We all deserve to walk in the dark if we wish.
We all deserve to get home safe.
We all deserve to be policed by kind hearts.
We are all Sarah.

I once bought a life size cut out of John Cena.
I have no idea why. It was 3am and I was drunk.
When it arrived my children were overjoyed and took lots of photographs of themselves doing
Tombstones
Swanton bombs
Stone Cold Stunners
Sweet Chin Music
RKOs
Razors
Piledrivers
Rock Bottoms and
Flying Elbows.
I didn't. I couldn't see him.

"I'm a poet", I said and my friend laughed.
"No you're not. I wrote a poem once. Does that make me a poet too?"
Yes, yes it does.
We all are.
Most of us just don't like talking about it.

Wind blowing down the chimney, went and got his fluffy slippers,
Got home very tired from work, he cooked the children's chicken dippers,
Remembered his mum's birthday and ordered her some flowers,
He doesn't mind me reading weird sci-fi books for hours,
Rolled over and tucked the duvet when his *** stuck out in bed,
I didn't fancy noodles so he ordered rice instead,
When I cook the dinner he gets the biggest chop,
He always packs the heavy things in his bag at the shop,
Love's not about roses or expensive diamond rings,
It's all about the day to day million little things.  
When we go to sleep at night our hands must always touch,
I never thought I'd find it but I love him very much.

Ferrets in the laundry room,
Parrot in the shed,
Hamster in the lounge,
Puppies on my bed.
Snake in the bread bin,
Kittens on the stairs,
Glow worms in the cupboard
To catch you unawares.
Emu in the garden,
Koala in the study,
Piggies in the front yard,
Where it's nice and muddy.
A bathroom budgie,
Dogs guard bedroom three,
When I win the premium bonds,
Who will rescue me?

I'm not interested in extensiveemployeebenefitsincludinghealthinsuranceapensionschemean­danallencompassingsenseofdreadeverytimeyousetyouralarmclock.
But I haven't grown up yet.

When I was a little girl I often went walking with my dad.
He was going to the shop to buy his beer
that was sold in a can with a picture of a ******* clad lady on the front.
We walked down a long, dark hill to get there that was punctuated with street lights.
Dad had to choose between
Diana,
Monica,
Megan,
Candy,
Margaret or
Rosie.
All had bikinis stretched tight over absurd curves and shook their perms like manes.
On the way home I stopped under every light
because his grip on my hand didn't feel quite so tight.

There is a torrent of cascading sapphire,
Bursting and burbling across rock.
Fringed with ivory froth.
And pooling into a depth of aquamarine and mint.

Poor poets would be rather flush,
if we could dab words with a brush.
There had never been a call
For a sonnet on your wall.

Why write a poem?
Write a tweet instead.
Goes the internal monologue running in my head.
Why write a poem?
Go and do some work.
Getting out the fountain pen is an excuse to shirk.
Why write a poem?
Nobody cares.
Spend your time on snapchat racking up the 'flares'.
Why write a poem?
Heaney's been dead for years.
Can't read Mid Term Break without it reducing me to tears.