"plasters" poems
Fall in love with yourself.
Learn how to be infatuated
with the veins in your hands
and the stretchmarks on your tummy.
Make your own heart race
as you whisper those
three words,
eight letters
to yourself
over and over again.
*I love you.
I love you.
I love you.*
And mean it.
If you can learn how to
profess your undying love
to the naked, scared figure
in the mirror,
you can learn how to
daydream about a future
where you
and that person
are finally happy.
If you can give
a piece of your heart
to that stranger on the bus,
why can't you give everything
back to yourself?
You,
who picked your broken self up
after dropping to your knees
one too many times.
You,
who dragged your ***
to the toilet
after drinking the night away
(even though you promised
that you wouldn't do it again).
You,
who wasn't always there,
but tried to make it up to yourself
by covering your wounds
with purple plasters
and starlight.
Because when people
turn out their pockets
with no spare love
to hand to you,
you will stuff your hands into yours
and give them some of your own
without ever running out of supply.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 2:53 AM UTC
I'm sorry for the way that I am;
For all of my flaws, all of my insecurities.
I'm sorry for the way that I am;
The way I gravitate towards you,
the way I light up when I see you.
I'm sorry for the smile that plasters across my face
when you tell a story.
For the way I think about you always,
writing thousands of words to try to describe you.
For how I instantly miss you,
craving your voice,
craving your warmth.
I'm sorry that I constantly sing
the notes of your name.
I wish you could hear the melodies I can create.
I'm sorry for always trying to be happy,
but failing regularly.
I'm sorry for being kind,
caring too much,
and hoping for a better tomorrow.
I'm sorry for being jealous.
For all the times I was too protective,
for the times I watched you cry and didn't grab your hand;
For the long letters I've written you,
the pictures I was too shy to take,
and for losing who you used to be.
I'm sorry for not being enough for you.
For being so dark, such a tortured soul.
For the scars on my wrist,
the imperfection of my body,
the half hearted smile.
For letting myself care too much.
I'm so sorry;
So sorry, for the way that I am.
Jan 23, 2013
Jan 23, 2013 at 12:29 AM UTC
Handbag~ 1994
exam timetable
£5 from my Mum
shiny key for the front door
fresh-mint chewing gum
Handbag~ 1998
keys for work
keys for home
£20 and a bit of change
photo of my best mate
and a bloke that's twice my age
lipstick~ lacy knickers
condoms~ ID card
ticket for a bus to town
UV sparkly stars
Handbag~ 1999
keys for work
keys for home
spare key for his flat
condoms~ contraceptive pills
No.7 powder-ivory/matt
VISA/Delta debit card
paper
gel ink pens
number of a bloke
who says our love
will never end
Handbag~ 2000
keys for work
keys for home
key for the gas meter
Teletubbies picture book
list of baby-sitters
new mobile phone
herbal teething gel
lipstick~ Anadin
vanilla impulse body spray
children's Nurofen
photo of my baby boy
really tiny socks
under-eye concealer
secret stash of chocs
Handbag~ 2002
keys for work
keys for home
pull-back-and-go car
baby wipes
mobile phone
estate agents' cards
picture of my little boy
list of things to do
Boots own brand pregnancy test
both windows coloured blue
Handbag~ 2005
keys for home
card from work
tissue full of tears
photo of my boy in school
that shows his gappy teeth
photo of my baby girl
and one of both of them
a ring that used to be my Mum's
Pro-Plus~ Diazepam
Handbag~ 2009
keys for work
keys for home
one SLIM~FAST bar
one Cadbury's wrapper
Haribo~ Calpol~ tissues
assorted Disney plasters
treasured stones~ special shells
sand and bits of twig
money to buy ice creams
photos of my kids
Oct 14, 2011
Oct 14, 2011 at 4:52 PM UTC
She’s ready for a new chapter.
But is the new chapter ready for her?
She’s punk again as expected.
