exhausted’ holds a performative flare,
’Sleepy’ a sickening innocence.
I’m searching for a rough kind of simplicity,
Something to express both distress and lacklustre,
To be an agent for your understanding.

With one word I want your expectation to die.
Tired, I want you to understand that I’m,
Just tired.

In you I didn’t see that same
Love of creation.
Of words,
Of rhythm and its quick shadow.
Of feeling,
Of change and its temperamental beat.

I don't think I can love a soul
as loveless
as yours.

3-5 working days,
an estimate,
processing.

I hear,
'Can't you be bothered',
But I can't. Be.

They beg
'Please share',
But sharing feels like offering a piece of myself to you,
And I'm afraid there might not be enough to give.

Snowflakes melt when they touch her hand.
She wonders if she's inhabitable.
She wonders if they sense she's not worthy.
She wonders if she pales in comparison to 'one of a kind'.

It doesn't occur to her that it might be
Her warmth.

The sound of wind startles me when I’m crying.
Earth’s footsteps,
Too quick to approach.

I’ve heard it,
Familiar tune sung with foreign words.

I’ve seen it,
An image painted with strokes unfinished, of wrong, awkward colour.

I’ve felt it,
Sensation lost, only traces buried under my finger nails, too long.

It’s there,
Then it’s gone.

I’m angry at inspiration.
It breeds expectation,
And don’t you know that expectation
Is happiness’ enemy?

I guess I would call it hazy.
This unholy congregation of ‘I feel’s and ‘I think’s.

Well, I feel like I’ve become unfeeling
And I think that there’s no room for thinking.
And I feel like I’m overthinking
And I think that I’m tired of these feelings.

And I don’t remember the factual,
No ‘I am’s or ‘this is’.
There are only feels and thinks
And I feel like I think this
Is hazy.

Whispers in the wind
Carry what you don’t dare to say.
On ‘tempesty’ days,
That wind brushes past striped curtains,
A draft, it lands in my home.  
It carries a guise of unwelcome
But really,
Really, it invites me to listen.
Words are swallowed by this stubborn air.
But what it wants to be known is known.
I know.

I hate your phrases of,
'Life is a marathon' and
'Shoot for the stars'.
You tell me to imagine that life is
This, fantasy.
So what 'inspiration' am I left with when
the last page of the story book
Has been turned.
When I'm told that the stars
are actually out of reach,
When I tell you that I’m out of breath.

How can I begin to make my way in this world,
When you keep trying to change it?

Perfection -
excellence, refinement, bliss
- Ism,  
obsession, fault, disappointment.

If you were mine,
I would own you.
Control you. 

You couldn’t hurt or heckle me,
I wouldn’t allow it.
You would only love me.
Endless, unwavering love.

So you must not be mine.

Self imposed blocks to
Self preserve to
Self help to
Self love.

What if I said that my image of life is a marathon,  
But that I've always struggled with stamina.

What if I told you I feel out of breath,
Stitch in my side,
Thirst, begging for a rest.

What if I told you I hated running.
That it hurt my knees,
Made my ankles ache.

It feels like life is running and running,
Changing lanes,
Cutting me off,
And I can’t keep up in this
Marathon.

My mind stopped,
It stopped for just a moment,
And I realised I had been on autopilot.

I want to exist in coffee shops.
In riveting conversations of the world and self.
In piano concertos, melancholy music lyrics and brush strokes.
In days spent lying under the sun
then evenings strolling down a seaside pavement
and nights spent dancing without a care.

I just want to exist in lines of romantic, perfected poetry.