Dis Poem

Take her to the cinema...

Small talk does not apply.
You haven't long to explain yourself, share your flaws and celebrate each others strengths;
the film is starting.
Naturally you walk in as it begins, avoid the agony of silence over trailers.

Beside you, his frame compliments yours. His movements sooth you subconsciously until he settles:
facing forward. 
Your heart beat quickens. In the dark, it could be just the two of you.
His hand rests on his knee but his little finger moves slightly
every now and then,
as if he wants to extend it and have it touch yours.
It happens.
Softly, gently, your remaining fingers find his; a slight caress. And the receptors in your brain jump
up and down, up and down.
Your heart - infinetly wise and intuitive of your needs - gives an inaudiable sigh of relief.
You feel you've met your maker.

First cold, but slowly warming, his skin is slightly rough, and the big hand dwarfs your own.
You stroke the innerside of his thumb.
Beat by beat you feel through each other. Every movement as if my magic sends the nerves at the very tips of your fingers coursing through your body to land as a lump in your throat.
You want to swallow, but the moment resounds as such perfect silence that the notion itself is too loud.

Voices may boom around you and images flash but when your palm travels upwards, ever-so-slightly to meet his, it's just that perfect silence.
It's a wonder how he knows to pass his hand along yours, down to the base of your wrist. Your pulse,
will certainly give you away.
You laugh because other people do, with no clear understanding of anything,
sensation having replaced conciousness. 
The elements have shifted and manifest as energy shared purely through the involuntary, perfect touches between two, in the dark.

You haven't looked at each other yet. What's happened in this film? You walk out and have no idea what you've both been through for those 90 minutes of Hollywood time.
The stark lights force your hands apart.
It's too clinical out here for intimate contact.
You might shuffle from one shoe to the other, two-step it out of the door, stand in the cold
and wait.
He might use his phone to call you a taxi.
before disappearing into the night as you peep over, through the window, back into his eyes
fading beautifully into darkness.

Strike II

So this time last June I was writing about my first ever bonafide strike - wahay!! Well here I am again, only this time it’s not just the NUT – THIS TIME most public sector unions have called for action. In the same fashion as preceding arguments, the bee in everyone’s bonnet is the understanding on behalf of our government that they can pay for the mistakes made, with the savings of the working class.

It is impossible to believe that in 2011, with the transparency that the internet and world media offers, that those in power can continue to promote such a dichotomy between the rich and the poor. The public services will be scape-goated in an effort to brush under the carpet, the debt that we’re suffering. Why not shave a couple million off of the packets for ‘top’ consultants, halt all moat cleaning activities and stop feeding your ducks caviar? Maybe under these circumstances we can believe that you are ‘doing everything you can’ to get us out of this mess.

Fear not though, ladies and gentlemen. Change comes slowly. Sometimes you have to go backwards to push forwards. Is that why the status of society has returned to resemble that of the Victorian Ages? But guys, this is not an excuse to start throwing your shit out of the window onto the street. The point here is that for a while now, us lot have been at the bottom – of expectations, opportunity and a second-thought when we deserve one. However, we do have so much more fun in life. Think of Shameless, and the poetry of the beat era, Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels – I reckon we have a better time down here.

Essentially, it’s important we fight for reform; but let us also remember that we may face disappointment on the path to success. So in between now and utopia, let’s come together and have fun. I vote a big public sector spoon in the park, in onesies eating pop-tarts. Lighten up everyone, we’re just making a stand, that’s all!

The Miseducation of Sara Lucarelli

Alarm.
Mum shouts up - something about toast. 
I jump into the bathroom, run back and put on the music. Run back and shower. Get dressed.
The walk to school is hurried. Cold finders hold the cigarette out, down towards the pavement to stop the smoke getting into my hood. It might be raining; it feels like the air is always standardly wet.
Bus rolls past. They pass the pass. Dash it out the window: re-present. Seat allocation is fierce but it's almost always better to stand. If a fire starts, best be by the exit.
Where's Peggy?
Cracked out.
Her art coursework's due today.
Somewhere it flies around the estate in tatters, soggy and spoilt.