The cuts are holes for light to shine, from the lightning and thunder inside.
The plasters are lovers covering the wounds.
The Avocado for comfort and health.
The only way in which she takes care.
The rest is filled with beer and pain au chocolat.
For the pain, the discomfort, uncertainties.
The chains.
The chains remain.
The brain and tying ends together, pressure.
She’s getting ready.
Always getting ready.
But is she ever?
At least for the new chapter, the moment, she tries.
But it doesn’t feel right.
A little better after getting it together, over and over.
She’s never done.
Jun 30, 2025
Jun 30, 2025 at 9:35 AM UTC
where is that Dettol cream
to soothe these burns
tearing up my fragile skin
can’t handle these
children in conversations,
at the dinner table, like Pinot Noir
a stain on the embroidery,
what has happened to the Panadol
on the twelfth shelf of the walk in pantry
we’re all going to throw a *****
it’s all plasters, plastercine
playdough, dresses with cheap
cliché’ commercial slogans -
such a numb drum melody,
the top shelf
of every pantry is a *****
might as well lend a little
helping hand, sponsor a child
charity
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:59 PM UTC
WIMBLEDON COMMON
Wimbledon common
Was always the place to go,
Catching the train from Streatham
The family all aglow,
Sandwiches in a paper bag
Thermos in a sack,
Plastic sandels and tennis racket
Not forgetting the cricket bat.
Everyone was skippy
The sun high in the sky,
Dad had his umbrella
But the rain was shy,
Jumping from the platform
Down a row of steps,
Brother took a tumble
And that was that.
Plasters in a pocket
All was mended soon,
Finally recovered
Felt over the moon,
Reached the grassy stretches
Whoops mind the dogs,
Come away from the lovers
They're out for a jog.
Find a shiny tree trunk
Horizontal on the ground,
Four happy people
Tuck in to raspberry jam,
Now for the thermos
Plastic cups ahead,
Here come the wasps
To eat our jam and bread.
Later penguin biscuits
And a trip behind the bin,
Dad puts out the wickets
Let's see who wins,
After a quiet session
Brother looses his cool,
Slings the bat skyward
You should see it go,
Mother looked upwards
Covering her head,
Just managed to miss it
Landing on the hedge.
I went off walking
To gather pretty flowers,
Dad hid under the paper
We had a quiet hour,
Clouds gathering slowly
The sun going down,
What a lovely day in the country
We're now homeward bound.
In memory and gratitude to my lovely mum and dad
Grace and Eric Ayton- Robinson who always did their best.
Love Mary **
Jan 31, 2018
Jan 31, 2018 at 10:47 AM UTC
i like wearing miniskirts and i read marie claire
i like bubblegum pop music and i like to dye my hair
i like rich thick hot pink lipgloss and i like to pretend
i still dress up all the time even though i’m seventeen
and im learning how to defend myself
i pretend my legs are made of silk and i pretend im sleeping beauty
i fake like im a natural blonde and fake like im a cutie
i like having kitten pits and i like kissing girls
i like clothes that show off my **** and i like wearing pearls
i like the way my hair smells of peaches
and i like it even when it reeks of 15 different kinds of bleaches
im a ******** soft girl
im a pincushion queen
a raspberry swirl cheesecake
a pretty little thing with a head full of snakes
deliberately unclean
deliberately obscene
pretty as yesterday’s underwear
pretty as the roots of courtney’s hair
pretty as my favourite les mis scene
when anne hathaway’s fantine dreams a dream
and her nose starts running as she starts to cry
and everything felt real for once in my life
i’m covered in face powder and i’m covered in dirt
and you’ll never know joy if you never know hurt
and that’s why they make disney princess plasters
so when you skin your knees you’ll only feel prettier after
let’s talk about all the junk we like
and re-learn the art of laughter
i’ll be in the kitchen making raspberry tea
whenever you wanna join me
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 10:10 PM UTC
Your fingertips
Heal me…
Just that soft touch to my face
When my tears stream down my face
Defining that my whole world
Had a hurricane
And that no sunny days
Are approaching
Just the rain
And the wind
And that bad vibe
But you can heal me…
Your fingertips
Have that soft touch
That mends my heart together
Without plasters but with magic
It’s touch turns my hair
Into fine wool
And my skin into soft silk
My eyes then become
Your favourite colour,
Green
And all the rags become riches
And all the tears become
Nourishing water that heals
Only because of your touch
Please heal me
With your fingertips
That lay a soft touch on my body
Just caress the scars
And let them turn to brave soldiers
On my skin that fight back
To whatever tries to hurt me
I don’t want that depression
I don’t want that hurt
I just want your soft touch
I want your fingertips to heal me
I want them to spin my heart into gold
Just like the miller’s daughter with straw
In Rumpelstiltskin
Can you do that?
