Kissing girls

Kissing you is like kissing stars.

Girls are soft and delicate, beautiful and strong, powerful and bold. Girls kiss with intention and they kiss like they mean it. Girls mean it.

Kissing you is like kissing pillows, you are beautiful and intelligent, witty and enthusiastic.

You are out of my reach. You like me and I like you, but I fucked with you one too many times. You are soft and delicate and I want to kiss you again.

I want to hold your face and kiss your neck and I want to lie with you and feel your skin and I want to be with you.

Kissing you is like kissing dreams. You are so much fun. I love you.

Fuck Yah

Exams done.

I am going to read so much. You have no idea. This list of things that I am going to do is very long- I have been under so much stress and have worked non-stop, revising almost every night for the past two years. I have revised at least 8 hours a day everyday for the past 5 weeks. Sometimes more. On weekends? 12 hours. 9-9.

First: I’m going to Spain. And I’m going to fucking enjoy it. I’m going to eat churros. I’m going to hold my arms out to the sea and have it embrace me. I am going to learn to love the sand as it tries to burrow into all of my food, and the sun as it scolds me for enjoying it too darn much.

Second: Books. Lots of them. The Life of Pi. Weathering Heights. Emily Bronte. Everything Dan Brown has ever written. The fucking dictionary if I can.

Next: Eat. Everything. I’m going to fucking enjoy myself. It has been two years of just exams and wanting good grades. Please. I am not even kidding. I am going to devour every single chocolate cake that has ever existed to be eaten on this Earth.

After that? : Yoga. All day, everyday. I am going to read whilst I do yoga, I am going to eat, laugh, cry, talk, learn, love whilst I do yoga. God, I miss yoga. I had to stop doing it to revise around February. I want to get to know my body again.

Na: Learn Dutch. Dutch is the coolest language and I will not hear otherwise.

And Then? : I AM GOING TO FUCKING WRITE. I fucking love writing, man. About 2 years ago I started writing a book. I am about 100 pages in and I swear to the sweet Heavens above if I do not make the time to improve, add to and decoupage this book I will go to the Heavens and I will drag from it everything that it has ever loved. I am very serious about writing. My bad.

There is nothing that I am looking forward to more than this 12 weeks.

 

God I can’t wait to write.

What is it to write?

To write is to create, to sing and to dance to music with no sound, and to hear the call of the birds when there is no nature. To write is an invitation to be elsewhere.

It is the remedy to all sadness, the food of hunger and water of thirst. When you write, you are elsewhere.

I cannot wait to write- to create.

For, time is not always crucial to a good piece- I write this as a daydream (judge for yourself if this is ‘good’), fleetingly, wasting time that I don’t have- but it is like the sugar to make a cake sweeter, and the juice to stop a babies boredom.

Time is handy, it makes it rougher as the storm to which you never want to leave- the sense of belonging as rain hails down on you. Not the right metaphor, but the right feeling.

Writing is hard, but I can’t wait to do it.

Symphonies

Symphonies.

What is a song without its writer? A dance without the music? What is a soul without its truth?

What can a symphony be if not beauty, grace, spirit? What can a symphony be without you?

You have symphonies in you, kid. You have the B-flats and the E-sharps that many dream of knowing. You have symphonies running through your bright red blood and through your big red heart and out of your fingertips through to the page, the piano.

You have symphonies in you, trust me. You have secrets bound within your soul and deep within your beautiful mind and in the nature of your will. The dream is the synthesised mixture of hope, glory, and talent, and you have it all.

If ever there was a game, you could play it, a song and you could sing it, a dance and you could learn it. Anything that you try and grasp becomes yours; your dreams give themselves to you. Your legs belong to a ballet dancer and your hands to an artist, and a writer, your humour to a comedian, and your wit only to yourself. All you have is so innate and yet so learned, it is mastery of form.

You are a mastery of form, and yet form has made you. You were formed from the symphonies of kings, the soul of a star and with the light of the sun. You have hope living inside of you, magic making a home in the forest of your soul.

You are a masterpiece, a sculpture, you are the gold dust which hurricanes inside of  us in the face of beauty. You are a masterpiece and yet you carved yourself, paved your way, built your house with bricks and pure desire.

You have it all but you’d give it all away. You would give it all away and still have everything. You are an enigma, gold dust, perfection.

I feel a cheat to call you perfection, because you are not. You embody perfection, touch it like a feather and teach it how to talk and walk and love and laugh and learn. You are the student and yet you are the teacher, the moon and yet the sun. You are a shadow yet so full of light.

Your breath is confidence, your voice is our hope.

You don’t just have symphonies, kid, you are the symphony.

Panic attacks

I splutter, my body shakes and it feels worthless.

They are not as bad as other people’s but every little thing matters.

It’s not as if I can’t breathe its just that I can’t not cry.

I want to succeed, I have the will, the motivation, the work ethic, but I don’t feel like I have the smarts, what if I am not as good as everyone thinks that I am? I am so worried that I will not be able to prove myself in my exams, because I do believe that I can do it, and I do want to go far in life.

It sucks that this is what determines if I go to Oxford or Cambridge or the college that I want to.

It sucks that there is no second chance.

I know I try, I just want them to know too.

I love it when you cry

Or do I?

When I see the blue rivers stream down your face, I love you. I want to take you into my arms and to comfort you; I want to be your coffee cup, warming you up and talking you down.

But I can’t. I cannot find the words. How do I find the words? How do you tell somebody that means everything to you that they mean the most to you whenever and whereever they are?