Travel through corridors; you shout, they shout back. You laugh and point and pursue course aimlessly with no sense of urgency, round in circles for all it matters: and then the bell. 
Police arrive with dogs, that sniff and chase the girls and make them cry. The boys stand back. Nah nah nah. Reh teh teh. 
"There is an understanding as a school, that there is zero tolerance on holding offensive weapons of any variety on the premises." 
Do what you want out there. 


Lipgloss smeared on mirrors, sat on floors, phones on, credit done.
Hitch the skirt up, lower that top, you need more eyeliner, perfume: ziiiiiiiiip doorcloses and laughter roars.
It's fucking freezing outside 
but we wander and encounter. Words are whispered as sirens sound around and around, circling - fading.
Panoramic views with streetlamp light casting shadows on the high-rise. Drunks under the tree; 
and we wheel past, reeling in teenage joy.
A telephone box lies partly in fragments all over the floor. The shards spill over onto the road - we crunch over them in heels we can't walk in.


The lights are off inside, and the air is thick with sex and conflict. 
His afro was tied in two bunches, one on either side of his head, as he pulled the gun out. 
Fire exit doors smash open, close, music resumes and the beat goes on.
In constant movement, all night. Dancing in and out of three small rooms, filled with smoke and melodies, stares; the stench of odourless alcohol, sweat
blood and tears.
Everyone watches as she gets dragged by her weave, across the floor and out into the street.


In class, talk is rife. It carries rumours and statements like a crowd-surf, through the rooms 
It writhes around like a snake in the grass.
"She's pregnant. It was Cassie's man".
Atmosphere, charged with intention, confused perceptions of
acceptance and loyalty; ever-changing
with the tide of term. 

I present to you....

SKITTLES

Now, for all you hippidy-hop fans out there, this is for you.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=36tnx71FtAA

Typically or not, my man Skitz is not easily placed within the confines of genre. He transcends the endless list of categories, merges them, picks bits out, spits over some of it and laughs over the rest. The man is a master of menagerie - and I don't mean animals. In fact, I'm sure if he could incorporate them into his act, he would. So watch out for the panda skanking out, sipping cherry Lambrini, playing the flute in his next video. I gots the exclusive bitches!

One of the only music reviews you'll ever catch me writing - I love the dude.

More to the point, I feel his music celebrates art at street level, without the pomp and ceremony. He talks about what's true to him and what's real out here. When you think about what most people sing a long to, and lyrics that are idolised despite being a real crock of shit, it's a serious wonder why it's come to 2011 without someone saying:

"Yo, STOP - listen to this. Reeeeeeeeeeeal talk."

A true poet, I know him to work for hours on his lyrics. Tongue twisting, hard-hitting, hip-hopgrimereggaedubstepping madness emanates from within him. See him live and he keeps the same promise. A man of his audience, Skittles buzzes off the atmosphere of a set. With humour injected irony and the kind of story-telling that only surfaces through experience; his music is a journey. And, trust me, he takes you along with him.

I've seen him turn a dud Sway gig, into an intimate jam session thrown together with his individually talented music posse. Boy, put anyone up there with him and they'd put something down to rival most of the superficial drivel that's out there selling millions. Everyone got their back off the wall and gathered round to listen. Too many artists see themselves as above the crowd, but Skittles brings us in on his talent.

He's the people's prophet.

I guess a large part of my affection for Skittles as an artist, came from my first experience of his music, on the album '2 Pints of Brandy & a Packet of Skittles'. I won't lie, even amongst the tough-talk of songs like 'We'd Drink', political observations on 'Blair', I was a sucker for the sultry sounds of 'Bababallad'. Nevermind growing up in the hood, I'm still a girl...

Now you'll hear him blasting up your stereo with tracks like Dot2Dot and mixes from some smashers - soundclash demon Chimpo, Dub Phizics & Zed Bias; and it's long overdue. Manchester loves you, man. Go and fully do your thing.

Anyway, I'll shut up now and let him do the talking.

Dot2Dot EP is out now; it's been unleashed, it's chasing you right now and running round your living room, jumping on your sofas. So, succumb to the dark side and take in the light.

Enjoy.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=28jDgVcStWs 

Shout out to BRICKS on keys, Joe drums, Ben bass, Wez sax and Ali guitar. Plus FOX on vocal delicacies. You literally must get down to a live-band performance from these guys.

Hip-hop just comes alive.

Parklife

He calls me in the middle of the night.

