please don't stop me
from being a dreamer
an idealist
a critic

i need those parts of me,
a sense of purpose in
a
   confused navigation of my twenties

i am sorry i am not
what you thought i would be,
grateful and desperate for an organised life,

actually,
no i'm ******* not.

what should i believe in?
could it be religion,
a thing i was raised with,
but now i question,
ironically,
religiously.

what do i believe in?
could it be in nothing,
and no-one,
thinking that we are
mere mortals,
and there is nothing for us after this.

what can i believe in?
when the god i have been told
loves us all,
shuts out so many people,
for their wants,
their desires,
their love

what is left to believe in?
i guess only myself,
and what a terrible
terrible weight
that feels.

i'm scared
that its all gonna fall apart
me and you
fall apart at the seams
because you and i
are never in the same place

it used to annoy me
how much you wanted me
all the time; as though i was a new toy

guess i was right about that
because now you're too tired to even ask

i'm scared
that we could be over
i don't want us to be over
but i
can't keep the grey out
much longer.

we are all held together
by little tiny seams,
bound together with the lightest touch,
yet somehow,
resilient

it's funny how
quickly we are all overwhelmed
by boys and girls and love
and lust
and how quickly
it threatens our fragile self.

I often wonder what it would feel like,
to just loosen
my grip on reality, on myself, on how I feel,
how freeing it must be,
to unbound at the seams.

tell me
why am i waiting on you
waiting for you
to come back
to love me fully
to hold me

let me know
when you'll be coming home
and home is of course not a place
but is simply just with me

tell me
are we ever gonna be on the same page again?
whether it's dogs or cats or fighting wars
will we ever fight for the same thing?

oh please
tell me
will you ever be ready to listen
or is this dream
has this dream
run it's course
and i
am obselete once more ?

Why is it
that at 2:51 am
i am not enough?

at 2:51 am
i am alone here
not many people talk to me anymore
i haven't solidified many friendships
so everyone just
dissipates.

at 2:51 am
i can listen to old songs
that remind me of old times
and old stresses and old boys
old desperation to fit

yep

it's 2:51 am,
I am alone and that's exactly
how it should be.

tonight I realised,
the implications of having a pal,
someone who you see in both the moon
and sun,
someone who you would happily lay bare for,
secrets sprinkled and insecurities glistening.


tonight I realised,
the importance of self,
allowing myself to remain as whole as possible,
for when the other one starts to crumble,
i felt my torso dissipate.

tonight I realised,
the desperation of love,
something so tangible,
it is etched onto your corneas,
for when he shatters,
you can seldom hold it together.

tonight I realised,
I am really ******* in love,
and consequently ******* *******.

Writers write,
about love,
about self worth,
about doubt.

I write,
about the absence of love,
and then the struggles when it comes,

I write,
about self-worth,
it's importance and the consequential arrogance of my
self.

And I write
about doubt -
and my apparent addiction to it.

I wish we could write
about different things,
like the death of frogs,
or disappointing fries and burnt toast.

But I know,
that we write not out of choice,
but in search of solace.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful,
I know what I have;
i know how it feels to be in love,
I know how it feels to be settled.

Better than that,
I am accepted as I am,
and at face value,
I have my charms.

What is troubling me,
is the ceaseless confliction,
I am indecisive.

Yes I have found love and
I am content?

Yes, I know that he is ideal.
But my inebriated, fickle soul wants
exactly the opposite.

I get a rush,
blood surges to the surface,
vibrating throughout,
when I brush past boys I don't love,
boys that I don't need;
I feel like myself again.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful,
I know what I have.
He is wonderful, he is whole -
he accepts me for who I am;
it's just a shame that I do not.

I know what I did now,
I can understand it.
I know why you don't look at me now,
I can see it.
I know why we are broken now,
I can't fix it.

I can feel the gravity of grasping your heart
and pulling at it hard and fast;
reeling you in and turfing you out
unintentionally cruel.

People speak of heartbreak often; I am no exception
except this time,
it is me that is the cause
Funny how it takes hindsight to realise
how terrible humans can be to each other,
especially when they think
that they're acting
out of love.

I think too much,
much too much,
that I know;
guilt, sadness, worry all wash over me

and yet I am decidedly
content
I present myself as thoughtful
yet happy and if anything,
a bit dull

at the minute,
i'm running away from my head,
from my dreams,
from my plaguing personality,
rotting away at those I love,

let me tell you something,
there's a place I'd like to be right now,
and it's alone,
with my fingers and toes and inner thighs just
tingling.

