"scrutinising" poems
And lights.
She looked a little pale
In the yellow light.
The spots had been
Changed to white.
And when the white
Couldn't hide her pallor,
She asked the makeup
To put on a brighter colour.
They didn't ask if she had eaten.
They tried once,
Came back browbeaten.
"Diet only for ma'am"
Her abdomen perfectly satisfied;
Her soul craving for more.
And camera.
The perfect shot
Ended with a sweeping glance
Across the set
At her hero all decked
In the knightly splendour.
She was a princess whom
He saved from a dragon.
Little did anyone know
That after a day's worth
Of angry cameras panning
Her face and scrutinising her life,
She needed saving
Mostly from herself.
And action.
This time, a thriller.
She walks down the corridor set
- Director's thumbs-up,
To hunt down the culprit
Who snatched her family.
She gives the perfect action sequence,
Complete with blood trickles.
"An award winner, surely."
She is done with the shoot
And heads home, her van.
Someone is waiting.
He had been waiting since she left
Him that summer.
Waiting for an excuse, at first.
Then acceptance.
Then forgiveness.
She gave it her best performance,
But could not fake the relief
When he approached with an apology
And a gun.
Mar 27, 2015
Mar 27, 2015 at 5:48 AM UTC
I am so sick of having to go to mass to please my family who will not accept me otherwise.
I am so sick of having to walk down the street covering myself because men can't de-sexualise normal human body parts.
I am so sick of the arguments of sexism, racism and overall discrimination.
-if someone accepts you, great.
-if they don't, grow a thicker skin and rise above.
I am so sick of being afraid of things like trying new food and roller coasters that make me feel as though I'm missing out.
I am so sick of being so extremely misanthropic that when someone says they can relate to my sadness I get angry that another human believes they can empathise with me.
I am so sick of being told what to do with my life.
I am so sick of not knowing what to do with my life.
I am so sick of acting like I know what to do with my life.
I am so sick of my life.
I am so sick of myself.
I am so sick of looking at my features and scrutinising them.
I am so sick of being alive.
I am so sick.
Jul 21, 2013
Jul 21, 2013 at 2:18 AM UTC
I've Put So Much Into This,
I'm Not Going To Give Up Now.
Your Happy To **** Me,
To Show Me Your Deepest Passion.
But You Wont Let Me In,
What's Your Problem,
Your Afraid Of Being Used,
But Happy To Use Me.
I Knew From The Second That I Set Eye's On You You Were Trouble,
But Being Arrogant I Went On,
Now I Am Sitting Here,
Wondering What Happened.
Why Am I The One With These Feeling's?
What Did I Do Wrong?
You Were My Blue Eyed, Blond Hair Girl,
Most People Would Call You The Perfect Trophy.
I Now Know You To Be The Perfect *****
Building Me Up Like That Every Time,
So You Could Just Walk Away And Watch Me Tumble Down.
But I Still Can't Give You Up,
You Are My Worst Habit,
That Hook That Got Me Good,
I Need My Fix,
But You Deny It.
Why Do This,
Is It A Game To You?
Because I Feel Like A Used Nintendo 64,
Just Sitting In The Corner Covered In Dust,
Just Waiting For Your New Play Station To Quit On You.
Is That What I Am To You?
Just A Fall Back?
Am I That Thing You Don't Really Want But Just Keep In Case?
Or Do You Want More From Me?
I Don't Know,
This Is Starting To **** Me Now,
These Question's Hurt More Than The Scrutinising Look We Have Shared On More Than One Occasion.
I Want More,
I Need More,
I Need You.
I'm Not Ready To Be Your Little Bit On The Side Or Back Up Any More,
I Deserve More,
No One Deserves This.
Please Be Humane,
Put Me Out Of My Misery!
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 7:24 PM UTC
Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.
Can you see me cry?
Can you see the demons
reflected in my eyes?
Can you see the scars
inscribed on my skin?
Can you see through my mask,
so feeble, so terribly thin?
Can you see it peeling off,
can you see me rotting?
Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.
Are you afraid?
Are you scared of the
big bad scarred monster
on your doorstep?
