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Glory Aug 23
I'm feeling low today.
Low, as in, slow.
Low, as in, if I take a step in the wrong direction I'm going to fall but there are no **** lights on.
Low, as in, I went to sleep at 6 AM even though I told you I would at 4. Then I woke up at 10. And again at 11:04. And again at 12.
Low, as in, when you texted me hello, that other girl wanted to say goodbye.
Low, as in, that other girl apologized for the inconvenience she causes with her existence and apologises for apologising.
And every other word is an apology because she only knows the words "I'm sorry".

I'm feeling low today.
Let me guess:
Just eat a little more.
Just sleep a little more.
Just remember that you are loved.

I'm feeling low today.
Low, as in, I can't eat because suddenly my body does not need it, I'm running on I'm sorry's and warm tea.
Low, as in, I'm running.
Low, as in, I'm sleeping, and waking up and sleeping and waking up.
And I'm tired of it.

I'm feeling low today.
Low, as in, I know people love me.
Low, as in, love was never the problem, the problem is me, the problem is waking up, the problem is digesting food that makes me want to ***** out all the strength in my body.

I'm feeling low today.

And maybe, after reading that line for the fifth time, it might start to look like a landmine.
Every time you stumble on it,
You die,
A little bit inside.

I'm feeling low today.
I'm sorry.
Them: How are you?
Glory Apr 29
It’s like having a twin, who’s existence makes other people uncomfortable
Like before I was born, only I was in the ultrasound
And no one was prepared for her when she followed me into the world
It’s like having a shadow that does not just stretch out behind me
But instead she has attached herself to my back,
It’s like she has hooked her fingers over the edges of my ribcage
Her head is resting on the start of my spine
Her heels are digging into my thighs
People ask why I let her hang around
As if I have a choice
It’s like everyone is waiting for me to admit that I want her
It’s like they are all expecting me to secretly bend so she can climb on
I don’t
They think I like it when I want to laugh but hers is what they hear
I don’t.
They think I choose the days when she is with me, telling me the words to say
I don’t.
They think that when I wake up, she is something I put on
Like a favourite t-shirt or a sad song
She’s not
She is with me when I wake up
She is with me when I sleep
She is with me when I take my clothes off
She is like a second skin that I can’t shed

Don’t ask me to leave her behind
Because it is not my decision
I cannot control her hold on me
It is her who is pulling the strings

It’s like having a side of me that no one wants to know
As if they don’t already know her
She is me when I can’t help being down
She is me when I can hardly whisper a sound
She is me when I laugh the hardest
She is me when I am missed
She is me no matter your belief
And maybe one day she will walk away
But until then,
She is me.
A second without her feels like an eternity in Heaven
Glory Apr 12
Red corner phone booths and black shiny pay phones
I will never use
Matching yellow church dresses and white heel shoes
I will never own
Tears soaking the handkerchief I had never sewn
There was a time before my sound was invented

When sunlight was not feared
The stars
Just one thousand glittering mysteries in the sky
A time before umbrellas
And gumboots
And elevators
That hid us from the gentle glide of cool raindrops

There were people before me.
People who sang to the heavens for mercy on their children
People who marched the streets with passion in their eyes
Courage in their chests
A demand for freedom in their hands.

A time where orchestras played for twirling layers of cupcake dresses
And black-coat-covered men who held giggling ladies close
A time when music was made with hands and mouths and air
Twisting and creating new and unique sonnets and ballads.