My back is brutally beaten
With twigs that have thorns
And bullets always pierce
Through my body
But knives constantly stab
Through my heart
Just stabbing
And stabbing
And stabbing
I need that to stop!
My back is hurting
And my body is numbing
But my heart no longer has
Oxygenated blood in it
Will you be able to touch it?
Will you be able to put
Your hand through my chest
And just touch my heart
With your soft bare hands
That feel like cotton candy
Not because it’s healing is sweet
But because it’s healing is gentle
Fact is
That your fingertips heal
They have a soft touch
So soft that they can turn
My heart amnesiac
I need to forget,
But I only need you
And your soft touch
To help me…
Jul 8, 2017
Jul 8, 2017 at 9:10 AM UTC
A square, squat room (a cellar on promotion),
Drab to the soul, drab to the very daylight;
Plasters astray in unnatural-looking tinware;
Scissors and lint and apothecary's jars.
Here, on a bench a skeleton would writhe from,
Angry and sore, I wait to be admitted:
Wait till my heart is lead upon my stomach,
While at their ease two dressers do their chores.
One has a probe--it feels to me a crowbar.
A small boy sniffs and shudders after bluestone.
A poor old ***** explains his poor old ulcers.
Life is (I think) a blunder and a shame.
1.7k
picture the pieces of yourself
that you spent hours picking apart
for every flaw and imperfection
for every blemish, every mark.
double them as plasters,
band-aids stuck to shield the wounds
made by your mistakes,
by your infractions.
they weren't good enough.
sticking to your skin
like leaves off branches,
baring crimson and flesh torn open.
Jun 6, 2020
Jun 6, 2020 at 1:39 AM UTC
These moments - cold,
in the bathroom,
naked except for the blister plasters
and the indent across my ribs
from the new bra.
Before the eyeliner is scrubbed away.
Before I’m back to that flushed girl
with big dreams.
These moments - fresher
than the rest.
And in the end, always,
I’m churning everything inside me,
making pretty songs. But especially moments
like this.
Moments with clothes curled
on the tiles, with blue clarity,
the moments wondering if it matters
that my **** are lopsided.
Always poetry.
There are boys swimming in my head,
boys I once knew,
boys I might know,
girls I want to find. All
poetry.
Suds down the drain. Sponge on skin.
Every moment in every bathroom -
every grimy, cold bathroom,
stacks of them, in my head.
Holy baths and sloppy showers,
moments for renewal,
moments of ***** thoughts.
Underwear kicked off, inside out,
door locked so only
this moment
exists - here - in front
of the mirror, the same crooked
grimace, the same curious brows.
Moments of steam and condensation,
bed socks twisted together.
Cold weight of wet hair, always
the same cycle. Water
rolling down my back.
I am my own ****** in all these moments.
Jan 26, 2017
Jan 26, 2017 at 5:07 PM UTC
I sit here in silence
trying to write
a task that will see me
far into the night.
Struggling with lyric,
wrestling with word
finding all my idea’s
absolutely absurd.
My mind a fiasco,
scrambled and locked.
Sentences stumbled.
