Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
 Nov 2012 unashamedlyashley
Ugo
B cup
C cup
but D cup, the better.

A nip,
a tuck—
reverse the clock.

For beauty’s the past,
and beauty’s the young.

Thus,
reupholster the fruit of the womb
and iron the sags low.
Recapture the past glow,
for after all,
the future is wherever you don’t exist yet.
http://www.amazon.com/OLAF-Nothing-Above-Fiction-ebook/dp/B009XZ9OVY/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid;=1353822133&sr;=8-1&keywords;=olaf+last+king+of+nothing
Falling Apart

I feel as though I've been run over, again and again,
I'm falling apart, with nothing to hold me together.
You've moved on to someone else, I'm left with nothing,
Nothing to keep me going, no one to give me hope.

The truth is that I loved you, or at least I thought so,
But when someone beat me to you, I was left crushed.
It's not just you either, I'm losing people left, right and centre,
I'm mentioning no names because it hurts too much to tell.

But nothing hurts like this, there is no feeling like this,
The feelings that I had for you, now gone in an instant.
You found somebody else to love you, I was not enough,
You moved on and so must I, but I this I want you to know.

I still love you, I'm sorry.
Courage

Hi
I’m still me
Albeit cowardly
If there is a lion in me
That’s something I wish to see

For if a lion’s roar could find my lips
Maybe my lips could find their way to yours
If our arms found each other and your head my chest
You’d hear a kitten’s purr I’m sure

Of that, yes
I am Sure
he don't talk much now that his spirit been broke
a man of few words that lost the joy a smile evokes
he don't speak of the good times anymore
feeling all the money in his pockets has left him poor
he don't raise his head much when he writes
ignoring the lovers and families around him tonight
he just pushes that pen looking for solutions and answers
scared of every lonely day coming like a slow cancer
he hates the eyes staring back in the mirror's glare
he hates the ways he sees that they use to care
and prayer don't work 'cause no one ever whispers back
he's a slow, trudging train on the endless track
of regret pushing and shoving for redemptions
feeling love all around him and his own lowly exemption
and he'll chat with you if you ask
but the words and stories you'll hear are just a mask
secretly he holds hands with a little boy
who's not coming back to be his favorite dandy toy
he's still holding his hand and only looking back
surviving each of his heart's attacks
with the bottle, with a guise, using memories to patch the cracks
and peace is all he asks

how I pray for him to find a healing, completely
dear God, how I wish he wasn't me
Sever us apart at the heels and would I still feel you near
Mimicking my movements…
Allowing yourself to be influenced by my thoughts
And by my speech off my tongue
But my song is not one that can be sung

A being does not come from a forced mould
An individual becomes a work of art on their own
I never wanted for your shape to resemble anything like mine
I never desired to change you, I never tried

But now because of you our originality has ceased
It’s as if you’ve tried to become a part of me
Now I couldn’t let that be…
I could never lose what makes me… me

My image is in the mirror
But my nature is not
You’re not my shadow…
Follow me and I’ll only get you lost
It’s been three years since I took my last photograph. Photography had lost its appeal and there were no longer moments I wanted to capture, to freeze in time. I only wanted to move on, just to walk... Besides, my camera’s broken and I can’t for the life of me be bothered to get a new one. I’d rather spend the money on a trip to Brussels, that’s next on the list.

I suppose I’d say I have one true fear in the world and that’s staying still. My mother used to say “Oh Alfie, you’re like one of them AHDD children” and after I correcting her, I’d usually just shrug as if to say “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” It could be said that my mother was one of those people who just had no time for the world, society was not her priority. One time a member of a local charity knocked on our door asking for a donation. My mother stood there, cemented like a gargoyle and poured out a flurry of very high decibel palaver about how her husband was in the marines and how she owed the world nothing because of it. I have to admit, it was a pseudo-logic that I’ve, to this day, not quite decoded.

My father made the decision to enter the Royal Marines at the age of 19 and my mother hasn’t forgiven him for it since. Perhaps that’s why she’s so sensitive about the whole “I owe society nothing” thing. I used to argue with her about it, about how it seemed right that he made his own decision to fight on behalf of his countrymen, but part of me has always despised his decision. I’ve gradually developed a cliché, but not inaccurate, view that soldiers are merely puppets for rich men’s wars and that glorifying the armed forces is just a sickening way to try and justify ******. Of course, I never shared this view with my father, even if I had, he’d have long forgotten. Whenever he comes back from service, I’m usually in some other part of the world, sitting in an outdoor café, preferring my life. It’s thoughts like this make me feel that I'm more like my mother than I primarily thought. I suppose some may call it selfish, but I merely believe it to be good observation, and therefore an intelligent alternative to what society wants me to believe. We’ll stick with arrogant.

My excuse is that arrogance was part of my job; I had to be correct, all the time. I was in that awkward career position, where I wasn't quite high up enough to be able to fully express my own views and so I had to stick to the hard-line “everything has to be extremely left-wing” approach. Journalism: the home to those who mould the minds of the world; or the breeding ground of *******, if you will. Personally, I was lucky enough to have no permanent boss; essentially I was my own. I wrote my columns for Liberal newspapers all across Europe and they edited them at their own will. It paid the bills, but like my views on my father’s military situation, I still possessed that distaste for the immorality of it all. I still remember my first article. I was 17 at the time, the writing type, enjoyed all things politics. It was for a moderately popular newspaper/magazine company in Western France, named “La Quotidienne”. I’d written a piece on local traders not receiving fair deals for their produce and as a result, the editor had asked me if I’d like to have my own regular column. The column was named “Teen Activist”, which nowadays I deem to be relatively patronising, but it was rather humbling all the same.    

I probably ought to explain some geography. I was born in Surrey, England in 1981 and lived there until my mother decided to move us to France in 1985. The military weren't too pleased with the move, because of course, this made us spies. The whole ordeal was a bit messy, but not really worth noting. We moved to Rennes, which is where today, I would consider home; although I haven’t actually seen home for a good 5 years. I guess the important thing is where I am and where I've been, but as I said before, I’d rather concentrate now on where I'm going. To Belgium, my suitcase is packed once more and my tired passport taped like an extra vital ***** to my wrist (because despite my relentless travelling, I always manage to leave my passport in some unsuspecting hotel room by accident). Blame the occupied mind of a ceaseless traveller.
This is NOT a poem - please feel free, however, to read and comment - every opinion is valued :)
Next page