There was a time before cars
Horse hooves on hardened dirt
The powerful sound of the horse breathing, a constant
Step ladders and outstretched hands
Patiently waiting for fabric, jewellery and hair to glide out of the carriage.
These ladies I will never meet.
I will never have to thank the hand that ensures my balance
I will never taste the tea and scones laid out for visitors
That was the time before me

People I miss but never knew
Places I long for but have never visited
All the wars I never fought in
All the injustice I never helped right
All the boats I never swayed in
All the food I will never taste
There was time before me
And I will never forget it
Glory Apr 5
Don’t be misled, for it is not my intention
I may look blue but inside
I am a rushing torrent of hot dark red
Don’t mistake me for something shy
for I can destroy you if you hurt me
But don’t be confused
I will also fight with you
When you shout your anger and your fists fly
I will stand out and thump the heart with our very own battle cry
You will feel me pushing passion through your arms and legs
when you race to the finish line
And I will protect you until your last breath
Till we say goodbye
  Mar 6 Glory
What's it take
These days

To write a poem

That makes the world go mad
That brings the crowds to their feet
That spreads like wildfire
Through a dry winter forest

Is it those excessively long words?
The loquacious ramblings
Of an insecure mind aspiring
To authentic intellect?

Is it perhaps...
     the "creativity"
               of      varied      spacing
  or...    could it be..... the lack
                              of capitalization
               the loathsome little letters
               screaming out
                         hey, look at us!
         ... or maybe it's
               the punctuation marks,
     littered, haphazardly
          through the text
                    (whether used correctly)
               or, theyre not?!
     despite worrds mispeled
          and a grammar might is broken
   can these tricks increase interest
        though miswritten or misspoken?

Is the trick alliteration
Whose bite brightly bids us
To center on the snappy sounds?
Although all along
     unvoiced underneath
Ideas idle in the isles
   (or perhaps the aisles)
Of the mind
To meld and craft and bind
Our thorough thoughts
And worthy words
Into lines
Heard by herds
Raise the
                  Praise for which we
                  Privately, desperately

Maybe it's a magical mix
Of splendid in-your-head rhythm
Marvelous meter that perfectly clicks
Flowing smoothly without schism

Well-spaced stanzas
Well-used time
Well-crafted phrases
Well-thought-out rhymes

Well, maybe not...
     those gems are often ignored
     cast-aside, unclicked, abhorred


Because the modern world
doesn't need your rules
your restrictions
your regulations
your misguided boundaries
your oppression
your antiquated ideas
   of "the right way"
   to write
   to speak
   to act
   to live
   to (fill in the blank)

No, what the modern world needs

And poetry whose words
Say the same thing
Repeat the same meaning
Echo the same lyrics
Rephrase the same thoughts
But in an ever-so-slightly
Changed up way
After line
Of synonyms


What's it take
These days

To not give in
To narcissism's spiral?

But more importantly:
What's it take

To make my poem go viral?
Only halfway cynically written, I swear!
Glory Feb 21
I am familiar with the feeling of holding a child in my arms.

A baby tucked away in the crook of my neck feels like home in the summer.

A child’s laughter makes the usually unused corners of my mouth, stretch and warm because it sounds like music.

The first time my baby sister said no to a hug, I cried.

Not because I was not loved anymore but like summer rolling into winter, before my eyes, for the first time... I did not understand the rain.

This new unchartered thing had me twisting puzzle pieces right and left, this way and that.

To figure out a new way to map out the words ‘I love you’.

When more babies came and grew, in and out of my arms like the fizz in their birthday cups, jumping and popping out onto the table.

Only then did I understand the lightness on my hip was weighing down my soul with an anchor hanging off my ribcage.

Only then did I understand that the world needed rain to survive.

Only then did I slowly retract my long, outstretched plea for a love that no-longer-needed me.

And when the angels finally cried for her and when winter crept up again, I was ready.

Standing tall under my umbrella, cold hands and colder soul, protecting myself from the inevitable, distancing myself from the only home I ever remember having.

It’s okay to cry they said, it’s okay to feel this way. But surely nothing about this emptiness is okay.

Isn’t it ironic, that behind every story before bed and every kiss after the fall, when I loved her with every beat that my heart promised me, I would rest her in my arms and stroke her soft face and hope she would never feel the way I do.
I will never be ready
Glory Oct 2018
My life is full of
Perhaps, one day's
And small dreams
Of someday's

Switching between
Countless maybe's
And simple songs of
Busy lately's

Never quite ready
For fearless okay's
And nostalgia for
Crazy 'those days'
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