My scars relinquishing in
sunlight,
the devils inside me
caught in a ****** war,
the pain that's decaying
my organs, my soul,
my body crumbling
like pastries to dust,
my tormented existence,
my struggle through life.
Gnawed at by self-hatred,
praised by self-harm,
thriving in blades,
awash with blood...
Can you see this?
Can you hear them?
Can you hear the voices
roaring in my head,
screaming, yelling,
howling
sweet little
"disgusting"s
"failure"s
*****
"good-for-nothing"s
"nobody-needs-you"s
"ugly"s
"fat"s
"stupid"s
"pathetic"s
"you're better off dead"
?
Can you hear
the cry of my veins?
Can you hear my blood
begging for release?
Can you hear
my gut-wrenching
cries for help?
Can you hear my screams?
Can you see the figures
scrutinising me
deep inside my head?
Can you see the pain
bleeding down my
arms
and things?
Can you see me
ripping myself slowly
thread by ******* thread?
Hello, hello,
you sweet little child.
Hello, hello,
you innocent soul.
Can you recognise me?
Can you see yourself?
Don't stay, my sweet little girl,
don't stay,
run away,
my sweet little girl,
greetings from your
future self
on the path to decay.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 2:03 AM UTC
I conclude that I hate the world today
Everything people are and what they say
They speak no kind words by gesture or sound
There is no common decency around
People are not nice like they were before
I hate that there's no respect anymore
We are seriously lacking dignity
To a human race no affinity
We're all offended or aggravated
Whilst we act so cold and calculated
There's very few out there who won't pretend
Everyone's an enemy to a friend
We are ultimately in regression
Forcing ourselves into an oppression
Like we've gone back to the days of the cave
Not so the Stone Age ways should we enslave
Is it all about tearing someone apart?
Does anyone have love left in their heart?
Don't mean to be unkind
But if you wouldn't mind
I'd like to step off the planet now please
We are giving such little guarantees
I will take you with me
If you would like to see
An end to this ****** scrutinising show
Time to leave ~ to somewhere only we know
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 11:43 PM UTC
Our hands entwined, expressing feelings no words can describe.
Fingertips reading every emotion with exact precision.
A new language fully mastered, due to necessity.
Sun, exaggerating our expressions for others to witness.
Penetrating the wall of friendship we are hidden behind.
Eyes asking the questions their mouths don't dare to utter.
Not in daylight public, that's against the unwritten rules.
Glares are probing, scolding, scrutinising and disgusted.
We are exposed to this criticism daily, without argument.
It is pointless, for they cannot hear our words.
Worthless is explanation, their small minds are made.
Creatures we are, unholy a different species entirely.
They preach mercy, forgiveness, and understanding.
Yet they do not practise it.
Unworthy of acceptance, is it that much to ask?
Jun 24, 2011
Jun 24, 2011 at 9:02 AM UTC
Eyes devouring each sentence
Savouring every word
Tasting thoughts, feelings
So carelessly served
Before such judging critiques
Scrutinising and harsh.
