Ecstasy

The addict-
inhaled her into his lungs-
replaced nicotine with flesh and blood-
rolled his body around her like a joint.
His body a mixture of two parts paranoia-
and one part anxiety.

Sweats,
shakes,
rejection,
exhaling her from his lungs-
before taking another drag.

Trembling hands-
as she parts from his lips-
her perfume clings to him like cigarettes-
                         Like ecstasy she will push him to the edge

This poem was inspired by the relationship between recovering addicts and their partners, I thought about the idea of quitting an addiction for the person you love, essentially replacing the addiction with the person and becoming addicted to them. in this poem the addict replacing drugs and alcohol with his girlfriend. i questioned what would happen when the relationship breaks down, would the person be able to cope with another dose of withdrawal? 

Melt with the wind

We met at first in the Autumn
she had a cold.
her nose pinched as red as a raspberry
her distant Welsh accent
peering from behind
her nasal toned voice
and thick woolen scarf
teal,
her favourite colour,
fortunately,
as it complimented her eyes
in a way that made hem glow-
she glowed,
in a world so desaturated by tragedy,
she radiated colour
and with this gift she bought hope.

Her name at this point
is still unknown
but the urge to call her my own
is stronger than any
formation of syllables
could ever be.

For our first date
she took me somewhere
I had never been before,
the world seemed different
to me on this day,
its sky a richer shade of amber,
its air sweeter
than it had ever tasted before.
My mind more focused
on the temperature of her hands
than the world at our feet.

It is upon reflection
that I now realise,
it was not the season
that had changed
but something within me
the sepia tinted leaves
and apple scented sky
was of her creation
her hands moulded around
the earth,
contorting it to her design.

She stepped back
and watched it bloom
through my eyes
watched the seasons
come and die
and her lips began to curve
as she watched the leaves
shrivel with age
and melt with the wind
she laughed at the sound
of their crumpled corpses
as she danced upon their graves.

Within her heart,
she holds
that childish enthusiasm
for the minor details,
I often watch
as she gazes upon
a glitter of dust,
or rainbow of colour
dancing through the air.

My heart quivers
at the thought of growing old,
her skin melting like snow,
bones crumbling like sugar
her tears will fall like rose petals-
like autumn leaves
we will melt with the wind

Never before have I attempted to write a poem at such length from the point of view of a male protagonist. The idea for this piece sprang from the film Ruby Sparks: a beautiful fulm about a writer who's character comes to life and they embark on a life changing relationship. I explored the moment shared between to characters upon their first meeting and built upon the relationship from their. It was refreshing to create a characters so refreshingly simple for once and these two unnamed characters are ones that I will be working with in the near future.

Days Mourning Gown

That far left side, the abandoned road, empty it lies, as passers-by pull in from time to time.  The land beside it filled with new born, a gift, as death leaves the land to mourn the harsh months of past, and blesses the soil with fragile youth not yet tainted by the months to come. A casket heart on a silver chain encloses a photograph, the travelers leave their mark on it, with tire marks and dirt. A memory to keep with the heart; worn into the road. The night begins to dress itself in days mourning gown as it contemplates the day gone by and ponders what will come of the next year.

A short story in which I was asked to include a randomly chosen object, setting, season and time of day without specifically naming them. I was given the setting: hard-shoulder of the motorway, time of day: evening, object: locket and season: spring. I hope I was able to actively conveyed these themes through this short prose without leaving my own writing style behind.

