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.

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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.

365 days

A poem.

 

It bites me, mocks me, 

The winter hits my heels as it runs to catch up with me 

But slow and steady wins the race,  

So I take it steady, 

I tell the winter that I love you, 

Nothing can keep me from you, not the cold. 

 

I watch as the flowers climb into to the clouds, 

I take refuge under a weeping willow, 

My book looks back at me, 

And my hair tries to dance with the wind, 

My eyes skim over the fruitless words on the page, 

Nothing keeps me more enrapt than my love for you. 

 

I see the birds start to sing as I walk towards you, 

You stare back at me,  

The heat hurts you, your tender skin, 

But the birds sing and nothing can distract me, 

Not even the starving conversation, 

From the love that I feel for you. 

 

Autumn is here, 

And it isn’t unwelcome, 

But it comes and it taunts me with bright colours- 

With others’ contentment when I feel so empty, 

But I keep on trying, 

Because nothing keeps me moving forward like my love for you. 

 

It’s winter again, 

And I look into your icy blue eyes, 

The fire burns with passion, 

But something feels off, 

Something hasn’t been right, 

I think all I thought this needed was my love for you.  

 

 

Tremble

I’ve always been uncertain about myself.

It’s the wonder at life and what created us, and it’s the whispering question in the back of my mind constantly doubting if I’m good enough for our ‘creator’. And, if there is no creator, if I’m good enough.

It’s not diffidence, definitely not. It’s not even really anything like that I’m not shy, nor am I humble. It’s fear. People can smell fear from miles away. I’m just scared; I’m scared to admit or to acknowledge that I’m good and then have it all crumble into fragments before my mind, more than I could imagine even in the most developed fragments of my imagination.

It’s the nervousness- the nervousness that I’m not doing the right thing when I’m being loud or out there, and it’s nervousness that I’ll reach my acme, so much so that’ll never get there again, and it’s nervousness that people will think that I think I’m good at things, even if I do. I don’t acknowledge that anything that I do is good, because I don’t want it to be the best that I can ever achieve.

Alas, it is not that I’m diffident or that I would rather not shout my opinions from the rooftops. It is not even that I have no faith in myself.

I think it’s because I cannot stand to be mediocre that I am so afraid of failing. To me, failure is not the lack of evidence that you’ve done well, it is the lack of evidence that you’ve done the best. Sometimes this fear- this biting sensation of not being good enough-it gets me in a twist, and I over explain because I’m so scared that I’ll get it so wrong. I need to be the best; to be the best, you have to act like it.

Sure, I’m good. But, what if I’m not so good next time?

Silent Majority

This isn’t what you think it is.

The silent majority; a a metaphor, I imagine that this could be the things that your mind screams but neither your body nor your mouth says.

Deep inside I am deeply terrified, the fear is a flaking, dank wallpaper with an unforgiving, displeasing grip on the wall. But that is only in my mind. Outside, I am scarcely scared, decorated as if I’ve just been newly fixed, arranged together, in reverie with myself and my dreams.

If only. If I fail at this the one thing that I am good at, if I don’t do amazingly, then what am I, when can I have faith in myself? I am destined to be inconsistent. But that is only in my mind.

It will all be quiet in those stressful times, when we are all together in unpoken, and yet inconspicuous worry, because when we are scared we cannot talk, it is then that we cannot resist but to give in to the silent majority of humans, we are all guilty. Our mouth cannot speak the worry, but yet it cannot speak anything else, because we cannot fathom something without fault, without inducing anxiety in the pits of our stomachs. When we are all scared of falling, of the next steps, we will be unable to speak, because we cannot say it, and would we have anything else to say if it is all that we are thinking?

It is times like those, sat rigidly, when you reprimand with an air of severity to yourself- ‘I cannot show my weakness, for if I do not then how will they know that I am weak?’- it is then that we remain silent in the hospital waiting room, it is times like these that we show no signs of livelihood within ourselves. We play to our silent majority, we discover nothing but fear inside ourselves, and would not dare have anyone else do the same.

I am terrified of saying that I am good at something, and failing at the next hurdle, to have people mock me, to be disappointed, to see that I am imperfect.

But, what are fears if not irrational? Of course, they know that we are scared, they know that we are not perfect, they know that we would not dare to admit that we are good because we are too proud to exacerbate our next failure, but we dare not realise it.

This time it is our mind and our mouths which exhibit the silent majority, not daring to think that which others dare not say.

From the bramble bush

Disclaimer: I am not sitting in a bramble bush, that would hurt.

The bramble bush of life, you may conjecture, might perhaps be the subject of this rambling; alas, it is not so.

Why the bramble bush of life? What made you jump to that conclusion? Well, perhaps it is an innate human trait(rhyme)  to assume that anything remotely bad or not immediately linked to an event is about life; that is because we have no imagination, absolutely none.