Jul 25, 2011
Jul 25, 2011 at 7:00 PM UTC
I got my hair cut
Again
Yesterday
In a small salon the filthy streets of Philadelphia's Chinatown;
The golden eagle
Appropriately named as I always feel wings lift me when I leave
Though the streets are grey and black with dirt and grime,
The salon is clean, chic, and welcoming
First one young lady with limited English swept me up to be dropped into the care of a second who washed my hair and luxuriously massaged my scalp with exquisitely long nails
Then I was led over to a swivel chair to ponder my reflection and bat my legs as a little child, waiting on Kelly for my grown up haircut
At last Kelly was free, and she too whisked me over to her mirror
In her most exceptional care she cut and thinned and cut and razored and thinned and cut some more
Her fingers flew, running through my hair and seeming to drop pieces of hair by magic
At last she styled and stepped back nervously asking if I liked it
Quickly scrutinising it, running my fingertips over the much-shortened hair, I looked up
And grinned
I love it
The bangs barely long enough to brush my eyebrows
The back as short as a boys, bristling when I rub it the wrong way
The front long and soft enough for tousling but short enough to stay out of my way
If I envelope my head in my hands I can easily trace the contours of my scalp
As though a couple silk scarves were draped over a barren skull
I was told I look like Emma Watson or Audrey Hepburn or a boy
But I love this
They're both stunning women
And I don't mind shocking a few old ladies with the surprise that this "strong young man" is I'm fact a girl
Mar 17, 2014
Mar 17, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
Let's talk about silence
Because I think my words are failing me
For the first time I'm out of phrases
My tongue is tied, its happening very rapidly
I think I might be judging you
For the same mistakes that I've shared with you
But I'm putting you under the spotlight
Scrutinising more than you're giving to me
And all in silence
Hush, don't speak, I'm out of talks to talk
Let's just walk the walk
And stand apart;
One feet
Because it doesn't make sense
Two feet,
I think I'll step a bit farther more
Ten feet
I want to be untied and set free
Forty feet, fifty, a hundred, thousands
Infinity
Don't want my heart to skip a beat, anymore
It does though
Because I think I've leapt a bit too far-a-way
Thousands- a hundred- fifty- forty feet
I think I'm retreating back a bit
Two feet
I'm sinking into the ground
A final leap
One feet
I knew I couldn't do without you for long
You hug me// you couldn't either
My tongue is tied, it's happening very rapidly
//entangled in yours
For the first time I'm out if phrases
//you're gazing at me
Because I think my words are failing me
//yours are creeping onto my existence
Let's talk about silence.
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 3:18 PM UTC
Having followed tram-lines along cobble-stoned roads of marine industry, I am reminded of the smell of cold meat and the sound of an early siren, which beckons me to dilapidated buildings and disused railway tunnels.
There is a loud sound when car headlamps are dropped from a height onto pornographic concrete.
All that you have to do is to go to the dairy and reach over the counter, and you will find that a jubilee leaves indelible evidence to scrutinising faces and invites unwelcomed interrogations.
Let us walk up this crescent and kick leaves into puddles of Autumnal darkness.
The number five will always trigger the musky scent of cats and the sound of diesel locomotives, whilst uncertainty and aggression seek to establish a sense of equilibrium amidst social isolation.
Having said this, I will leave you with one final admonition: never forget the power of a steak pie from the butchers shop.
This is the essence of Partick.
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 10:55 PM UTC
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls with craters for collarbones,
arms so gamine and slender
that they mirror the bend
of a flowers stalk.
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who can wake up and go
without spending an hour
scrutinising themselves in the mirror,
so naturally beautiful
that they exude summer.
I want to be of those girls.
The girls who like to dress like the magazines,
that are entirely sugar and spice
and everything nice,
always painted
with a rom com ready smile.
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls who always know
exactly what to say,
when to laugh
and when to shut their mouths.
I want to be one of those girls.
The girls described as ****
and cute
and girlfriend material,
instead of
'one of the guys'.
I want to be one of those girls.
Not whatever I am
who laughs too loud
and eats too much
and drinks too much
and doesn't care
what Kim K wore to the gym last week.
I want to be one of those girls.
I want -
I just want to be me.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 8:37 PM UTC
The escape of a label,
"untitled",
labels itself:
insecure?
Uncertain?
Unimaginative?
Or maybe an idealist
who lives in a world
where labels are shallow
and the soul overshadows the face;
but there is no escape
from the scrutinising eyes
of those who find meaning
within
absolutely nothing.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 9:28 PM UTC
He didn't force me, I walked into that house willingly. Eager steps to escape the row of cars, the buzz of people.
I kissed him. Sweet cannabis stained tongue. I took his mouth into mine and held it, like a breath underwater.
I chose my own drinks, paid for them myself. Counted coins and pinned my hopes on you and your fake ID.
I remember it well. No force. No bait. The chatter of strangers in a cramped kitchen as I tried to sleep.
I left the door unlocked. Would anyone? Footsteps on soft carpet, quietly caught me, unawares.
Hands and tongues carve scars into my body. The kind that don't turn silver and fade. A permanent reminder of Hell.