Just a crumpled piece of card

I wasn’t expecting to be used

I wasn’t expecting to be abused

To be a family portrait pinned to a cork board

Just a small yellow pin pressed against my spine

Each pixle a memory, punctured by pins

My body the remains of a crumpled piece of card

No I wasn’t expecting to be used

To be a balloon filled with helium falling from the sky

The promise of freedom, tied down by a string

Death just a needle prick away

I wasn’t expecting to be abused

To be a Barbie doll wrapped in sweet wrapper dresses

Lips painted bubble gum pink

Straw hair bleached to perfection

Being pulled by whichever child wants to take me off the shelf

I wasn’t expecting to be abused

That virgin apple, you just had to take a bite

So fresh It melts on your lips

And slides down your throat

I was asking for it they said

But I wasn’t expecting it to be you

That boy with the butterscotch lips who didn’t hear the word no

I wasn’t expecting it to be you

Spoken word poem inspired by the work of Jeanne Verlee, I am hoping to set up a youtube channel soon so that I can post audio clips of the spoken word series read aloud, as on paper they do not convey the emotion I targeted. The brief was to write a poem focusing around an issue, I chose rape. There is a poem by Neil Hilborn and Renee Schminkey entitled One Colour, which deals with the issue of rape, they describe how society preaches that there is one kind of rape, one type of girl walking down that one part of town who gets targeted, not the truth that it is far more complex than that, I really advise you take a look at the links I have posted, they are amazing poets and such inspirational poems.

My poem, in my opinion is a bit too repetitive but I wanted to try and work on something longer than my usual posts, which are often only two or three stanzas long. 

Fragile Touches

Fragile touches

Grazing over sun-kissed skin

Lips stumbling over

Hushed lullabies and simple songs

Silent whispers pass

From one mouth to another

Exchanging stories from

Days come and gone

Fragile

I feel the warmth

A fresh vulnerability

Untainted

Unspoken 

I have been so scared to post this poem, I finished it weeks ago after over a month of worrying about it. It's not my best poem by far, but it is one that I am proud of. 

Also just a note to say thank you to all of my readers, who continue to read my posts, I sincerely appreciate all of your support.

Lets trade our swords for roses and surrender into each others arms, sending lust-filled battle cries into the night.

A quick poetic thought based around the idea of lovers being on opposing teams. I've been hooked on the BBC series The White Queen recently (more specifically the relationship between Anne Neville and Richard iii). The Tudor period is one that has always fascinated me and the divide between the Lancastrian side and York side is such a strong divide that if two people on opposing sides they would have to put their feelings aside.

Floral Decay

A room full of floral decay
That bittersweet smell of mixed perfumes
Lingers, and the waft of stale summer air
Waltzes down the aisle
That awkward time stuck between
A blistering summers day
And the ice frosted night
A note to congratulate the bride
And the groom
That couple that wont even last the night
Divorces are expensive I think
As the pen hits the paper

As part of a task I was given a random: object, setting and time of day. I got: a wedding in a church, a letter and the afternoon. I really don't know how this managed to take such a depressing (yet comical) turn as I was planning on something rather romantic.

Blackened Frost

Sea of flowers , bursting with petals
stained  a solemn yellow tint
through years of death and decay
A demure hurricane wanders through
With blackened frost
A selcouth sight of the night
Thrusting back the whitened sky of yesterday
That threatens tomorrow nights dreams.

In this poem I took inspiration from the extraordinary poet Emily Dickinson who in many poems reinvented words, for example the adjective white was used in the quote "Dare you see a soul at the white heat?" as a colour of love and danger, in the same poem the colour red is also described as "fire's common tint". It is perhaps Dickinson's reinvention of popular word connotations that makes her work so interesting, it causes the reader to re-think what words mean to them.
I explored the meanings of the following words, not changing their meaning but the connotations that go with them.
Flowers: natures gravestone 
Yellow: A sour colour of mourning and age
Black: a friendly warm colour of hope and prosperity 
White: A colour of danger and mourning 
Hurricane: A welcome gust of wind and drizzle 
Frost: A friendly feeling of presence (similar to the feeling of being hugged)

On The Mantelshelf

The glistening ornaments shone in the misty sunlight, crystals, glasses of green and red- diamonds, the children giggled, wide eyes gazing into the empty cottage. Through fear the wind may catch the door, they creaked it open slowly and before shutting the latch behind them. Like boys in a candy store the girls marveled at the decorative creations, glazed eyed and open mouthed.Millie, being only 16 and still violently naive, stretched out a hand, leaning towards an old oak music box, before having it violently snatched away by Lou. "Do you want to wake her?" she hissed silently before resting the box back in its place.

Picking a random paragraph in a book of childrens stories I put pen to paper and chose to continue the story with just one more paragraph. Knowing nothing about the story (after having read only one paragraph) i chose to focus on the naive nature of the two girls and their child like facination with the ornaments on Miss Parsons mantelshelf.

