poetry

Some Old Lover’s Ghost

Oh, I long to talk to some old lover’s ghost,

To learn a little bit of what it’s like to fly with angels,

So in love you think you see Heaven.

Oh, how I wish to see looks of love and malice-

So twisted and rotten that I can no longer tell the difference-

Hatred mistook for passion;

Guilt mistook for kindness.

Oh, how I ache steal another lover’s dreams,

And be visited by anything than our long-dead love,

But even with you buried, I find myself haunted.

And you know I cannot lie,

You were right,

I am nothing without you.



But I suppose I should find comfort in knowing you are now also nothing without me.

Perhaps that is why you visit me so-

To beg me to release you from this brick prison.

Oh, how you must know there is no place for you outside these walls.

And once I and this house are gone, there will be no one left for you to taunt.

On Writing · poetry

oh, honey

Oh, honey,

There’s no need to throw

Your concern around like

A balloon in the wind,

Just constantly wafting around my

head.

I’m fine!

I would not be so vain

To write everything about me;

And I would not be so

Un-artful

To only take inspiration from

That which is closest to me.

On Writing · poetry

yes, this one’s sarcasm too

Excuse me,

but the sun is sinking and

I must bid you farewell

And crawl back into my cave

Of parchment and torment;

The walls are covered in the

Graffiti of my innermost

Desires and regrets,

And every night I lie surrounded,

Reading and re-reading

Every terrible line,

Every spelling mistake

And bad punctuation.

It’s a hard life

Being a poet,

But please,

Feel free to make it harder-

Oh, cruel world-

Happiness will only make it worse.

 

poetry

the city doesn’t care

The city has a story to tell.

Rumour has it you do too,

But I’m afraid you won’t always

Be around to tell it.

Sure, you can feel tall and mighty

Watching beetles on the pavement,

But riddle me this:

I was once 11,

Now I’m 21;

Soon I’ll be 31,

Then 101…

 

Look up at the clouds and skyscrapers;

The city doesn’t care

About the people on the pavement.

It doesn’t even see the beetles.

This universe

Works the same way too;

In light years you might as well

Not exist…

Yet you still insist

That your writing isn’t good

And rejection hurts

???

Dead people would call you crazy.

The universe doesn’t care,

So listen to the ghosts,

And stop caring too.

 

Inspired by J. Truant’s book ‘The Universe Doesn’t Give a Flying F**k About You’ 

On Writing · poetry

I’ll try harder next time

I’m afraid today’s poem won’t be much good.

The sun on my skin

Is making me far too happy,

And I keep accidentally saying

‘Good morning’,

‘Hello’,

and ‘Good day’

to the people who walk by.

I tried coming outside

To be inspired by my loneliness,

But I’m afraid I’m more inspired

By the green, green grass

And the bright blue sky

Than I am by my own

Free solitude.

I’ll try harder next time.