Something changed within me that night. A new found fear. Sudden terror at an innocent touch. The people, too loud. The sun, too bright.
Scrutinising me. Judging me. Burning me down to the bone.
Apr 22, 2016
Apr 22, 2016 at 7:37 AM UTC
Being right
Is of little consolation
If your being in hospital;
And no consolation at all
If your Being ceases to be!
---------
I'm a predator
Searching out for a mate:
Scrutinising all prey that crosses my path.
I'll eat **** and take what comes,
Or starve if need be - self-satiated -
While I patiently await
That dainty, succulent morsel;
That indelibly edible delicacy
Which my heart so desires.
---------
Airheads to the left of me;
Airheads to the right of me;
Airheads in front of me;
Cackled and blundered!
Their's was not to reason why;
Their's was but to buy or die.
And I...
I just shook my head and wondered...
Mar 6, 2014
Mar 6, 2014 at 3:07 PM UTC
Sat in the sanctuary of prickly peace.
Pit of sweet slumber.
Scrutinising the rain as it paints ornate pictures on my window.
It's calling out.
Glass glimmering.
Pane quivering to the beat of the raindrops that pound.
Beating the window, before greeting the ground.
Bouncing and dancing as whirling ballerinas.
Facetted diamonds.
They're dripping from fronds.
Hanging from ferns.
The rain's falling fast in sparkling wet gemstones.
Having a blast.
Twisted on wind.
Winding and crashing.
Hear them calling clamorously,
Hail us all warm dry cab.
For soon they shall be melting.
(C) LIVVI
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 12:33 PM UTC
The beautiful, green scaly skin of the devious snake
Was always prepared to rear its ugly head,
A grimacing, smirk plastered on its face
As it glided, lusting after its prey.
Eyes locked,
Scrutinising every movement,
It crawled out of its pit,
Attacking with its sharp, venomous teeth.
It ripped, shredded, and devoured
All with a menacing grin on its face,
The poison was seeping,
Taking over the body, slowly, painfully
As the snake just watched bashful and happily.
And all they could do was watch in agony, wishing that she would escape the constrictions of the cobra buried deep within her.
Aug 13, 2014
Aug 13, 2014 at 12:25 AM UTC
I awoke unhinged, just as the curtain in the back room,
The pale blue reminded me of what the sky could be,
When it didn’t look like gloom.
Single fabric rippled against a windowpane,
Mocking me in my solitude,
Ridicule for my foul mood.
Their twin horrified,
Scrutinising during a manic moment,
Keeping themselves securely tied.
I’m sure they look down on me as well as their sister,
The pair of us once neatly laced, now dishevelled-
Result of a nasty hormone blister.
But their sister and I
Bathe in different consequences,
My being suffers from the inevitable expenses.
I sink, I don’t float.
I seethe, I don’t sway.
I’m real, I’m forced to feel.
The curtain has no eye that aches,
No grease ridden hair, or skin that flakes.
The curtain can easily be pushed back in place,
Unfortunately, with me, that fails to be the case.
Apr 10, 2021
Apr 10, 2021 at 9:19 AM UTC
You took what was rightfully mine
forcing words into my mouth
pulling at these limbs like I was a puppet
turning me into something not human
making me believe I was utterly worthless
I became the problem as the blame fell on me
all our misfortunes and failures were my fault
I was the monster hiding under children’s beds
howling into the dead of night
You restricted my growth
forcing me to kneel at your feet
there I begged for your forgiveness time and time again
filled with guilt and shame
watching the broken mess we had become
wondering where it all went wrong
how we wandered so far off this path
getting lost in the bitterness and anger
our hearts turned cold
veins filled with each-others poison
Fighting fire with fire
striking a match and standing by as everything we had burnt
this thing that we created was not the product of love
but of hate and resentment
We turned green eyed in this feeding frenzy
hungering for one another’s flesh
viciously tearing down these walls
infiltrating each-others vulnerable minds
You had my slowly beating heart in your hand
but instead of nurturing it
you blackmailed me
forcing this mind to become tethered to your own
Whenever I looked over my shoulder
I saw you
those cold eyes scrutinising every single action
and interaction
filtering the words that came out of my mouth
I could feel your nails digging into my flesh
as you forced yourself on me
your warm breath still lingers here
I have tried running
but these chains prevent me from ever getting far
a truth I cannot escape and
a past that refuses
to let me go
The scars you left behind are a permanent reminder
of all that transpired here
the sins we committed hand in hand
ensuring each-others demise
You broke me and I am still trying
to pick up the pieces
rummaging through the rubble
trying to find something beautiful again
a piece of this canvas left blank
Your shadow will always
linger at the corners of my mind
but I have found a new strength within
a resilience emerging from the broken
and heaven forbid
you try
and
take that from me
This story
is
still
meant
to
be
told
Sep 9, 2018
Sep 9, 2018 at 4:56 AM UTC
Nesta Owen
glanced
at the white
plastic clock
on the wall
of the lounge
gave
a deep sigh.
