Wristbands

For SI awareness:

Hiding cuts with recovery wrist bands,

Covering all flesh from shoulder to knee.
We wonder if this secret can be kept forever,
Living in fear that someone might see

While at the same time crying out,
Wanting love and support through the pain.
But no one would believe us, or no one would care
So we cut and we hide- all over again.

When you see somebody in the August sun,
Long sleeves and jeans covering skin-
Spare a just a moment to remember:
We are more than our scarres, we are what's within.

Unscrambled love

For Danny:

A text, a phone call, a bunch of flowers

You complete me like a piece in a game.

Your love falls like the nicest of showers

Surrounds me, watches me, keeping me sane.

Like the Q square in a game of scrabble

Or a tricky crossword clue, you are a

One off, unique, a bitch to unravel.

But I’d not have it any other way.

Impossibly perfect yet completely

Flawed. You taste, you touch, you sense and you see.

Real life is never so boxed and neatly

Put, as i hope this sonnet will be(come).

That you stuck around and loved me for me

Has a hand in showing, how we just, be.

Blank Tears

This was written after a hearing Luke Wright's Mr Blank, this summer:

So anxious to get a front seat for this gig
I’d been hanging around for ages
Made friends with all the available bar staff
While drinking away all my wages.

Got my usual spot: centre left of the front row
And above the din of a settling crowd I met,
‘Alex’ who, proclaiming himself a poetry virgin
had only popped in to avoid getting wet.

While the rain drizzled outside, I filled ‘Alex’ in;
“This guy’s a legend, think Cooper-Clarke minus the punk”
I may have burbled on further, but who’s to know
After all, I was drunk.

Luke’s last show was so bright and light hearted
But this was so much darker, so brutally honest
I didn’t have long before my prickling eyelids started
to drip.

Maybe it was the weather, or perhaps it was the wine
but I’d been feeling pretty weepy all day.
I don’t wanna be a ‘star’. I just want to be talented.
To make words rhyme and to avoid cliché.

Brushing the falling drops away,
I attempted an honest grin.
The effect was somewhat ruined though,
by the snot running down my chin.

By the time the poem had ended
My tears had finally taken their leave
So all that remains of my irrational response
is one black smear on one grey sleeve.

You Will Never Touch My Sister Again.

I don’t care what lies you told the police
What half truths you disguised to get released.

I don’t care that Mum welcomed back into our home
That your punishment was a new mobile phone.

I don’t care that her disability means she doesn’t understand
That she doesn’t know the seriousness of where you put your filthy hands.

I don’t care that everyone believed she led you on
Because there’s no way mummy’s little boy would be in the wrong.

I don’t care that every minute of every stinking day
I get flashbacks, your bodies contorted in new disgusting ways.

It was worth any pain that I may have endured
That my baby sister’s safety will always be ensured.

Everyone else has believed your twisted fucked up lies,
But I will be here, watching you, until the day I die.

Weed Killer

That moment when you've taken all the pills and are just waiting:

Waiting is possibly the hardest part;
Engaged to the reaper, he owns my heart.
Estimating when he’ll grant my last beat
Deathly promise to make my life complete.
Killing the time while the temperature grows,
Inside my body the tainted blood flows.
Lights spot before me in the thick air
Lie down, eyes shut, feel it everywhere-
Ever quiet, as unconsciousness creeps
Round to my room, now forever I’ll sleep.

A Writer's Block

Chewing on pre-bitten biro lids,
Shouting at next door’s noisy kids.

Tearing up another empty sheet,
Finishing yesterday’s shredded wheat.

Trying to evoke all your deepest fears,
But secretly googling Britney Spears;

Four months later and all you’ve got
is a notebook full of Writer’s Block.

Slobbing out to hours of day-time telly,
Dreaming of being the next Keats or Shelley.

Deciding the house needs a total spring clean,
Reciting Lord Tennyson with Mr Sheen.

Finding yet more, responsibility to shirk,
Pouring over someone else’s ‘Collected Work’;

Eight months later and all you’ve got
is another notebook of Writer’s Block.

Getting so drunk your speech becomes slurred,
Scouring the dictionary to find a new word.

Taking trips to the river to feel inspired
Only to find your talent’s expired.

Aimlessly seeking out park or station
Determined to make some cheap observation;

A whole year later and all you’ve got
is a life made up of Writer’s Block.

An Ode to Eliot

The Love Song of A. Coloma Girl.
-Prom

Despite the jocks and their princesses,
the tanned long legs and arms white and bare-

I realise; we are all equally downed with light brown hair.

We all grow old
We all grow scared

But tonight-

Tonight, we have shared this special moment.

Whether outside, amongst the stars
where yellow smoke rings form like links in a chain-

Or indoors, where the music swells and even the sweat of the
dancefloor is tinged with joy-

This is our night.

Not theirs.
Not mine.

This soft summer night was shared and yes I dared- for together
-You and I-
We have witnessed the end.