"Come round. We’re having a party"

I realise there is no party. This is him and I. It's difficult for me in these situations, trying to keep a safe distance so that the natural chemistry between us rebounds off the people in the way and deflects to save the day. Not tonight; tonight it's all too close.

It's like he's keeping me trapped and he's hurting me. He's kicking me and pulling me and pinching me and wrapping me up in the blanket so I can't breathe. I get out of the clutches of madness and sit on the  chair having a cigarette.

He vomits. I get him some juice. He calls me a dick-head.

He comes stumbling back into his room where I’m sat, waiting for normality to return. He falls into my arms; cuddle-time. Wanting him to feel better, I try, but he's too forceful and he's drunk. I place my hands gently on his back; it feels like the closest I've ever been to him. Part of my soul smiles, but the reality frowns hard - hard enough for the lines to come shutting down like barriers. I'm sober as a judge and would rather avoid the awkward sexual nature between us tonight - only to wake up tomorrow and the whole thing be forgotten.

“You fill up a lot of my thoughts, you see - ordinarily. I've wanted to be here before; I’ve wanted you to want me”

I can't communicate this to him, as he's too busy trying to lift my dress up whilst I laugh it off and try to make moves to leave. I manage to run downstairs, hand in my pocket, searching for keys - only to realise they're on the floor of his room.

The door opening wakes him up, and he says;

'That's it now, you're trapped'.

He doesn't realise what this means for me, or memories that it drags up - being forced to stay, forced to lay, forced to pray for him to let me out. He bundles me back into his duvet - and he's strong. Without wanting to sound dramatic I tell him I can't breathe, but he won't understand. I kiss his cheek and tell him to calm down.

"Why are you hurting me?"

He says he wants to hurt me all the time - in a good way.

I'm silent because I don't understand and I'm not sure what to say. He starts to fall asleep again and I wait there, my legs held down by his, my head squashed under covers and pillows. His breathing steadies. I stare out at the sky beginning to get lighter, welcoming day time.

I want to go home. When I'm sure he's in deep sleep, I shuffle out of the vice clamps, sneak my keys from his hand and creep back downstairs. I keep the door open whilst I put my shoes on; I can see the exit and I feel fresh air again. I miss him now, but I don't want him like this.

Amsterdam and Le Malaise de L'Orange

In the comment section of my last post, you'll find the most fantastic news I have recently had. My long lost, sad, helpless orange has made contact with me from across the world.

Let me explain...

I was in Amsterdam this summer with my sister. After 10 days of mayhem we decided to leave a parting gift to the pop-up city of quasi-subsiding architecture and canals.

This wonderful little orange was abandoned by us, on a bridge. I should say this wasn't just any bridge, we had highs and lows right there, and now we were trusting it with the fruit. Big tings a gwarn.

Anyway, we waited for a while. I'm not going to lie to you, a lot of people ignored the poor fella. Most people didn't even care for a glance.

At one point I decided to walk past it, like an unsuspecting renegade bridge walking pedestrian fiend; I TRIED not to look at it, but nope - it was definitely there. So why wouldn't people pick him up, take him home...I mean the dude had a sad face and yet there were some who looked and saw le malaise de l'orange but scampered nonetheless.

Until...

These girls showed up, one girl screamed. Well, by this point neither Giovanna nor I could contain ourselves. We were right there when the orange was picked up, and held in the air and turned around, passed from friend to friend, and cooed over like a little baby! We made someone's day haha. The best part about it was that someone realised their fortune where others had decided to feck it off for a really normal day ahead, without our fruity friend. Unlucky bums.

Long live l'orange!!!

I'd love to find out where he has ended up and what this means for him, as a new chapter in his life.

Please report back!

With heart-felt affection,

Mummy orange. xx

We are the 99%

I could write about this at length, but the evidence around speaks for itself. More importantly, it seems freedom of speech is nothing short of a farce, and with the rise of social-networking sites, what you say is becoming increasingly dangerous to your safety and security. So, in an act of self-preservation - alongside encouragement and support for the cause - I merely present to you some of the current goings-on.

Though I should say, seeing these images, watching these videos, hearing the discussions and seeing my best friend camped outside St. Paul's Cathedral are among my happiest memories of life so far.