I pray the flowers teach me how to blossom,
To open my mind with the morning dew,
Keep firm roots and let the path of the wind guide me

Betrothed To My Burden

If you should find yourself
Unbeknowingly betrothed to my burden
Smite it down
Tear at its dreams, its hopes and its passions.
Do it so, with lack of lust
No compassion nor craving for its eternity
No infinite love, or never ending cycle

The Tale Of Mrs Appleton- child literature experimentation

A timid creature, of around fourteen years, although no one knows for sure, Mrs Appleton is an elderly hedgehog who lives at the bottom of Young Spring Woods in an old cottage tree stump, made of antique oak.
Loved by all the animals, Mrs Appleton is never short on visitors and a fresh pot of tea is always brewing on the chance that a passer-by might be in need.
The winters are harsh and hibernation is a curse for those who love a clean house but spring greets the animals with a warm smile and fresh flowers filling old jam-jars, along with a collection of new-born lambs and chicks, each coated in a thick home-made jumper knitted with the finest sheep's wool and by the most delicate hands.
Mrs Appleton may be old but her home is always thriving, giving the story-teller a host of new tales to tell.
One thing is certain, as certain as the leaves are green, Mrs Appleton is loved by all she meets.

Iv been dabbling in the art of child literature recently, taking inspiration from one of my favourite childhood authors Beatrix Potter, this short story explains the life of an elderly hedgehog called Mrs Appleton. The tale above is aimed at a child audience and although I know little about children I have always had a passion for their literature. The story below follows the same tale but is aimed at a more adult audience due to the extended vocabulary. The idea of an enchanted forest with live animals carrying human traits is a concept that can be enjoyed by all ages and I wanted to translate the story so that it could be.

The Tale Of Mrs Appleton (Adult version) 
A timid creature, of around fourteen years, although no one knows for sure; with fragile spines made of porcelain and eyes that glitter, with a distant youthful viritity. Her age shown only through the journey mapped around the fragile lines of her eyes.
An aesthete, a precocious raconteur with tales to fill a thousand hearts and a delicate smile; neither wifty nor naive, but eloquent, knowingly blessed by the land.
Her cottage filled with tea stained air, built up over years of passers-by and dust dancers, unsettled by the sunrise through the bark encrusted windows, peering over to the selcouth forest named Young Spring Woods.

Poetry- Spoken Word Poem

Who cares for a hum of rhythms and rhymes?
Just a song to be sung that no one wants to sing
Poetry
Pointless noises and motions swirling around the heads of believers and dreamers
While the outsiders stand confused and dazed
Wondering why they can't see inside the heads of these so called artists

That childish notion that saying it aloud will somehow make it better
That someone, somewhere will hear your cry
And rush with aided arms
They will hear the words you are screaming, bleating aloud
But no one cares to listen to the words, your shallow hushed tones
With little or no meaning to him nor her

No matter how much you bleat and cry somebody is always going to turn a blind eye
Because someone else will always scream louder
Cry a little harder
And ring their lyrics through the ears that you are so desperate to reach
But just because you are wrong, does that mean you are not right?
For in someone's ears your words ring true

And as the wind passes through your ears and you hear that birdsong one final time
May you scream at the top of your lungs
"Listen to my name! Do I not deserve to tell my truth?"
Will they cry with you
Or turn shallow heads in shame?
I do not know

But I say it is worth it
Your song to be sung by yourself alone may only reach one ear
But that is one more than the silent
Your voice matters
It matters more or less than another? no
Equal to all


Let your voice be heard
Poetry

(This poem was written to be spoken to aloud)
Some people are so closed minded, poetry to them is just a string of words chosen only to make english teachers have something to teach, but that is not the case. Language is a tool that we use in order to survive! it doesn't take a genius to string together a rhyme, but to understand it, to feel the words when you say them aloud, that takes passion and understanding.
The thought behind this poem was sparked by John Green's most recent VlogBrothers video, entitled "Poetry Makes Nothing Happen", probably one of my favorite VlogBrother videos to date. If you have not seen it already please do take a moment to check it out (link bellow) 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nDwTjPsG4b0