Phil Owen
her husband
of six months
had gone drinking
with his friends
and was going
to be late home
once again.
She switched off
the TV and sat
scrutinising
the yellow
flowered wallpaper
which she loathed.
In the last
six months
their relationship
had in Nesta's opinion
degenerated
and declined.
Phil
dark haired
good looking
had been the most
sought after young man
in Howell's
department store
where she worked.
He fell
he claimed
for her cornflower
blue eyes
and long black hair.
The front door opened
after her husband
had fiddled
trying to get
the key in the lock.
She went to see him
and was about to ask
why he was so late
when he hit her
so hard about the head
that she felt as if
she was inside a bell
that had been struck
and she fell against
the wall of the hall.
Her lips
began to swell
her watery eyes
stared at him.
He stared at her
walked past her
and up the stairs
swaying
as he walked
not giving her
another thought.
Her thoughts
had been spattered
all over the inside
of her brain
and she sensed
the oncoming of pain.
Jun 12, 2017
Jun 12, 2017 at 6:44 AM UTC
As the darkness sets
And the mist rises
My eyes shift to the image of you
My soul creeps to find peace
How should I tell it
that its peering
In a bloodied place
I detach my eyes
From your distorted image
Fragments of you
fading elsewhere
Stop scrutinising
Nothing can be found
Nothing but the nothingness itself
The day feels heavy today
My shoulders and knees weak
Maybe closing my eyelids would be of aid
I feel alone
Again
Why am I not enough to help myself?
Cant I be enough?
Oh why do I rely on you?
With a mind dense with fog
Thoughts carelessly thrown around
I know not what to do
Im a standby in my own brain
May 31, 2019
May 31, 2019 at 2:52 AM UTC
To get home
carrying
the image of him
the eyes hazel
the hair
the quiff
the way he looked at her
Yehudit
her mother says
where have you been
was the school bus
late again?
no I was talking
to a boy
she says wondering
what her mother will say
looking away
wanting to get out
of her school uniform
get into something better
what boy?
the mother asks
gazing
scrutinising
taking in
her daughter’s face
seeing if the eyes
give anything away
Benedict’s a new boy
at school
lives along the road
in the black cottages
the mother stares harder
boys can be problematic
she says
what were you
talking about?
Yehudit looks
at the photograph
on the mantelpiece
a family group
before her brothers
left to marry
about choir
he’s going to join
Yehudit says
trying not to sound
too excited
well make sure that
is all it is don’t
want you bringing
home trouble
the mother says firmly
of course not
Yehudit says
wondering what trouble
her mother means
just singing in choir
he’s coming tonight
for practice
she adds
looking at her mother’s eyes
the depth there
a darkness lurking
you’re 13 not 23
her mother says
be 14 soon
Yehudit says
and how old is
this boy?
the mother asks
14 I think
he’s in my class at school
so only just 14
I guess
Yehudit says
biting her lower lip
as I said
you’re just 13
so no trouble
the mother says
or else
she walks away
towards the kitchen
where potatoes boil
or else echoes
in Yehudit’s head
as she goes upstairs
to her room
to lay on her bed.
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 7:44 AM UTC