Finally, we're realising that the population of the world exceeds the population of the elite, far-removed, theiving, lying, cheating powers-that-be (that was as objective a statement as I could muster...)!

F*** Capitalism !

Viva la revolution !

Below: Occupy London

http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/video/2011/oct/26/occupy-london-st-pauls

Below: Occupy Tahrir

http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/2011/oct/25/occupy-movement-tahrir-square-cairo

Below: Occupy Wall-Street

http://occupywallst.org/

Below: Occupy Chicago

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZeeCezoXhlM

I could be here all night. Essentially, it's everywhere. Take a look and get involved.

All over the world , people are occupying areas and making a stand. Against what? Capitalism, and the evils that come with it.

So yeah, let's OCCUPY !!!

My first chess victory.

I have a quest, you see. I hope to become a chess master one day. Lest this be too superficial a claim for you, let me explain that I am allergic to failure and a perfectionist of unparalleled proportions. 

I should also set the scene for you to understand the gravity of yesterday's victory. It has been my first, and widely sought after triumph over any opponent thus far in my chess career. Thank you, Laura.

This is in many ways a consequence of regularly playing only my chess mentor; a man held in high esteem for his strategic approach and, what I deem, 'horrible mind-games'. This has so far led to many a defeat, over-turned only by the events of last night. Below is a snapshot of said checkmate:

I cannot be said to have played a flawless game; instead it relied at times on the errors of my opponent, and their hazy understanding of chess rules (which I took to be my advantage). My relentless pursuit of her king was enacted using questionable strategies reinforced by constant referrals to my guru. Nevertheless, I was overwhelmed with a sense of achievement which has only worked to cement my overall desire and fuel my impatience for the next success. 

Undoubtedly I will continue to concede defeat and endanger my king, but in doing so my relationship with chess, and my mentor, blossoms.

And on a lighter note...

My dad thinks he's going to make his fortune with spreadable cucumber.


Picture ketchup, but cucumber.


He's developed just short of a business plan. Coming soon to a supermarket near you...

Strike.

Today I embark on my first bonafide strike. Embark, is a strong word to represent my inaction first thing this morning and further sloth-like behaviour since. You see, it's lovely to have a day off, no matter where in the chain your role resides. And anyone with any desire to excel in their job, if not for the pure and simple sake that the children need you, would use this time to plan and prepare. I am no exception, but still relish the opportunity to do so in my pyjamas. 

The cause behind the strike is also something I feel strongly about, the only issue is in which direction I lean. I would love to continue to pay in the pension contributions as I have been, however with me only having done so for little under a year, I am by no means reliant on the figure that stands at present. However, a large community of teachers (and other public sector employees) have been paying into their pension funds for longer than my life-span, just to be told that this will be cut.

Work longer.

Pay more.

Get less.

Yeah, that seems the message. But behind this is a very true and vast problem: recession. Pensions, as they stand, are unsustainable. You could argue this money should be recouped from MP salaries and by returning to manufacture (on presentation of a receipt and tags intact) the expensive arms our country loves to invest in. But that seems a futile approach to a problem that will cause devastation likely in the fighting ranks first. The working class will pay for the debt, will pay towards it and ultimately be destroyed by it.

Maybe pension cuts are a useful way to stave this off a while. 

Maybe not.

Maybe Michael Gove, our so-called education secretary, should try becoming more acquainted with school policy and the culture of education before suggesting that a troop of parents swoop in to save schools from having to close today. Whilst it is paramount that all those working closely with children are CRB checked, it seems that, to our Gove, this is all superficial and unnecessary. It is simply outlandish that parents should be checked, they're parents right? Or is this just a further example of the flippant expressions of MPs and their constant approval of middle-upper class misconceptions and naivities.

Plus he's rude:

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/education-12171281

Prompting my work-mate's inspired t-shirt idea...

Who knows, I'm gonna get a brew and further philosophise.

Why I love my mum.

Mum: "If I say something's white, you lot say it's red...the complete opposite!"

Me: "Mum, red is not the opposite of white."

Mum: [Pause] ..."Well it's even worse then - think about that!"

Abandoned items

Here's a little collection of things I have found which people have left behind, forgotten or discarded. 


In my little head I imagine whole stories behind them: epic love tales, drug wars and ... room advertisements.


