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Cordelia Copson Aug 2019
I hope I'm number one
on the list of things you regret having done
I hope you cry when you think of me
I hope you scream when you drink about me
Do you drink about me? Some nights?
Do you lock yourself in a room and fight
the bile that rises up your throat?
Or do you gloat?
Are you proud of what you've done?
Do you think you've won?
Cordelia Copson Jun 2019
"after a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation" The Journals of Sylvia Plath, p9.

you are tired, you cannot go outside tonight
today, walking is hard, laborious, a bout
of rain has fallen, continues to fall throughout
the day and now the night. what a sight
to behold, the starless sky, nothing but clouds
a vast sea of clamoring cumulus nimbus comrades
(not worth the spare words, but they are not lonely
they are frighteningly connected, conjoined: a mob)

they harass you, they beat the petals of off your
rosebushes, their raindrops extinguish the tip of your cigarette
your hair, it gets wet, then cold and you
cannot fulfill this pressure in the air, cannot make it
into any more than it already is, you cannot make lighting
strike. that is their business, they scream it

in your face, under this vast sea of gray
you know your own significance, you howl
and weeps and spit. Gnash your teeth, you'd pray
if only you had the energy. but there is no sun
in the sky for you to call to, there is no cloud
to take its own path, wander from the mob

let the light come through, let the rain stop
let the poems pour in, titled RAIN, screaming pain
begging release, filling the well to the top,
letting it spill over, become more than it is, again

you want to write a poem
the whole nation
will write the same one
your poem is a drop
of water, falling together
a mob
take the weather personally, on a national scale if you must
write poetry
make art
Cordelia Copson May 2019
stop apologising for crying
in the street, to the bus driver,
barista, teacher, stop trying
to feel worse than you already do

you're not sorry
for dumping the contents of your bag
on his bedroom floor, you just wanted
someone to watch you pick up
all those horrible pieces
make yourself whole again

maybe point: say hey, what's that?
I'll tell you it all, the bad and the good,

you're not sorry that he can't **** away
the fact that you were ever hurt before
not sorry that he can't help you with this pain
it's bigger than him; than you wanting him
you know you're wanted; know you can be held
tight in the arms of a man
crushed so tight, turned to coal,
to stone, to worse,
cold and hard
everlastingly beautiful

don't you know that trees are meant to grow?
big and large, earn rings and wrinkles
they need water, and they need sun
and roots to dig down into
and **** to fertilise them too, you absolute *******.
Cordelia Copson Apr 2019
oh god try to write
please try to write
i have ideas that linger
and then slip through my fingers
so quick, quicksand, ampers&,
and what? so what? so
what the **** are you saying?
did I ever tell you that
I wrote poetry cause
I can't hack prose
it just doesn't flow?
three thousand words word
limit and there I go
too much too little so much to say
and no way to say it
no words to say it with
no breath to breathe it in
and god time's *******
running thin so please
Cordelia Copson Apr 2019
I've got two laptops and one phone
and god knows how many homes
god knows how many passwords,
how many of my words are out in this world

I feel stretched so thin some nights
so spread from west to east, left to right
I send myself texts, links to articles
make up my pixel particles

I talk to myself in essays, journals, feeds
I'm here, bein me, demanding to be seen
to be heard, to speak, to ******* scream
but don't look at me like that, I don't want to seem

like I'm crazy or anything because I'm not
I might be crying on a bus right, but it's a teapot
oh what I mean is - life's making a tempest of me, and I
am steamed up, spilling over, vapour in the sky

I wanna cry I wanna cry and cry and cry
and some days I even wanna die, just lie
in bed instead, all curled up, so small, so sad
so hard to find any silver sliver of gladness

gratitude, but I've got two laptops one phone
and from east to west, so many homes
and god knows how many words

how many worlds?
and who said i couldn't be clouds in the sky?
who said i couldn't float right on by?
i could move mountains or make pies,
(or eat peaches, get high and poetize)
Cordelia Copson Nov 2018
i've decided to move house
and live in the cracks between pavement slabs,
so you can't send me letters anymore
and i'm sorry about that,

you hadn't for a while, anyway.
but that's okay though,
i've realised my truly incredible
shape shifting potential,

once, i was yours and you were mine
and we fit together like vaguely
tessellating shapes on a clay bowl
and now i'm mine and mine alone

it's not that i'm nothing without you
it's that with you i'm just a bit more
and i have become small enough
to fall through the floor.
i need to find my people again, cut my heart into pieces of eight and give them one each
Cordelia Copson Nov 2018
you said you love me so much
that it hurts you sometimes
with this stupid pained look
deep lines in your forehead
frowning full of sorrow
so worried that i'd leave,
so scared to say anything mean
don't you know? haven't you realised?
that all life is,
is a series of loving and leaving

i like how he looks at me
now, because it's smug, because he's
enjoying the ******* moment
because he cannot believe his luck
and he isn't going to guilt me into staying
he's going to keep me entertained
until he can't anymore

i don't want to love anyone
to the point of hurting
if this doesn't feel good,
if loving you feels like a deep ache
like an addiction, an impossible want
even while you're here in my arms
then i'll have to kick the habit, babe
sorry you got caught in the fallout
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