I'm writing narrative poetry
To please the masses with verse
Un-versed because nobody knows
How to do it anymore.

(insert metaphor for the heart)

Heart's are just organs teaspoons are the real deal
Here is happiness,tempest on a teaspoon
Getting quicker with the drips don't call them tears
Where's the originality?

(cackle at alteration and appreciate the notion
of a bracket and enjambement)

If emotion rests in the balance of milliliters
I'm calling it real because hearts beat
And that's it; don't romanticise, rationalise.
Your brain is intelligence doesn't mean it's apathy.

(end it here before people know you're being insulting
and **** ink tears into little noteboks)

Opinions like dough, gruesome and cloying, sticking to the tongue like self righteous peanut butter.
Sitting up for the wrong reasons, though it's difficult to get out of bed alone.
Counting calories like counting the number of eyes that pass over this form.
Glances flitting like shadows on cheekbones that aren't cutting, too rounded.
Running towards expectations on the necessary incline towards beautiful.
Sweat and pounds and £s for form fitting clothes, like sickly scales.
Weight resting on the soles of the right shoe for the right path towards the right body.
Weight lifted, muscles straining like Atlas with the weight of the world's eye view.
Memberships paid for, memberships given to the society of those who fit into society.
Take the leftovers, it's funny because the sight of us does not suggest the leaving of necessity.
Tightening belts until the loopholes leave us love even though we lack what is expected.
Leaving our food and gaining what you want.

not so glamorous that i'm crying
diamonds into martini glasses.
'what's your poison' ?
scowling into dry gin mirrors
'anything.' cuz the fountain of youth
doesn't exist

We'll call this chardonnay.
Call me intelligent because it's French.
Fill up my ego with thoughts.
The rest of me is just
%10 heart
%90 unfeeling wine.
%100 teenage angst.


**** this my degree (?) is English what are numbers now

The dishes are making me angry,
All relaxing after work in bubbles
While I just stand here and linger,
A kitchen ghost of scented soap.
People say my eyes are bright
So I scrub those glasses thoroughly
But it does nothing but show me.
My own hands go red on those
Horrible abrasive sponges
And much too hot water does
Nothing to soothe, just morphs into a
Boiling *** that riles my passing thoughts
Until I'm no longer pondering things.
I'm screaming in jealousy as I stack plates,
And fit bowls together so perfectly,
Maybe a drop falls because I'm cleaning
Dishes for one.
Maybe I'll smash them.

One day I'd like to trace the finery
Of your subconscious, in that dim light
When morning is half waving and prepared.
It'd be written on your face, your eyes
More like the weather than windows, like they say.
Cloudy with the potential for morning yawn showers
But, of course, always sunny, Even at this hour.
I'd follow your dreams, Id trace the markings of those maps
Made by pillow case creases, your cheekbone cartography.
I'd find the X and stamp it with a smile.

Inky gymnasts.
Maybe that's what we are all
Curved, poised, stretched around pens
Our fingers like those dancer ones, on the mats,
Maybe that's what we're like with keyboards
Jumping along performing each move
With a flourish, a florid metaphor
Or something matter-of-fact
That is possibly more poignant
Than overuse of imagery
(deduce ten points!)
S'weird though when you have
Nothing to refer to inside wise
I'm just flexing wildly with no mat to land on.