My talent is blocked.
Though I sit concentrating,
my mind being a fighter
but there still is no tapping
on this old typewriter.
If just one idea
should reveal to me
an happier person
I know you would see.
If some lyrical phrase
would just come to my mind,
no longer amnesiac
and no longer blind.
I would wear out my fingers
typing what I desire.
Digits covered in plasters
whilst machine is on fire.
I would pick up a pencil
so I may carry on,
scribbling madly
till the lead is all gone.
But alas there is nothing
not even a grain
or anything else
floating round in my brain.
My nerves they are screeching,
my sinews in shock.
I pray never again
do I get writers block.
Aug 27, 2014
Aug 27, 2014 at 4:45 PM UTC
face plasters the wall a long boring walk i’ve seen three figures turned into the pavement perforated in memory dismal dysfunctional riding the hour hand crumbles into rust waving without a head layer cake wonder if she ever finished that english degree filling wonder if she went back to darwin filling catching a bus filling sitting with her legs crossed out filling eyes glossed into the crossing filling lines running into her pigments filling think i saw four strangers living together inside the head of my dead father didn’t attend his own funeral didn’t catch his own mouth didn’t measure the etch so his ashes formed back into themselves lost in the sleeves of a book tying a knot through his guts wading through waves of deprecated language without an end in sight
Feb 10, 2016
Feb 10, 2016 at 4:59 PM UTC
for better for worse
the club of Christian happiness is now open
patients are granted a place in heaven
dead or alive
the pharmacies are closed
doctors ***** their nurses in utility rooms
and paramedics race each other on the motorways
no tires spared
no lives to spare
the morphine of happilyeverafter has cured
all dead men walking
put
that
pill
down
your slippers on
remove your needles the plasters the bandages the tubes
[they’re all in your head]
lift your knee, now the other,
again
and again
and again
does it hurt?
good
'[the pain doesn't go away, you just make room for it]'
keep eyes forward
I’m here, by the lifts
I pressed the button
we’re going down, baby,
way down
put your hand up
right up
laugh and show death the finger
(not that one, silly, the middle one!)
what now?
now we walk out through the double doors,
rip off our gowns, our labels, our old selves
we make snow angels in the grass
then
do the ***** in the pool of love
[quote from The Walking Dead]
Jul 26, 2012
Jul 26, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
My nose is too broad
And my hips are too wide
My big lips swollen with stories
About my lack of self-pride.
I can’t buy cheap makeup,
Flesh plasters or tights
But I can’t really moan
‘Cause I got civil rights.
Right?
Left.
I see the bold stare.
She masks her intrigue with kindness
Then ruffles my hair.
I’m told that I’m different
Then told I’m the same.
But when push turns to shove
It’s myself who’s to blame.
Weaves mean I crave white
Curls, hidden from view.
And everyone’s a critic
In this real human zoo.
I’m exotic and feisty
Though I’m from where you live.
Should I just play along?
Or move on and forgive?
My curves are so ghetto
But it’s what most girls crave.
It belongs to everyone, but me
And that’s the path that we pave.
Fetishized by the pale
But ignored by my own.
Lord, what did I do?
To deserve this skin tone?
“I’ve never been with a Black chick”.
I say: “Neither have I”.
If that’s all we have in common,
My humour runs dry.
I’m forced to smile at old strangers
So they don’t cross the street.
When paranoia takes over,
I stare down at my feet.
I shouldn’t need to remind you
That we all bleed dark red.
But when pixels and spin divide us,
It’s my flesh left for dead.
So what can I do
To soothe this 300-year itch?
Nothing, just take it!
You angry, Black *****
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 4:10 PM UTC
O, the fun, the fun and frolic
That The Wind that Shakes the Barley
Scatters through a penny-whistle
Tickled with artistic fingers!
Kate the scrubber (forty summers,
Stout but sportive) treads a measure,
Grinning, in herself a ballet,
Fixed as fate upon her audience.