Soldiers Of The Sea

Laughter Fragile as a dream
Its temporary song be heard
As passers-by sing with the wind
The sorrow of the bird

Games may trace this summers edge
Be tainted by the fall
While the sea birds sing their waltzing song
And dance upon the wall

For how the sand turns with the tide
Forgotten by the seas
Rolling o're lambent waves
Sorrowful yet at ease

These tides may pull our heart strings tight
And tease at bibelot dreams
But in my soul our dream still sings
For your love gave me wings

Upon the shore his heart did lie
And buried on the land
Still to this day his song sings true
The melody of the sand

Inspired by the song Watercolours by English folk band Salt Water Thief  specifically the chorus "Because i'm made of watercoulors and I will die, it a brush in my hand you in my mind" 
the poem (to me) explores the life of a sailor who leaves his true love on the shore while he goes out to sea, she keeps up her hopes that he will return and they will live their dreams together, but sadly the story takes a turn for the worst and his life is taken by the sea leaving his childhood sweetheart alone. 
I wanted to expore rhyming patturns in this poem and although I didn't stick to a strict pattern, I enjoyed the challenge of the rhyme. 

Work In Progress Poem

Jackanape

Jackanape, drifting through the streets
A broken mind torn by time
"Heretic" the townsfolk cry 
Thrusting abuse in his path 
Beleaguered and beaten 
He wanders on 
The zephyr calling his name 
Haunted by the fallacy of his past 
Only one bibelot of of truth 
Lingering in his mind 

28.12.60

Sheltered under the cloak
Of a book 
Physics probably
Not one to dabble in creativity 
He claims
With a violin perched at his side

My poetic acquaintance
With the pen at his lips 
Pressing glass eyes to paper words
"Meaningless drivel" 
He claims 
As he eagerly turns to the next page

Glass stars and crystal moons
Tiptoeing over time and space
Round his head and onto his page
Misunderstood 
He claims 
As he hides for another day 

I picked a random book from my school library and looked at the library card in the front, I chose a random name from the small list of people who had borrowed it and wrote a poem about the type of person who I imagined them to be. 
The boy had borrowed the poetry book on the 28th December 1960, I imagined him to be smart and have a passion for science but have a hidden creative flair that he tries to keep hidden from the world.

Honour

A badge of pride tis honour
Who chose you?
Be it the coward in the corner
Trembling with fear
Hath he no honour?
Or that cold blooded killer
With the smirk across his cheeks
And the blade between his claws
Hath he no honour either?

To judge and to be judged 
You have no right
But hath you the right
To love and to be loved  
For who you are
Yes
For you are honour 

Wear it upon your sleeve 
Across your heart
And in your head
Pray it never leaves
And he will never leave

A poem inspired by Falstaff's monologue during act 5 scene 1 of the Shakespeare play Henry IV (Part 1) the monologue reads 
"Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on? how then? Can honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour? what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o’ Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. ‘Tis insensible, then. Yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I’ll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon: and so ends my catechism."

During his monologue the lovable coward Falstaff explores the idea of honour and what it is, for he is not an honourable solider and cowers at the thought of battle. In my response I debate who it is who chooses whether we wear the metaphorical badge of honour and what the meaning of the word is.

Perpetual Tides

Roll over with the stormy seas
And time forgotten sands
Hearts wash up 
And wander through 
With bleeding red passion 
Flickering on and off 
Through the hollow duskhouse
A fragile moment 
Stolen and gone
By a crystal eyed stalker 
Bearing nothing but his heart
And a single dead flower

I was given a task to write a poem including a set of words, I was assigned the words: sea, red, duskhouse, crystal, stalker and flower. A nice set of words actually that made me think about about the way love comes and goes like the tide.However there is always one person who, like the sea, we cannot hold onto, in this case the "stalker" loves a girl so much that he sits day in day out watching lovers come and go with the sea, awaiting the return of his one true love.