Nevertheless I have at some point found each one of these items hard to walk past and so am collecting them in the hope that one day the people they belong to will see them ! 


(P.S. you can't have them back, you realise that right ? !)

Thoughts on a break-up

I wrote this. I wanted to remember. Maybe it was more about never wanting to forget but I tortured myself with these memories for years. They changed my life and I wanted to share them. Mostly with myself. Another part of me continues to want you to understand. 

I remember that feeling. It makes me recoil and scrunch all my features up. My nose wrinkles and my head shakes involuntarily, as if a tremor has passed through my spine. I attempt to steady my visuals. I stare out of the bus window trying to find normality; picture other people's lives. To look into someone else's world is to wander from yours. You can allow your imagination to create those intimate moments; snapshots of diverse perspectives. They distract you from your own.

Imagine a circular army of eye soldiers trying to hold fast their ground in the theatre of my brain whilst a vengeful army of potential visuals attempted to defeat the eye-soldiers and pass through. I could have pierced the glass with my eyes, the effort was so determined; begging to be provided respite from the impossible flashbacks of the scenarios and dialogues infecting my peripherals. They triumphed, over the impossible feat of forgetting the way I felt in that room - and the way the room felt with this conflict - and the way you looked as kingdoms came crashing down. 

The army of rejection pull in the permanent visual. 

Like a curtain of memories descending to reveal me heaving, with tears streaming, begging, 'please love me'. You sat across from me with your hands in your lap. You looked awkward as if you were embarrassed. You were uncomfortable and I was cultivating a tragedy. 

I watched cities turn into villages and rumble over fields to meet forests overlooking streams feeding into rivers, and waited to reach you. I watched seconds turn into minutes creating hours moving along roads to approach and to reach you. Flutters in my tummy and I'm speeding towards you because I think you're amazing. You've made me amazing and I want to feel amazing by being in your amazing arms. As I take the steps down I see you waiting at the platform for me, your eyes light up and my butterflies flutter endlessly until you hold me close. Those journeys across the country to see you were torturously long but oh my god to see you there - my whole life never felt this certain. It was me and it was you. 

I can see him now. Looking through me, into me, trying to communicate his conviction. I don't love you anymore. My heart couldn't hear it, my mind couldn't feel it and my body wouldn't allow it. My head hurt because I was trying to breathe and the tears were congesting my brain. It felt as though my thoughts were being received by cotton-wool, struggling to meet and create cohesion. Creeping in on me was a stealth buzzing sound which invaded my senses and sent each fracture of thought inching along the fibres of my brain but never liaising to discuss my well-being. Hurt physically starved my body of air. Winded by the force of words I continued to disbelieve, I caved in on comprehension and was broken.

I want you here. I've grown old without you. Grown off into a stunted direction because of the lack of light. Like a plant I cowered in the darkness of misery without you and couldn't move on.

I need to explain. You really need to understand. I actually can't do this without you. It became all about me. Self-preservation created a wreck. My quest to make him stay caused further pain. Despite my tears and pleas and shaking and talking. Speaking words that were inconsistent with what we both knew to be true. I was forming my own reality in order to masquerade the truth, and blend his understanding into a safe shade of yellow - that was where I'd be able to have him back. I never wanted him to leave, just needed him to love me the way I needed him to love me. 

We hold hands and watch the time. The clock in my car tells us you have 5 minutes but we're ready to see that through. All we can do is smile at each other because neither of us have been so far deep in love, swimming in it and refusing to come up for air. We watch those minutes disappear and the train roll past and I start the ignition because we're going home. Home is everywhere you are. We laugh because we've cheated - we denied destiny the chance to bring us apart and that was really only the beginning. We were fighting for each other from the start, demanding the chance to just be, in spite of the disharmony our love was bringing to those around us. 

How time has moved since then, to bring us to a new reality where I'm looking ahead through tears at the on-coming bus, bumping over road and weaving its way through traffic towards us. You wait with me but I guess you're hoping to be somewhere else - I'm continuing the cycle of pain because I can't move on. Take my hand, pull me back, pick me up, kiss my face, take me home. If you let this happen to us what will we become? Every second you wait I feel like an eternity is stretching around me and has me in a vacuum, and I'm lost. 

A part of me will always be with you.

