Stars

What if-
like pin pricks through cloth,

stars act

as windows on walls,
passing visions

of heaven, 

through black

to earth.

A brief poetic thought about the roles of stars in the solar system. Inspired partly by Sylvia Plath's observational style of poetry and partially by the Les Mis song Stars as performed in the 2012 film rendition. 

Abolition

He was a shadow
and his body moved
across the cobbles
As swift as the night
at the peak of summer

Isolated
in a place where night and day
are defined only by the glimmer of light
that pulls itself through the smog quilted sky

And where strangers pass by
judging each other on the quality of their palms
"Chapped" and "almost white"
but not quite enough

to please these blowzy men
donning flatcaps and unironed shirts
who scoff, at the surface
of an issue
they cannot begin to comprehend

Creating hierachies
of race
to replace the one of class
they fight so poignantly
to abolish

He speaks.
when he can
with a voice balmy as air
though laden with burden
his freedom tainted by history
not yet made historic

A short poem inspired by the channel 4 series The Mill, specifically the character Peter Gardener. The show is set in a Victorian mill, we see the male workers fighting for class equality, forming unions to help them earn a fairer wage, and yet amongst this attempt to create equality, there is an undertone of racism when a man joins the village from a slave plantation, and is immediately ostracised.
In the poem I refer to Peter as a "Shadow", his placement in the village is seen to be temporary and we often see him sat alone, pushed into the darkness by the other workers. Men who work just as hard as Peter turn their backs on him, simply due to the colour of his skin. The show helps to highlight the issues of racism, sexism and class prejudices that were alive at the time. 
In the 3rd stanza I talk about the way people judged each other "on the palms of their hands", I use the adjectives "chapped" and "almost white" to describe Peters hands, "chapped" reflecting the damage caused by hard work. I used the phrase "almost white" as a direct reference to a quote from the show (The Mill) when a naive character sees Peters hands and states "they aren't black on the inside".
I hope I have been able to touch upon the issues highlighted in the show.

You & I

I
would tell you
everything
if I had
secrets
to share

I'd
unload my
troubles
onto
the shelf of
your shoulders
release worries
onto
aching palms

You'd
feel
the weight
of my worries
as heavy
as they are
fall gently
into your keeping

I
trust
you'd hold
them close
as I
would
yours

Another bottle dry

Shot- like a pin prick through my spine
Bleeding like a barrel full of wine
I pour myself out
Pick up a glass
and drink the whole world out
Tomorrow i'll be nothing but a headache
A hungover reminder of a life that once was

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? 

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.

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

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

Work In Progress Poem

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.

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.

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.