I hate to lead you on like this, I do. But I am not done explaining myself.

We lack imagination, it is simple; I am sorry that you had to find out in this way.

No, this bramble bush is about much more, and it has been around for years, I believe it would be sacreligion even, to tell you, to reveal its secrets and to vehemently cry as I am in desperation; members of secret societies do not give away the location, not the time, nor place, nor subject of the matter, they are simply too concerned about its safety, for you see, it is a lover, binding you in the most seductive way. Clandestine in every way that it can touch your body. I am concerned, however, but it has been a vicissitude, and only a vicissitude, that would lead me to where I am now. Alone, and near a bramble bush.

Our bramble bush. 

Ah, see, this bramble bush, it calls to you and it pricks like a thorn, not a bramble. It stings, like a bee, not a bramble. In the night, it loses its leaves and weeps, like a wound, not a bramble. The bramble bush is not a concept but an fear.

The bramble bush is a fluctuation of human relevance. It sheds it leaves and leaves you cold, shivering, upset, shocked. Choque. Alone.

It wakes in the morning with a scent of newness, of hope, of fearful expectation. Butterfly fear. This bush is a thorn in disguise, and yet it is a pine tree; a proprietor of sporadic intrusion, auspicious in what it says, does, the way it stretches its legs across a  road and yet helps you not to trip when you should have fallen.

I don’t know what to say other than that I am scared. You see, the bramble bush has lost its leaves for me, and yet I have them in my hands, as if I have commited this seamless crime. Perfectly it has blamed me.

The blood is on my hands and the ball is in its branches.

For, what I didn’t tell you was that it betrays you. Cajoles you, leads you by the hand and bites its lip. It shows skin and it whispers polite atrocities into your ear, and you end up biting your lip too before long and eventually you are running away with it down a darkly lit hall in your best heels and your hair is flying behind you.

Rose petals lead the way to the bedroom door, and it takes you, lays you down gently with its hand on your back. It loves the way you look in red satin.

It shuts the door and it tells you that it won’t be long.

You feel a hot flame at your foot and at first you look to Hope, Fearful Expectation- you look for Hope to tell you that it is just the coals heating, tonight you are getting a hot coal massage. Bargaining grabs you by the arm, violently, forcing you out of the desperation that breeds your assumption.

The room lights up; you can’t see, your throat closes up and your hands climb to your throat. You grab, onto your throat and onto the dark oak bedside table. Your expensive satin, for you always dress well for this dark surprise, you never know when it may bite its lip, after all, and your velvet lined shoe falls the the floor.

Before long you are surrounded by hot fire. True Fear.

It licks you, laughs and cackles. Before long you are gone. Ash. And it plants you in a seed.

That is what it does, it takes you, and destroys you. It renews you so that you think it has helped. When you grow again, when you are new, you buy a new dress, but this time it is light blue.

There is still a fire, but you never know when. Dark Hope distracts you. You forget about the fire, and it forgets to keep you safe.

False Hope is a bitch, but it’s also a bramble bush.

How I knew that it was over

The colour had faded from your cheeks when I saw you last,

You hung loosely from me when you touched my skin.

 

You used to be so supportive, so apt,

but I feel no comfort anymore, nothing fits.

 

I can’t get you off of my mind,

for you made me feel so  confident, you were a beacon of hope.

 

Everyone loved you, loves you,

when I talk of you they get jealous.

 

We just didn’t work,

it wasn’t the same the last time we met.

 

That’s how I knew it was over,

it didn’t feel right.

 

You left me comfortless,

it just wasn’t what I needed.

 

I never thought I’d be on the market again,

oh yellow bra, how you served me well.

 

 

 

The things that you didn’t want to know

You didn’t want to hear that nagging voice in the back of your mind.

You didn’t want to know what they think of you, because as a human being with real, almost palpable, dangerously thin emotions, you prefer to convince yourself of what you want to believe, because it’s easy to make excuses when you have nothing to excuse.

My point is, that it’s hard to ignore what you never wanted to hear, and much more so when you thought the opposite. Or worse? When it’s something you absolutely never wanted to happen. You never wanted to even imagine it.

As human beings, why do we just prefer to invent opinions rather than hearing them? That’s easy, because it’s easy, because it’s safer, because it’s less painful. Who wants to know that they hate you when you could just be oblivious? Who wants to know that they went behind your back when they could remain there? The truth is sometimes a lot like the Christmas present that you never wanted. Shoved to the back, unwanted, and unloved.

I often think about this; about the way that humans operate. Even when you know it’s true, you still don’t have the evidence, so it can’t be.

It’s easier to ignore that they’ve gone, that your joke at 3:56 pm yesterday just wasn’t funny, that your life has changed, a lot. It’s far easier to have fun with your friends rather than realise that they don’t actually want to behaving fun with you. It’s short term happiness, but it works.