I think I take up too much space;
my mouth is too loud,
my legs are too wide,
everything about me is clutter

I bring up the same boy that broke my heart,
I feel so distant to that girl now and yet,
it's like I'm nostalgic for the pain I put myself through
and for that, I am an *inconvenience

Why is it that we always want what we are not?
I so desperately wanted to be in love,
I was so sure I would be happy;
but I'm not.


All it has done is shift my discontent,
from that empty void of a boy
to myself -
and you don't need me to tell you,
discontent of self is far worse

I do not have dreams about the boy
that I have,
that loves me and holds me,
the boy I know I do love,

Instead, i dream fondly about the has-been boy,
The one who tore me down,
Confirmed my cynicism,
Shattered my already tumultuous relationship with love and ***

Yes, i dream about the has-been boy,
But worse still are the dreams of the could-have-been boy;
These dreams are different;
They concern the physical, they remind me of the brushes,
The near misses,
These are the dreams of lust and ***

I do not have dreams about the boy
That I have
For i am secure and happy there - and my shattered conscious cares little for contentedness,
i can not dream about my hearts satisfaction,
i must be craving.

whoever said that love is the greatest muse,
was a total bullshitter,
for i have never been happier
in that aspect of my life

and as a result,

the ink has dried in my mind,

i am a writer no more,
just a girl in love with a boy;
how incredibly dull.

this time last year,
you tried to scoop my heart up,
I threw it at you.

this time last year,
you liked me for who I was,
and I was terrible.

this time last year,
you thought you could love me,
and I was fickle.

last summer,
you thought it was our time,  
and I knocked you back.

last summer,
you wanted me more than before,
and I went along with it.

this autumn,
I hesitated before I left, did I love you back?
the answer is probably yes.

this autumn,
I walked away from you,
and fell for somebody else.

tonight,
I know that I made the right choice,
I love the boy I chose,
but this poem is for you
because I loved you also;

*and I probably always will.

I was sad for a long time,
12 long months ticking by,
not sad all the time of course,
but the hue of my first year was definitely
tinged blue

I fell in love, carelessly,
but I couldn't quite let him in,
amongst the tears and the other boy kisses;
he just wasn't welcome in my heart
my head had overruled it.

And they say to you,
when you least expect it, it will happen
and it did
someone else came and kissed me better,
patched me up and
made my kidneys shiver

And now, I'm not sad anymore,
I am still lost and misguided for sure
but I have all of these lovely feelings
hanging above me like a starry night
And I am riddled with cliche,
I want him and only him;

this is an ode to sadness,
for it treated me well;
it taught me to let people in,
whilst maintaining a cynics heart and
a fickle brain.

this is an ode to sadness,
I am just sorry to the boy I loved at the wrong time.

I've never been wanted,
not truly,
always harping on about that same ginger boy who
took my  heart and squeezed it,
tightly, until it burst

he left me to clear up the mess, naturally

I've never been wanted,
until now,
and this thought consumes me,
swallows me whole -
not with arrogance,
but with disbelief,

you see,
my head's a mess,
my heart's even worse,
etched together in haste -
you see
I am wanted
by more than one
and my heart is greedy
I want them all
totally and completely





I told you,
my head's a mess.

my lips pressed into yours drunkenly,
i pretty much stumbled through the kiss -
i didn't know whose lips where whose;
mine had lost feeling many hours before,
i just remember being close, then being entangled,
tequila kisses are the best kisses

you showed me a four leaf clover,
'budapest,' you said as though it meant something,
you were kind,
I was inebriated
I wanted to keep you a secret, I was playing games and it was
insane,
each covert kiss was more tantalising than the last

thank you for showing me a four leaf clover,
thank you for pushing me away,
thank you for being my escape for a just
*a little while

I hate myself
it's at night time the whispers are the loudest,
they speak of my indecision,
my inability to articulate my emotions,
my weakness, my futile tears, my numbness, my unfaithfulness,
I hate myself*
it's just as things are going well,
that the voices return,
from their leave of absence,
they're kind at heart, don't you see,
they allow me to bring myself up, to try,
to almost get there,
before creeping up on me
I detest what I am
the most abhorrent thing about the voices,
you really want to know?
it's not that they come from
within, though that too is tough,
it's the fact that I hear him in them, and know that he
was right all along.

