She speaks with feigned enthusiasm
To a class of head-split spores -
They nod and smile and cut themselves
While stuck behind closed doors.
Think not of her enthusiasm,
Think not of her at all –
Think of wasted time instead
Then rise the rebel’s call
But nay, not in that hour there
That seems to last much more,
In fact, maybe never now
(Remember, there’s that door).
So, stay put the rebel’s call,
Just listen, sit, smile and nod
And when it gets too much to bare
Just cut yourself, damn sorry sod.
She brushed unruly hair absentmindedly yet elegantly out of her face. Everything she did was angelic but it was her smile that got me hooked. Electrifying. Contagious. Dangerous. I would call it her secret weapon, but, as I soon discovered, it was no secret. Words hung on her lips but didn't mean anything until the smile that came after them. The real full stop of her sentences. And yes, everything she did was angelic but she so loved to play the devil. The white toothed, plump lipped, eye-illuminating devil.
Every time she asked me for something I convinced myself that no, this time it was enough. I was strong enough, I just had to hold my ground, but then she'd ask again and the way she toyed with words - she had mastered her craft and her craft was cruelty. So when the full-lipped full-stop came, of course every time I'd catch it myself, feel the smile spreading across my own weak lips, and then it...
We're born alone and we die alone, according to one Mr. Welles, so...well, what? All the rest is... blank?
I mean, I have my ups and down like anyone else. One minute you're there, in the moment with these people, these amazing people who just know you so well; you're a part of something, a vital cog and it feels good. Not only to be remembered, but to be needed, required in the great mechanism of the giant robot foot that is humankind stepping through history. You're there and you feel ecstatic because at last, at last you're okay.
And then other moments, there's this emptiness. You're hungry but you don't know what for; dissatisfied and directionless, and it's frustrating because, how'd it happen? What changed? And you can't express it so you're more frustrated because you're alone, but it's not even that, it's the fact that you're misunderstood and so that's why you're alone. And not in the teen angst...
Where's my mind? Maybe it's in my feet that won't stop running.
Through the streets like a blur, barefooted, steps creating splashes on the wet pavement like machine gun fire, bullets burying themselves in the mud of some unlucky nation's soil whilst the weapon roars again for another magazine. Hungry. Hungry to get away. And my feet now too are brown with use.
Where the hell is my mind right now? I can't think - too young to have to run like this. But too old to stay, not when I feel it in my body like I do; in the pit of my stomach - I've seen too much. And they know I have, they knew the minute I turned so no going back now.
The rain starts again and I try to outrun it. I think I can. It's closing in behind me; lasers from the sky, inspiring me to go faster, further - not far enough yet but I won't stop. I...
Simultaneously alien and familiar; sultry air, salt, sand and slang.
In my unconcerned years
I stood still by the lake,
Protected from my fears
And without damn mistake
And I watched as sun set,
Blazing mirror on fire
In the place that thoughts met,
Letting daylight retire,
And golden glitter fell
Through sweet green canopy
Whilst calmness cast a spell
And the birds sang out to me,
And I hid peacefully
Amongst the guiltless hurt
Away from the bully
Of life, just half alert,
And standing all alone
Looking across the lake,
I heard the forest groan
And knew it was awake.
On the last day of the world
I would walk down to the sea.
Not the view.
The dark waves that beckon
Were not the voices calling me.
It was the memories,
Held within grains of sand;
I want them there with me,
In my mind for the last time,
With the sun already
And the water
Reflecting on fire
In the world full of lost time
And the clouds bleeding
By my side now.
It's not a house that stands in front of you. It's your father. With all his hope. Diluted ambition; one part dream, three parts family - future, responsibility, hard work, love and heartbreak.
In the empty kitchen windows you can see your mother and him, and everything in between. Tension. Shared memories; twisted and appearing in each mind slightly warped. Confusion. 'How did we let it get this bad?'
And you close your eyes. Through the sweat-blood-and-tear-imbued brick wall are two small children playing on a rainbow-checkered carpet. Mostly oblivious; mostly in their own world; mostly trouble free.
And you open your eyes to see the brick wall, but this time it looks different. And you notice the grass in the front garden is a bit longer; a bit more wild. You think how much you and that grass have in common.
So you turn, and as you're walking away from your good-days-house you notice all the pecularities you never...
I wish, wistfully, for ways
With willful wide-eyed wonder,
To find wisdom in my days
With which I tend to blunder.
Huge metal beetles crawled slowly across a fog drenched road. With the mist came a near-silence in which only the whispered sounds of a communal engine hum and the connected heartbeats of each witness could just about be heard. The fog was the breath of God on a cold winter's morning.