Stumps are shaking, crutch-supported;
Splinted fingers tap the rhythm;
And a head all helmed with plasters
Wags a measured approbation.
Of their mattress-life oblivious,
All the patients, brisk and cheerful,
Are encouraging the dancer,
And applauding the musician.
Dim the gas-lights in the output
Of so many ardent smokers,
Full of shadow lurch the corners,
And the doctor peeps and passes.
There are, maybe, some suspicions
Of an alcoholic presence . . .
'Tak' a sup of this, my wumman!' . . .
New Year comes but once a twelvemonth.
1.3k
It was Shlomit
who fell from the seesaw
in the park
and grazed her knee
and elbow
Baruch who
was on the other end
jumped off
and helped her up
trying to console her
patting her
on the back
as she leaned over
dabbing at
her bloodied knee
and crying said
look at the hole
in my jumper
o my God
Mum’s going to **** me
o look at my knee
Baruch took her
to the old dame
who took shelter
in the first aid place
and sorted out
minor injuries
there there
the old dame said
we’ll soon put that right
and took Shlomit in
and sat her on one
of the chairs
and got out
her first aid box
and cleaned off
the dirt and wound
with some yellow stuff
which made Shlomit
cringe and cry
o my my
said the old dame
its hurts
but it cleans out
the baddies
Baruch watched helpless
taking in
the lopsided
hair band
on Shlomit’s head
the blood red
jumper sleeve
the grazed knee
the old dame
wiping it clean
Shlomit in tears
looking up at him
her glasses crooked
o my God
what will Daddy say?
she uttered
o he’ll understand
the old dame said
don’t think he will
Baruch thought
he isn’t that type
of guy
leather her
most probably
he mused
watching the old dame’s fingers
putting on white lint
and placing pink plasters
over the top
to keep it on
now the elbow
the dame said
pulling up
Shlomit’s jumper sleeve
the elbow was badly grazed
the hole of the jumper
stuck to the wound
take hold
of her hand
Sonny
the old dame said
this might hurt
so Baruch took hold
of Shlomit’s hand
and watched
as the old dame
cleaned up
the elbow
with the yellow liquid
and cotton wool
Shlomit’s small hand
grabbed his own
the fingers
with bitten nails
clung tight to his own
he noticed she swung
her legs back and forth
under the chair
the plastered knee
came in and out
of sight
the window brought in
and allowed to fall
upon her knees
the bright morning light.
Sep 7, 2013
Sep 7, 2013 at 1:26 PM UTC
Plasters a smile on her face
And paints her cheeks
A rosy tint
Lips a candy gloss treat
Sleek black lined eyes
And cat like flicks at the tips
Keeps herself maintained
That chick has some curvy hips
Bouncy shine to her hair
She gives you a pearly smile
Lures you in
You can't help but follow behind
The accessory on your arm
Dream girl of your teens
Spokes girl of ecstacy
The right amount of tease
Hard to please
Paper chaser
Home breaker
Fake lover
Game player
Breaks your heart and leaves ya
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 6:53 PM UTC
We cannot prevent people from falling in life
Blinded by our own salted skin and crunching bones
And only notice the wounds on someone's face
when they knock on our door
and ask if they can borrow a plaster
I can only watch you with deep s y m p a t h y
when your scarred heart gasps for breath
if only I can heal your p a i n
if only I could catch you whenever you fall
but I'm just another helpless creature
expecting myself to be m o r e
and guilt appears faster than rain on car windows
and my heart goes up in the flames of grief
the guilt grows damp before my eyes
plasters do not heal w o u n d s
want to bury them deep down with me
your misfortunes are mine
My crooked heart knitted to y o u r s
And I just want to say that I'm really sorry
for letting you f a l l
I should've hold your hand more tightly
I couldn't swim and you jumped in
and I couldn't s a v e you
we always know everything afterwards
so we cannot prevent our people from falling
We can run as fast as we can
but time is faster than realization
We are either d e a d or l a t e.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 7:36 PM UTC
I cut myself again tonight
And my skin parted like the Red Sea
I am Moses.
