Poem idea

20:95

Blunt scissors hack

open a wound in the

back of your neck, exposing

white insides and betrayal.

The toy he left behind,

as well as me,

was turned limp and

spineless by years of

his abuse, his love.

One minute he’d lick

you tenderly, resting on

you like a pillow,

carry you wherever

he deemed fit to go.

Then he’d turn, teeth

ripping fabric and

throwing white stuffing

like confetti, littering

the air and floor.

Now, years later, I

force new insides into

your thinned skin,

plumping you up,

giving you strength to

stand again on legs

long weak and unstable.

Do you feel grateful,

as I sew back up the wound?

Or have I erased the last

trace of him left, making

him more dead than ever?

You are strong now,

no longer his toy,

and part of me hates

you for it.

Poem idea

This one’s more of a rant than a poem

20:94

I don’t know how

they’re getting in,

he smiled, all good natured.

They smirked back, glints

of victory and deceit

claiming the street and

its residents. No one

new was allowed to

settle here, who didn’t

do what they wanted,

who didn’t thank them

for their inconsideration.

Their loud arguments,

music, banging is the

rhythm of existence. If

you don’t praise it, you

are Satan. Try and protect

yourself and have a

brick through your dreams,

hope, security.

I don’t know how

they’re getting in.

They’ll always get in.

You cannot win.

Accept it,

and perish.

Poem idea

20:93

Tentative roots being placed

with every brush stroke.

There is resistance, at

first, from a house already

abandoned before. Backlash

is harsh, the hand shakes

and pauses for months

and months. A large

intake holds our world

in place, before a

defiant release shakes

it awake and renews

determination. The paint

is thicker, the root

stretching into the

foundation, wrapping

around and fusing their

cores together. It’s now

receptive to influence,

interior changing, atmosphere

of peace as a house becomes

a home once more.

Perhaps, this time, the

core will stay forever.

Poem ideas

20:91

I’ll do nothing,

because I can’t decide.

Too many choices

and they’re building up,

threatening to rise

and rise and

expose me, for

the fraud and

half-assed dedication

I have to my life,

my ideas.

I’ll choose nothing.

I am nothing.

20:92

Bees though my window

and floor, a route

they forge ahead, even

when the glass bars

their way. Dedication

to work, then die, for

a queen that dies

with them.

Do they ever feel

joy for life?

Do they know they’re one

death away

from extinction?

Poem idea

20:90

I have two great loves.

Both can never know the other,

so I keep them separate,

like a love affair.

I’m not sure which is which.

One is a passion throughout

my life, sometimes

all-consuming, second-to-

none…

Sometimes barely present,

any attempts to spark

fizz out and leave

only frustration.

The other came later,

unbreakable and endless

comfort. My world.

They met once, my

two loves, crossing paths

to please me. Constant

watched Passion, no

understanding, no connection,

only giving me a

humouring smile and

leaving us alone.

Passion uses Comfort,

sometimes with anger,

disappointment, love…

and endless need.

Always need.

If Comfort understood

Passion, would they

know me better? Or

is it meant to be that

only Passion knows me

fully, but never

stays by my side

to offer forever.

No one can know me

fully, even myself.

So I keep them separate,

like a love affair.

Poetry Readings on Youtube

So, I’ve been avoiding this for weeks because I am not a confident person, but I know this is something I need to start focusing on. When I just finished uni about ten years ago I was confident enough to go to readings and open-mic nights and read my work. I was nervous, and I didn’t read well, but I did it, and that was a big deal for me. The latest public reading I’ve done was a speech at my wedding nearly two years ago.

So to get better and more confident at reading my work, I’m going to start uploading poetry reading videos on Youtube. The quality won’t be great, but it’s something I need to get used to doing. When the world is normal again and I’m doing my masters course I’ll try attend open-mic nights too (if it doesn’t clash with my night job).

Eventually I want to start experimenting with music to accompany the readings, to help research my poetry and music idea.

So forgive the quality and my fourlough appearance, but if anyone has any helpful tips on reciting better, or maybe even suggestions for a good-quality webcam, please let me know.

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