"topshop" poems
Feelings are broken,
they mend,
and they they're broken again.
It ***** so you've gotta be a man and **** it up,
well with a ****** if you've got one. Breaking.
It hurts.
Hurricanes from hell destroying every inch of your body starting from the heart, the "center" of all the emotional ******** we call feelings.
That breaking is as if your 3Ds died after you beat Pokemon x.
That **** didn't save and is worth a few tears on that $55 topshop sweater all hormonal girls love.
That breaking is as if you stubbed your toe and you just got your nails done, it's as if u got a B+ not an A.
Well you get my point.
But that mending though,
that uplifting sensation you feel after you've hit rock bottom.
Emotional mending is like taking your bra off after a long day at school,
or work,
or whatever your occupation.
Now that's a simile.
Feelings are emotions,
Emotions are feelings.
It's all the same.
it always gets better,
then worse again.
Jun 17, 2014
Jun 17, 2014 at 2:37 PM UTC
I always make friends with homeless people. Maybe it’s the *** stained teeth and friendly personalities that draws me too them. When I’m in town you can find me with laughing people, who hold nothing to their being by the end of the day. I love them. They’re so happy, grateful and remind me of everything I want to hold in my heart. They are the sun, surrounded by dark clouds but still radiating through the grey. The public of Surrey in their white designer tops and overpriced jeans will never realize this. Call me a sucker but I would give everything to these people. The friendlier they are the more they deserve it. They always seem to be the ones who have been in their situation for the longest and have tried every method of getting the necessities we indulge on. The saddest, and grittiest are usually new to their world. It’s such a cool world mind. All of them sing punk music, create such beautiful art and tell the most interesting woven stories. They are deep. Very deep. They have been to one end and back, up and down. Being surrounded by these people can be dangerous at times mind. One day I could be engulfed by a dark crowd. By dark I mean, what parents and young teens imagine when they think about going out to the grungy parts of town; the stereotypical stench of creepy men glowing with peoples fear of them. Rapists, *** traffickers, ******** drugs, drunk men breathing down your neck and pulling roughly on your arm. I’ve been kissed on the cheek by a drunken dark mess, but he soon got punched by another. They respect people consent, children and females of any age. I don’t care if it’s a sexist old age thing for men to feel protective over women. Women are the most scared when regarding this world. I was scared. It was only a kiss on the cheek but that could lead on to so much more if left to slide. That’s why he got punched. You don’t cross boundaries. It’s the same with any person; have or have not. At the end of the day, I find the characters with scruffy attire and a perfume of **** cigarettes and beer more comforting and safer than those who breed Topshop, Topman, Hollister Apple and Urban Outfitters. I am the kid all parents would fear to let out on their own. And they should. I’m going to get myself in trouble one day, talking to strangers and hanging around gritty areas alone. But it’s better than when I used to shoplift. And anyway…I feel a lot happier after I hang round these people.
Jul 7, 2014
Jul 7, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
The rain makes your
veins look like
dark black bra straps
underneath a veil of Topshop sale items-
the bangles were bought elsewhere.
Though it's not their size that worry me,
it's what look lives within your eyes
every time you run a finger up your arm
and back down your arm again;
the charm in your slightly curling autumn leafed smile
curls a little more, turning smooth lakeside skin
into Nile-esturay wrinkles that say save me Tim.
Your red delta cheeks pulsate
in the late afternoon sun coming in on
a diagonal through the newly installed,
doesn't quite close properly, velux window;
you ran through fields only
to end up teary eyed in the kitchen
doorway threshold.
But here, here is where your river
meets my sea, and turbulent tides
swell up to ferry us away to new coastline
continents:
forget we ever swimmed and swam,
poured sand from our shoes,
held hands and ran, and
forget we held hips on train station steps,
shared lips, left and then hid.
When you see this you'll know it's an apology
Feb 2, 2014
Feb 2, 2014 at 10:24 AM UTC
I'm not an obvious kind of pretty
I don't have natural blonde hair
Or bright blue eyes
No perky little *****
No gap between my thighs
I don't look like anyone else
I bleach my own hair
Use drug store eyeshadow
And **** shopping in Topshop
I have lumps and bumps
Cellulite and pudge
Blackheads and bacne
And prodigious pours
A recipe for nothing special at all!
Just someone average
Who has a bright twinkle
In her fog grey eyes
And curvy hips and ****
That sway in the sun
You have to look close
To see all my beauty
I'm not a runway model
Or a ******* bunny
Just someone on the sidelines
Watching the runway models and bunnies
While they get the attention
And I get brushed by
It's not obvious that I'm beautiful
Until you look into my eyes
Until you see my semi-white smile
Then you notice the little moles
The red and silver scars
The way my body curves
In a voluptuous ans peachy way
And then you see
Just how ******* perfect I am
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 1:59 AM UTC
I know you follow TopShop trends
But why not try me for size?
Abandon all your misfit friends
And put on something that suits you best
Some Primark instead of your Armani rest.
We’ll wear it like it’s fashion
This love we share tonight.
So before this London sun ascends
Let me see you under city lights
And as the summer air thickens
Bare your gleaming teeth, your LA smile
Whilst I drink in your grace and guile.
I’ll sip it neat and sweet
This love we share tonight.
Jan 10, 2017
Jan 10, 2017 at 4:29 PM UTC
Work night rumbles in the Dublin 4 palace
Laughing in the stale smell of too much freedom
Whiskey, beer, prosecco make up
A rainbow of mischievous golden hues
Corona that smells like drifting **** clouds
No limes, browning in the red net
In the fridge between pockets of pizza space
No Topshop dresses, flannel shirts, uniforms
But greasy repeal jumpers, palazzo pants, huffing
Rollies on the porch under generous back light
Beside rabbit ornament with human head, crouched
In grass below the shroud of full moon fever.
An ex-rugby lad in a Chance the Rapper cap
Stands in the sunroom eating Chinese
He ordered when he was bored of girls
Changing the song one too many times
Masking the gurgling moka, hidden
To serve coffee at midnight and write bad verse
Before morning dips potato waffles into relish
"Which is just posh ketchup", breakfast
Before leaving dry chunks in the bath for work.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 1:08 PM UTC