I cut open my inside thigh
Hiding my disease, so no one could see,
Looks can be deceiving.
I covered my wounds with plasters;
Envying the way plasters hid pain,
Much Better than I did.
I took care of my wounds
Incase of infection, so I would never have to explain
Why my thighs cracked like volcanoes.
I drew thick safety lines
Thick enough to block out feelings
This is apathy.
I became reborn every morning
After baptising in my holy tears
God will receive me.
I had no faith to walk over the waters
Terrified that the waters would drown me
I am Peter.
I keep self sacrificing, hanging myself on the cross
For my sins that I can't stop committing
I am Jesus,
Or is this blasphemy?
May 23, 2016
May 23, 2016 at 5:55 AM UTC
filled up with enmity coiling up inside
The chest billows up
Thy want to heave it out
Then destined to tranquility
The claws scratch the flesh
Death gnaws on the remnants of longevity
Unless visions have a chest
To burst out into effervescence
Spontaneous sigh is kicked out of your breath
The clavicles sharpen, the eyes ogle ahead
The nothingness dilates
The flicker has no entrance for itself to adumbrate
For utopia has its own gore
To marvel over inside,
The plasters of bliss
Have guffawed over the gullible dusk
The gloom has left with a whisper
A muttering not to be heard
The relief has sewed on flesh
With the clouds coming out of thy outburst
The relief rebirths the serenity
Has been meandered, halted
For thou shed leaves
Making agony to clouds of no return
Utopic defiance,
the idiosyncratic anectodes
Stains of externalized innundation
For the literal existance of hope.
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 7:13 AM UTC
Lips like fire,
She scorches the town,
Leaving Ashen faces as signs of her affection.
Words like water,
steaming the lines of reality into
Smudged intentions.
Spine in flex formation,
She flips into memories,
Avoiding snags.
Her brain in carefully curled spirals,
Dyed the intelligence that she deems fit.
She plasters their words over the fragile
Threads that make her fly.
She buries herself in reflections,
Willing away anything unseemly mortal.
Eyes like the plague,
Infecting those who look too close.
Hands like claws,
Engraving pleasure scars across
Your form.
Breathing in security from diluted sources,
Traced with innocence and lust.
She grows addicted.
She looks in curiosity,
She hears the auto-tuned heartsong,
She smells with weakening heart,
She feels the onset of withdrawal,
She Bites
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
Of course – a blush
Of course - a rose,
Ecg plasters,
Hives,
And the blood
On the feet
Of eternal fouettes.
(Red hourglass woman
Turns everybody’s heads –
Because she's so far away from death
And because she's red, baby, red.)
Oct 27, 2013
Oct 27, 2013 at 2:20 PM UTC
what could you know of her;
the girl whose palms had collected
the dark spaces
with frolicking knees
and grace unscathed.
who kept the static
buried under her tongue
with her mouth bleeding--
arms that only knew of warmth.
sawdust for sweat,
spine,
a perfect concave.
somewhere in the distance
stars had collapsed,
but she was no longer a lost tourist
in a night sky where even the cosmos
were not made to last.
the desert had settled quietly in her eyes.
maybe that's okay.
there's a war within the walls
that she wins everyday
when she gets her limbs out of the bed
and plasters on her happy,
even when the fallacies float in her lungs like rising mud.
they wonder,
when was the last time she's ever felt
the kind of love
that wasnt a makeshift raft
caught in the middle of a hurricane.
she shifts her shoulders.
when you salvage yourself
even with the last of the pieces you've got,
you refuse to deprive yourself of the ability
to heal.
we're all healing from something.
we're all trying to make it
to the next sunrise.
paddle.
paddle that raft to the sunrise.
Nov 7, 2018
Nov 7, 2018 at 7:58 PM UTC