The main thing to realise is that this is all folly, as of course is as true for everything that we do.

The things that you never wanted to know are true, so accept them. The things that you never wanted to know are stupid, so learn from their mistakes. The things that you never wanted to know are in the back of your closet, and sometimes it’s okay to just throw them out. Just don’t sit there and stare at it before you do. There can be short term happiness and long term pain. Life is unfair like that. But life is a liberalist, do what you please, but just let it go.

How to: Take it slow

From the protegee herself.

I have been going to fast. Knowing that I am young so that love doesn’t matter. but not understanding what that means. Taking it slow is taking a breath, writing slowly, taking the same amount of time to do the same things but better, more relaxed. It is about thinking and wanting, trying to understand, not feeling like you need to. I have just learnt this.

Drive a fast car but take in the scenery.

It makes me stressed, makes my heart palpitate, makes me feel like i have way less time than I actually do, makes me feel like I’m inadequate because I can’t figure things out, and makes it harder to figure things out because of the knot in my stomach when it hits me when I tell myself there isn’t much time. There is enough time.

So, how does one ‘go slowly’? Maybe it is not about doing less things, taking it piece by piece, but is instead about relishing the times when you break, or truly connecting to the things that you are doing; maybe it is not so much about the time that you do it in, but how you do it, and your frame of mind. Yes, that’s exactly it. 

1) You have more time than you think you do. Your life is not a to do list, you do not have to rush everything, just trust that you will get it done, as long as you are doing it. Write slowly, this helps me get into the right frame of mind. Realise that your life is not a ticking time bomb and not everything has to be done in T-4 seconds. You don’t have to know, you have to understand, and as long as you;re trying, you can breathe and take it slowly… more on that next.

2) Breathe. This is a no brainer- or is it? So many people live by this, and forget to actually do it; the amount of times that I’ve heard my mum breathe in and forget to breathe out is unreal.  If you find yourself writing to quickly, or thinking about the other things you have to do whilst thinking about that one other thing that you have to do and figuring out which time slot to put it in and how you will go about it is exhausting. That sentence was exhausting to read for a reason. Breathe, focus, recenter. There is no point doing something if you are not going to do it properly. Your life is not a to do list.

3) Break up with expectation. Don’t expect yourself to be perfect, and don’t ever do anything because that’s what you desire. If you find yourself doing this, as yourself if it’s what you actually like to do- pull out the bits you love of the thing that you’re doing, enjoy it. You don’t need to know everything, you can only ever try to understand, and that;’s exactly what you’re doing, right? You’re doing it well, don’t worry. The most important thing? Be honest with yourself, if you try and kid yourself, it won’t work. If you don’t know, admit it. Stop, breathe, try to figure it out. Don’t do it alone.

4) Allow yourself to stop. All too often do I find myself saying- no, not until you’ve done this or no! the successful people don’t do that. Never do that. All it does is stress me out and create the illusion of having more things to do. You’re doing enough, allow yourself the break- look ahead in the book if it makes you less stressed. Take a break from reading the article if it’s taking too long. Absolutely no one is going to judge you. I promise that you’ll feel more in control and that looking ahead or taking a break won’t make any difference. You don’t always have to power through, you don’t always have to be the perfect person, it’s tiring mentally and it creates more stress than it’s worth. YOU have enough on your plate. Here’s how to decide if you should allow yourself to do it: is it a life or death situation? Will it make you happy? You know what the answers to those questions should be, don’t you? Just, do me a favour and don’t read the last page of any book… please?

5) Remember what you love, and do that first and foremost. This keeps you happy, and it keeps you motivated. And when I say ‘love’, I don’t mean ‘make time for Instagram’, I mean capture the thing you find creatively or intellectually fulfilling, and do that first. NO, seriously, nothing else matters if you’re not happy, and you do everything better when you are. Think about it- a love for life, because you’re finding things you love about life and capturing them, remembering them everyday, reminds you of why you’re here. This has helped me the most. IT shouldn’t be forced, because if it is, it’s not love. You don’t even have to know right away- research, attempt calligraphy, or drawing an eye- read the news, write a haiku. Try everything once.  The key is, if you want to do it again, or want to know more, you need to do exactly that. Now do that first, and then do what you need to do. Seriously, you have time, it’s life. Your life is not a to do list, it is a life. A life worth living.

It’s just life, and you have a lot of it. Plenty of time. I don’t know how old you are, but I know that you have time. Your life is creativity and passion, not a workload and that constant knot in your stomach. It is as simple as a pen in your hand and a steaming coffee to your left, and a steady focus whilst you are eager to understand. It is a love for everything that you do, from the heart, and that love can be lost, but it can be recaptured. It can always be recaptured and harnessed. When you have that love, and that passion within you, you can use it for everything, It will be the fuel for your fire. Take a fast car and train it. Your life is a life. Use it.