Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
anna Mar 27
The tree by the viaduct
violently fell, splintered
in late January's storm.
It had happened at night;
left to tell stories to the worms
about when the stars
waved back.

The pigeons in our garden
didn't sleep on those
stormy early-mornings.

Spring sprouts greener
grass amongst wet moss.
Splinters raise sharp fingernails
to scratch the sky; beckoning
to the heavens that try their best
to welcome the shattered trunk.

The bough bowed to the ground,
yet buds blister their bright
colours into a burst of blossom
when spring begins to warm
the frozen pavements. A
new life - attractive pink,
romantically scattered along
its own dying bark.
Lying over the grass, ready to
return to the soil when
the last of the sweet sap dries
and the pink fades into dull brown.

But this afternoon,
blessed in cold April sunlight
the bloom of the fallen
tree seems twice
as bright against green
than it would have
against a misty grey-blue.
(WIP) the fallen tree still blooms - it isnt ready to decay yet
anna Mar 10
Your arms
ripping at the seams,
as your pain pours into
ordered lines.
Red warning tape.
I say nothing
as each night
you add another tally
to your rising score.

I don't want to make you uncomfortable.

Silent acknowledgement
hides in the gaps between glances
as you ask me
if the short sleeves are okay.
I tell you no one will notice,
that no one will care,
as my heart rises
to the back of my throat
and your arms
blur into a wet red.

We tread together but I
can't hold your hand.
Should I say something?
Should I ask up front?
Should I look at your eyes
and confront it?
Or is that a betrayal of the
comfort in my silence.
The silence of support or
a bystander's shame?
Is it all the same?

Reaching out, a lifeline,
a baseline of decency.
You underscore every emotion
in vermillion, powered by
something only you
can deal with. When you lean on me
to root you in place I can't move.
I am helpless against you.

I hold tissues to your
fissures and figure out the best
of the worst, and test the boundaries
of where it hurts.
this isn't the best literary wise but its very personal - watching someone you love suffer but not being able to do anything about it
anna Mar 7
If I went blind,  I
know that you would
swallow bells so that
I could find my way beside
you. And if you stumbled
down to your knees, I would
pull my eyelashes out from
unseeing eyes
one by one, and press
them into your
fingertips, offering you wishes,
one by one.
anna Mar 2
We knew each other before.
We lay under oak trees,
scattering the sky with leaves
and rotted together into the dirt,
as the moon scattered the sky
with stars. Flying stars.
I see your face in
reflections across water,
two boughs,
one canopy,
glimmering in vibrant colours
against blue. As we lay, you grew
flowers - Peruvian lilies - from
the soil that became of your palms.
Ever the giver.
anna Feb 23
It's 2015, summertime, with
an afternoon sunshine
gently roasting the cheeks
of a little girl into a
healthy flush. The sweet
sanctuary of the cafe after
school; a fresh playground
amidst the summer heat.
Familiarity, an endless finality of
every poster and notice
memorised through timeless
hours, teaching her
how to read through adverts for
baby sitters
ballet instructors
late-night knitting groups.
School tie discarded, slung
over the back of a squeaky
cafe chair, the usual, she drags
her mum to the counter,
towards the fiery face smiling
behind the till. Warm eyes,
sparkling with stories and life,
already talking to her mum about
her new school teacher
the new muffin recipe
her dad's latest gig.
Her face, bronzed by foreign heat
folds as she guffaws across the cafe,
careless, laughing , at a joke
the little girl doesn't yet
understand. Handfuls
of pink marshmallows,
sweet and pure, exchange hands
with a wink and a 'don't tell your mum'.
The girl sticks two together and calls them butterflies.
The broken clock near the door
shows the same time
as it did an hour ago, hands suspended, never-ending.

I carry flowers, an expensive bunch
of lilies and roses,
tilted in towards my chest - like
a child in a green paper blanket - to protect
them against the gale as
I carry sympathy home. The rain
soaks through the paper. I nip
off a dead leaf between my forefinger
and thumb, thoughts lingering,
nose turning numb. Four years
since I spoke to Mandy, at
'Mandy's Cafe!'
whisked away by time briskly slipping.
Moving house, growing up.
And yet, when
the sun comes out later today,
I see a little girl with scooter-hit
ankles, and glitter in her hair
reaching out a tiny ink-stained hand
for a warm buttered roll
from a hand memorised
through timeless hours.
May you rest in peace ❤
anna Feb 18
By now it's well past nine,
but all I do is part the blinds,
head spinning, hair awry,
messed up sheets, covers up high.
And my day disappears. In my bedroom
my house, while powerful
people make powerful choices,
powerful problems, as I
pour another coffee, blinking back haze,
a stupid teenage phase.

It's past nine and all I do is
blur another line. Overlook the
scope of what I know we can't escape.
Where affluence is influence,
privilege; potential. Fighting a frenzy
threatening my future.
I stare at my windows foggy glass
in a quiet room, inconsequential.
As numbers feed sinners
and a sinner's scent lingers.

My afternoon morning-voice vocalises
prospects - don't expect experience
except where artists lay down
to die.
Should I go out and have a walk?
Should I shock my mind awake? Awake
away from mistakes - take away the
ache for a clean slate, for my state
is stained and tainted - tongue tied.

It's past nine. My school shoes
are worn through, but they're mine. I
pull the laces too tight, constricting;
grasping control where control
contributes only to collapse. Collapsing,
as they're wading through the
landfill to find a throne to
recline on, willing to
pile up any bodies that they need to
climb on. Tears freeze on my
cheeks into pearls. They sell
them as necklaces admist the peril
of a nation with drowning youth - no
fear, no thought - the truth.

They poison air with gases they
can't name, and breathe the last
lungful and avoid all blame as
the air is ****** out of
the wind. My window. Suffocate.

It's well past nine, should I get
up in the meantime?
anna Feb 16
You carry my heart between your teeth,
trapped in front of warmth and
bathed by breath.
Sharp incisors clenched,
piercing flesh, breaking surfaces.
Sweet red blood across
sweet red lips.
I might develop this into a longer piece later on??
Next page