I couldn't fully contemplate 'dark thoughts'
until I had them -
I never belittled them or doubted their existence,
simply their lack of presence made me somewhat
ignorant

I couldn't fully recognise them in myself,
until one night
sat alone, so so alone,
and wondering if it would ever be morning again,
and contemplating whether or not I really cared.

there's an awful lot going on around me,
and most days I love it,
this last year has been the best and the worst

but sometimes,
I can feel it creeping over me,
this overwhelming itch that can
not be scratched
it sinks deep below the surface
it's this niggling feeling that everything is the best
and the worst

there's so much going on all the time
life has a habit of feeling like a
dichotomy
one second you're so high and everything is
the best; people, love, experiences
and the next you're plummetted and reminded of
the worst; yourself

as a writer, the reconciliation of the two sides is
the best and the worst

I am a cynic,
I want good things to happen to people who deserve them,
I want to see humanity show kindness to one another,
I want animals to be treated fairly and with respect, not murdered mercilessly for our food, clothing and entertainment,
I want war to be a vacant memory,
I want the homeless to have shelter,
I'm naive.

How can I be both?

I naively ignore the contradictions of myself
I don't believe in love, I am closed off,
I can't let good people in,
and yet it is so evident that I want that for everyone else.

I am so tired
of being tired
of being scared
of not knowing
what I want
what I need
I am so sleepy
with it all.

More fool me,
For thinking I was a good enough person
For thinking I deserved to be loved,

More fool me.
I've spent all this time blaming you
For wanting nothing to do with me
But it's my fault
I ruined us when I did it

More fool you,
For ever bothering to give me a chance at all.

when you know, you know,
that's what everyone says
so I think I know, you know,
and now of course,
I am going to run from that
hard and fast
just because
I am on
self
destruct.

how torturous
that memories are
inextricably linked to people
things
entities -
how cruel,
that we are unable
to untangle them from
one another
with the same ease as
said entity
erased themselves from
our lives.

Confounded,
I don't know anything,
detached
from my
self
desperate
to be of value,
written,
******* words of *******
depleted
I continue to etch words on to paper,  
hopeful
of a reconciliation between my
self
and the words
I project.

Let me tell you a tale;
of a double-sided coin,
stating the obvious, I know,
but you'll want to hear this.

The first side is cold,
cynical to the touch,
it shies away from all affection;
pushes and pushes and
pushes until they just
go

The second side is hidden,
filled with warmth and feeling,
is in love with beautiful souls,
yearns and yearns and
yearns silently,
concealed by the first side

The reconciliation of the two sides
is what makes me write.

I can feel it,
trickling,
petering,
everywhere

I can see it,
settling,
tumbling,
as dust falls

I can hear it,
whispering,
carving,
etched into silence

when they go,
it's so sudden,
cut-throat,
from having a physical support to just having no-one,
from being cared for to total mistrust,
of everything and everyone

People are like tattoos,
they ink themselves to your skin,
they leave markings,
not at all ephemeral

someone told me once,
that I write from the soul,
and bleed from the heart -
at the time I just brushed past it,
my mind occupied by other trivial things

and then someone else said,
you can only have an initial reaction to something once,
and it's only in that moment that true sparks will form

and I realised,
I skipped my chance to react to what he said,
simultaneously understanding the last thing he said to me,
'I too can be my own worst enemy'.

I've not been myself for a while,
had my heart
broken y'see;
It was a little while ago now,
the pain has faded,
it merely ebbs now and again

I've not been myself for a while,
it changed
me y'see;
I pieced myself back together,
best as I could,
but cynicism still spilled
into the cracks

I've not been myself for a while,
totally someone
new y'see;
there is so much that I want now,
so much more than boys or love,
I'm hardened to all that

I've just discovered myself,
I just realised a second ago,
I never really went away,
I was just concealed under the surface,
waiting for life's little pleasures
life's little happinesses,
to pull me through,
out of the ever-ebbing darkness.

They speak only of strain,
both economic and physical,
They talk only of inconvenience,
of wasted resources,
They teach only worst-case scenarios,
of foolish mistakes made by
insignificant humans.

And it's ingrained within,
intrinsic and instinctive,
we no longer value individual lives,
we no longer care for other humans,
life-forms.

they never speak of the loss of life,
they never talk of the despair -
no,
we won't ever hear of their pain,
their desperation,
because, we are the privileged
and they are insignificant.

I've refused my heart access,
to poems about love,

I've told myself over and over,
I don't need it anymore

I've solely allowed myself,
to revel in my heart ache,
by reading poems of a similar vain

But what I've just realised,
is to ignore the beauty of the little things,
to ignore the love that exists right now,
is such carelessness -
a total lack of regard for those who are,
at present,
engulfed in what once was.

I suppose we should keep reading the lover's poems,
someone needs to empower them, after all.

Break me down again,
It was a great
source of inspiration for a while there.

I wish I was well-versed,
in the sacred art of fading,
it really sounds quite beautiful.

From what I can gather,
fading allows you to be in 'love' one day,
and empty the next -
void of any emotions towards the once golden girl,
whose light is now a meagre amber; yellowing fast.