I have powers
beyond my wildest dreams.
Ambition that makes
a cup runneth over.
A voice that shakes
mountains to their peaks.
Words that demand
to be fashioned on paper.
Who knew
that my greatest power
was a still tongue
behind hushed lips,
and the willingness
to simply
                                      walk away?

I remembered
I promised you a poem,
In fact one a day for our love-
There's a problem though,
I can't seem to get them out:

   Because your presence
   Is like a million words,
   A thesaurus sitting right
   Next to me,
   And what you are to me
   When you are with me is an
   Eternal sonnet.
   But when I tried I began to
   Understand something that brings
   My understanding of us clearer,
   That we are the same in separate
   Places, in the same solitude
   Without knowing each other's
   Pain or fatigue.
   That we are both not people,
   But the wind freed in our selves,
   A gale freed from the conventional
   And we become a sudden verse,
   Nostalgic and naive,
   Stubbornly young and hopeful,
   There in that place,
   When we are together,
   I cannot write the poem
   That has not yet finished
   Being written.

Who are you?
The you we keep writing about,
We- the poets; poets around the world,
Across time immemorial and
space immeasurable,
We write about you,
We shape your skeleton
With the strength of all the pain
We've borne, and we sculpt your flesh
With the wistful beauty of our tears,
We bring you to life with our words
Make them course through your body
Like blood,
Who are you?

The cry of our first heartbreak?
The joy of a lover's return?
The stunning silence of absolute loneliness?
Of turmoil and torment, the stinging burn?

You're all of the above,
and more- profoundly more,
You're a piece of every poet's heart,
Infinite power, immense emotion,
You are the cumulative of every drop of blood
The poet has shed through their pen
You are the story that stays stifled inside
the confines of paper, until someone comes along
And unlatches your locks,
Absorbs the burden of the poet's grief,
And at that moment, brings you to the form in
which you had been intended to be.

It is then, that you, the very essence,
the very soul of the poet,
Can take flight, blissfully relieved,
When you are read, your creator is finally free.

Whenever I must add new people to my life,
I feel that it is my duty to be my most likable version,
And because of that, I wear makeup, straighten my hair,
And lose myself in aesthetic immersion.

I feel better when I feel pretty,
And that breaks my heart.
I never thought my happiness,
Was such a simple and vain art.

You were the first tomb I ever knew.

Sweet sixteen,

All tangled up in you.
You carried me like a chariot,
I know now how hard it was,
to bring me up on your own,

Seventeen,

child teething and broken evenings when you could of been day dreaming or on the scene - if it wasn't for your love for me.
Implicitly so pretty,

Eighteen years old as I crawled and drew on the walls with lipstick red,
and painted the toenails of my father - with you, only for you.
There was plenty of places we had lived
in ice cream castles together
and you were only twenty three,
when I was seven.
So many lessons learnt and fingers burnt as I grew up in a fairytale together on fairywell road.
Me and you together, only for you.
Then you got married and I was your baggage but you carried me so strong but I developed bad habits,
by the time you were my age now.

At twenty nine,
I was a teenager.
How did you do what you did for me,
I'll never know.
I just know I couldn't do the same and you maintained your allure, class and dignity and nature of the finest kind,
Only for you, my queen without a crown.
And now you may be forty six and I live miles away,
I'm 29 and been awake for days
I still miss you each day,
And you gave me a new family,
A brother and sister and a role model too,
It was only for me and it was only for you.
Now I hope you're proud and I'm never surprised when you forgive my sins through my puppy dog eyes.

Only for you. Only for you X

I bet you wouldn't put those tattoos on your gravestone

Not that's it's any of my business,
But you look like an idiot,

And I heard you say that girls name and it ain't the same as the one on your neck as your necking today,

Is it mate,

And I don't mean to come across boring,
But I'm sure your mothers name ain't Tory either.

Necks covered in angel wings,
and misdemeanours;
I hope there's someone watching over you to see you make those mistakes.

It looks pretty cool though - make no mistakes.

But I can see through your thick rimmed spectacles.

Making a spectacle of yourself when you can clearly see.

A small package bugling through your skinny jeans
And of course Dr Martens,

And a quiff that's bleached.

Farewell flower child,
Don't look so amazed and glare,
When people stare at you and your down right ridiculous tattoos,

On the platform after me that's a par for you,

I was only passing through,
With naked skin,
Untouched by ink.

You would think I didn't want to leave a mark in this world were in.

'Charlie is my darling'
the national handsome
and some of that
anthem.

He'll never be King, though,
ask the Queen,
she should know,
he'll go from pillar to post
be the most of a host
I raise my glass in a toast, but
he'll never be King.

I stopped eating
you would tell me to do so
but we’re not talking anymore
and food tastes like ****

sweetness lingers too long on my tongue and turns bitter
textures feel odd, make me gag


so i’ve been eating soup
which I hate
but you love


which is ironic
because I love you the way you love soup
or the way you love snow

or the way you used to love me, and don’t anymore.