A bird landed on the bonnet of a car unafraid in the peace brought by the unknown. It stood for a few moments shifting it's feet a few times and peering around trying to make out it's environment. The moment stretched out carelessly while the car engine continued to hum patiently. The bird nodded lazily at the equally relaxed driver, before stretching it's glorious wings and taking flight.
Almost exactly as this happened, the sky opened as the world inhaled and the fog lifted gently off the road as the engines once again began to seem louder.
Imagine a single race,
Called simply, Humanity,
United, in the face,
Of all adversity.
Think of their power and might,
Teaching true equality;
I wonder if they'd fight
And just why this would be.
Would it last forever?
Would anybody flee?
Would children be more clever?
Would the blind be able to see?
No, this is called a dream.
It's a harsh reality.
The world will always scream -
To this, all can agree.
Perhaps this is a good thing,
At least we know the key,
To this dream we can cling,
While connection keeps us free.
A set of old rusting train tracks that lay about a mile off, perpendicular to my home in the old English town where I spent my childhood.
Hidden among wise old trees and passing fields where new farms now sit, the Matchstick Tracks are decaying to mud, and rest in their old age in two long lines of burnt out matchsticks stretching to infinity.
Rachel was black. She wasn't chocolate or coffe or cane sugar colour. She was burnt-toast-black and this was a fact that haunted her.
It wasn't often that people came to the home. Once you reach a certain age you become undesirable; past your sell-by-date. This was something Rachel had come to terms with. At least in this, she wasn't alone.
What bothered Rachel though, was how, with so little regard for her feelings she was tossed aside by all prospective parents who visited. And she knew why it was. She could see the disdain in their eyes.
Fickle, shallow creatures; humans. But Rachel was tough and above all else, she was fed up.
This is why, on the morning that the very white and very proud Mrs Josephine Patroni walked in and said to Rachel's face "now now dear, skin colour doesn't define us, there are some people who think dark skin is very attractive in fact," Rachel said straight...
She smiled but there was pain behind her eyes. Invisible pain. He didn't notice. It wasn't often that he did. And it wasn't that he was purposely trying to ignore her. He just lacked the cogs of the profound nature necessary to comprehend.
Ignorance is hardly ever purposeful, it just is. It's one of the mysterious jigsaw peices of life. What makes others see where some are blind?
He had brushed his teeth with 52 vertical strokes and 21 horizontal strokes after waking up that morning. She hadn't brushed her teeth at all, just like she hadn't woken up. How can one wake up when they never went to sleep?
Thin lines were visible on her pale skin like a map left open for him to follow. He didn't notice. He did notice, however, the clouds drift lazily over the midday sun.
There was a noticable strain to her expressions. Her mind was on the future. His was on last...
"I don't really think-"
"Nope! Not acceptable."
"No, I said no."
"It's not -"
"Em, come on, don't be such a chicken -"
"Will you just let me finish!" She was beginning to become a little frustrated by her friend's determination to interrupt every attempt at logic. "It's not...," she took a deep breath, intimidated by at last having caught Lara's attention. "It's just not right."
"Ha," Lara scoffed. "Plenty of things ain't right in this world."
"Like the fact that I run track yet it's you who's dating Nick, but I'm not over here complaining."
"So what? And yes! That's a complaint right there!" Em had always been insecure about her relationship with Nick, and this feeling had only increased since finding out about Lara's little crush.
"No it's not. It's fine, we've been over this. Anyway, my point is the world's not perfect. And it's not my fault Ms Moody keeps her password on her desk...
I'm no more than anther atom in this universe.
A silent hiccup, echoing through a darkness; a hungry darkness lurking outside the sun's reach.
Insignificant. Waiting for something. Anything. A match to set me alight, to send colour bleeding into view.
I'll wait, and I'll wait some more. Faithfully always.
I write to stop time. To keep a piece of myself as I am then, at that moment, frozen forever. Or simply for as long as I please.
I write to remember, so I can feel the words as keenly as when I wrote them.
Not to say it always works, but humans often do hopeless things. We're hopeful creatures doing hopeless things every day.
This is why I write - it's because I'm hopelessly hopeful. Because I'm human. I want to stop time. I want to take control. To be able to flick back at every feeling within me, just to know it's there.
I go back and edit the things I don't like, because as I change, the feelings I wrote are somehow now different. I can see the moment and all it's flaws, frozen and at my mercy.
The words never manage to fully express the emotion which is why it's so beautiful, and, so frustating. We...