I love it when you cry. I love that you have emotion, a passionate fire within you, encompassing so much that it brings you tears. But I do not love that you feel the fire lick your skin, that you feel it breed ashes on your arms, on your legs.  I do not love that you have to find water to extinguish it, to besiege your opposition.

And so you are the source. The source of your own pain, yes. But the source of my love, my amazement, my stars, my moon. You are my night and my morning.

You are the source of your own river, aching and trembling as you fight back the desperate destruction which hunts to kill, roams only to destroy.

When you cry, it is the most beautiful river, but the most destructive flood, and you are filled with the most red fire, which only you can fight, only you can combat.

I am the one watching on. Stargazing. I want so badly to take you into my mind, to help you to explore the ways in which I love you, I want to take you away into safety, refuge. I want to say a thousand words that will make you feel better.

But I can’t. I cannot find the words to fight your fire. I cannot find the water to extinguish your flames.

All about London.

The bustle of busy people fills your ears. Your head space. But what a wonderful head space to be in.

The rush of business is one virtue of this big city- and it’s a big city for a reason; so many people flock to London to travel, to browse the small corner bookshops, to taste the pastry in a distracting coffee shop, purely because they enjoy the feeling of the breeze. Of course, that would be the breeze as a taxi joins the excited clamour of the London roads.

This city truly is a microcosm of living- anticipation, hope, emotion fill the air and are engraved in the gravel. The tube is an excellently fast way of getting around without exhausting the soles of your shoes, but the real pleasure is navigating your way around this chatty city and feeling it guide you along like an old friend.

So, if you’re considering, even a little, visiting this vast wonderland, consider your favourite coffee, the most thrilling adventure, and the most authentically unauthentic food, but add laughter, happiness, mystic, and the intriguing hum of the city streets, and just go.

The train.

A poem.

 

She sits on a train,

Head against the window,

Chest against the wall,

Vibrations filling all of her body.

 

Thoughts caressing all of her,

whispering that she is a sweet nothing.

 

Blurred fragments of it all stretch themselves,

Bending backwards to isolate her,

They stare at her whilst she stares through them,

And she shuts her eyes to shut it out.

 

Abused by the sight of their liberty,

gripped by the words that she tries to run away from.

 

She feels the pain on her face,

And the lust in her body,

She feels disgrace on her chest,

And the game in her body.

 

She hears the waste of his mouth,

and breathes the taste of his hell.

 

She sits on a train,

And the pain sits on her shoulders,

Until all of the muscles are twisted,

And all of her strength is gone.

 

She is weak because she is with him,

it is all dark because she is with him.

 

She stares out at the dark green,

Small blobs,

And it makes her want it more,

But she is broken.

 

She feels her body collapse, 

but her she scrunches up her eyes.

 

She is the most broken of them all,

And she stares at the trees,

Until her eyes bleed with the sights she could’ve seen,

And her mind bleeds with the thought of him.

 

He touches her,

Takes her for himself.

 

She sits on a train,

She is going to nowhere,

She is nowhere when she is with him,

She means nothing when she is with him.

 

The trees stare back at her,

Sharp pines that remind her of it all.

 

Interrupted buzz fills all of her,

Vibrates her body,

Hurts her more,

But she is broken.

 

Her cheek is wet,

Her chest is bruised.

 

It is nothing to her now,

Her body is shame,

He has made her into nothing,

Her life is his game.

How would the cows feel?

An in depth look at their thoughts and feelings…

What would the cows think if they saw all of that left over milk in your cereal bowl? As it will stand neglected, abandoned, and lonely.

What might they say to you if they understood that you only did it for your own selfish reasons? After all, we do it so that we can have softer cereal, a more well rounded bowl of cereal- but what do the cows think about this?

It’s an attack on their trust, as we take their milk and neglect to use it all, they feel forsaken, left in the shadows; they are underappreciated, unacknowledged, but most of all, they are underutilised.

You see, the thing that cows want most for their milk is to feel as though we want it- and how can that be when we leave it behind, not fully loved, and relinquished.

You see, the thing that cows crave to win is our gratitude for their work, for their only work.

But alas, the cows have surrendered. They can fight no more, they have given up trying to convince us anymore to not be wasteful.

Once more, tomorrow, you will fill your bowl. You will cover your cornflakes, your shreddies, your weapons of choice with resplendent, acclaimed milk. Once more, you will add too much, in lust for the virtues it contains, for we all know how wonderful milk can be. But this excess, this unthinking nightmare decision will force you to leave some behind, whilst you take its counterparts for yourself.

How will the cows feel then? When you have once more valued the cereal, over a cows best work?

Poetry for the heart

A Poem.

 

As a scrawl of words to a writers best work,

you are my everything.

 

As the endless drafts to seed the art,

you cling to me,

we grow together.

 

Sewn into me,

bound to me,

as a writers pen to his hand.

 

And then like the destruction of a storm to his loose pages,

you grab me,

make me cry whilst saying nothing.

 

Like the words on his pages,

your hands rip into me,

into the delicate binds of my heart.

 

It tries to pump but does nothing,

I feel nothing,

like a bad book on a bad day.

 

Like the writer embellishes his words,

purple and blue decoupage covers me,

red paint tries to stick me back together,

 

And then you touch me,

your delicate mouth on mine,

like a book with a happy ending.

 

And then you force me back together,

you are forced to be mine,

you are the only one that can fix me,

you’re the man.