I covet

I covet
To pour into your arms
To feel the heat of your breath trembling across my skin
To edure the sound of your voice with its shallow hushed tones
Echoing through my skull

I covet
To entwine my soul within yours
And feel the sharp rise and fall of your chest with mine
To feel our clumsy fingers stumbling over untouched skin
With a perpetual yearning

I covet
To stumble over long goodbyes
And feel your arms release me for the last time
To scream your name and cry your tears
With my recalcitrant heart

I covet 
To never release your hand
To find you when your heart is lost 
And endear your every breath 

I covet

A poem inspired partly by a beautiful song by Christina Perry called The Lonely, and partly by the passionate relationship shared between Cam and Lilith in the Fallen series by Lauren Kate. I also took inspiration from the film The Deep Blue Sea. I wanted to expand on the feeling of longing, to love someone with such strong intensity and to experience the feeling of true love. 

Bitter Broken Heart

If at any moment
Your heart may utter my name
Silence it
Tear its words from your chest
And banish them
From your thoughts

Run a silver dagger
Along your lips
To stain her lips
As you tainted mine

Slip a sinful poison
Into your drink
And whither a slow
And painful heartache

May your suffering soul
Cry out in pain
A Sorrow filled scream
Strangled by my lust for you

Inspired by the poem Havisham by Carol Ann Duffy, I explored the feelings of heartache and envy, telling the tale of a girl who's heart has been shattered to many times to ever recover.

Where We Were

If
You should ever
Need: a friend,
A sister
Or a stranger
To listen
To your thoughts
When you're: frightened,
Worried
Or Lonely 
I'll be there
I'll be where 
I always was
And where we used to be

Just a short poem, inspired by the poem If I Should Die Before You Do by Richard Brautigan, I was intrigued by the structure of his poetry and thought it would be fun to try and mimic this style. His work appears to flow in a rigid way like human speech, stumbling through the words as if the reader is almost afraid of what they are saying.

The Church

Freedom expelled from the hearts of the believers
Tortured and beaten
They fell to the ground

United they lie
Hollow shells of the men they once were
Souls driven out by the fear within them

Bricked up and banished
The kingdom fell into disarray
The wild ones were gone



Inspired by the Black Veil Brides newest album Wretched And Devine. Its defiantly proving to be a strong source of inspiration for me at the moment.

Sepia Tint

Sepia tinted windows and doors
Time fingers itself down the chipped paint walls
Tracing the fine lines of the ceiling and the floor
Tiptoeing across the roaring creaks of the floorboards 

Sepia stained memories
A time when the sun peeked through the curtains
And danced through the trees 
Wild as a blood velvet rose

Sepia kissed lips 
Lyrics of love: coated in vinyl 
Three dimensions of perfect imperfections
Echoing a noise filled silence

Sepia worn tears
Phrases of love, hope and regret 
Running down the page
Written on paper and signed with a black ink kiss

Sepia painted sunshine 
Warm glowing memories, coated in silver
Where trench-coats and gas masks
Are dying with age

Context: A nostalgic poem inspired partly by the film Midnight in Paris and by the incredible singer King Charles, following the idea being that yesterday is always going to be better than today and that ideas ,including love, only deteriorate with time. The sepia tinted world that I discuss in this poem is reference not only to the sepia tinted photographs seen in old photographs, but also to the warm friendly atmosphere that it gave to the photographs. 

A Prize Of Some Sort

Sepia tinted, spiralling lights made up of rubies, emeralds and ambers drifting through the sky. The sticky sweet stagnant air lingers on my breath a bitter sweet reminder of yesterday. A hollow sound whips through the empty rides, with the sorrow hum of loneliness. I break.
Sitting on the edge of the battered old swing set, the rusty chains creak as I move, making me feel slightly less alone. I adjust my vision, the bold black rims cracked and smudged with yesterdays memories. Tracing the line of my collar bone I clutch hold of a new silver chain lying solemnly against my chest, a prize of some sort won by some sweetheart that left me along with the night.

Context: a short story written at a creative writing session, I randomly chose an object, place, time of day and season (fairground, pair of glasses, morning and autumn)
the story tells the tale of a morning after a night at the fair, where the subject can not remember what happened, she is left with a new necklace, broken glasses and a blurred memory of the night before.

Jester

Jester they cried
To the black and white fellow
With the tears in his eyes