You're wearing a gifted green hat when you arrive to visit me. I sit connected by wires to machines that bleep incessantly but I can see you and you're coming towards me, so I'm fine. You give me a cigarette and I walk with you, in slippers, to the back door. Why don't we have anything to say to each other anymore? It feels strained but I just want to touch you and for you to hold me. I want to be in bed beside you, hearing you keep me awake. I can't watch you so close to me and yet feel so far apart. It's as if I'm holding my breath; if I slip up you'll fade out. I am so, so scared here. When you leave I'll be on my own again. You'll go home and see your friends, maybe smoke, maybe watch the football. You'll go out to a reggae night and dance and laugh. I'll sit listening to the silence of the ward, with it's shuffles and coughs and bleeps and tap-tapping of heels to and fro, past my room. Despite the sounds, it's silence. 

To have something that was a bit of me and a bit of you. That potential new bond, a life within life. Those moments are to share but I couldn't find you. I knew where you were but I couldn't get to you. I was so alone. I'd always thought you'd be there to support me, but talking to you from a distance through a knot in my stomach blocking the receptors of my emptiness, I screamed my secret loss. Where were you? Even when you were there and you heard, in fact you were all too far away from me.

I'm driving and I'm crying. I can't understand how I've ended up here. Where are you? I need you here so much because I can't breathe and I almost can't see. I don't even want to see without you. If I could see you now I'd tell you what you needed to hear. This was all nothing. We love each other. Why don't you love me? I see traffic lights and drive on, I turn corners and drive on; tears blur the road and fill my eyes with fragments of light that crystallise the thoughts of you. I don't know what I'll have to do to make it alright again. Please help me. Please.

The embarrassment of the betrayal remains a painful sting, wounding both my heart and my pride in equal measure, from time to time. As I move on through the seconds, I can maintain this awkward sensation with thoughts of words exchanged. I pretended to have moved on, before the wound had properly been inflicted. As the knife was turning, I was holding your hand and looking into your eyes and hoping to get through. Without you nothing will ever be the same and it's impossible for you to ever understand how you left me. 

I'm in a safe place now. Hiding under my covers my bed feels empty but I fill it with salt water and sobs. I can't open my eyes and my body's shaking so I pick up my phone to call you. Tone - flat, desire - gone, voice - impatient. This means nothing to you anymore and hearing me die inside feels as if it's making you sick with repulsion. I used to feel like the most beautiful woman. If ever I was insecure you showed me your devotion and if I couldn't find the words to express my happiness with you, it wasn't necessary. We both knew; it was a secret between us that everyone was witnessing. Now I'm in so much pain it manifests as literal heartbreak and every moment that you're away, my body convulses in agony. Involuntarily my body shows it's hurt by moving without thought and smiling without meaning. It feels good to cry you out. I cry until there's nothing left to cry, smoke a spliff and try to sleep without you. It feels like a thousand nights before I can leave this world and dream of you. 

I can feel his body up against mine. I cradle him and sing into his ear.I know that there's a 1259 lullaby tonight…

I miss you before you've left. I'll know that empty space without you before you step away to reveal the gap.

If she was to ask me about you what would I say? It would have to be a polite request to change the subject because my eyes will flash back and see your balcony and your stairs and my room with those shorts and the spare room with it's stickers and I can't discuss you any further without bursting into flames. 

I'm sick of trying to find life without you. I wake up, get dressed, brush teeth, leave the house, see people, read words, listen to harmonies, see flashing lights, tip my head back and the alcohol flushes down. It misses the pain and creates the clarity of which only I have the misfortune to keep re-living. I feel like you're haunting me and I'm scared that every second dissolving without you is bound to forge a cavity between us so large I won't be able to jump over it. I'll try, but I'll fail. I know this now.

Now I see you with someone else and I guess she makes you happy. I connect with you; but she's who you lay with. I want you despite our failings, so relentlessly I pursue something, anything that brings me back to my baby. You're not my baby anymore but when you kiss me and tell me you miss me, I can forget that as soon as I leave I'll face being away from you indefinitely. I can handle it. It's only sex that I want and if I can have that I'll be fine; you can't provide what I need and you wouldn't even if you could... Only it isn't fine. One hand on each side of your face, I'm sure you don't realise that I'm searching for you. How can this be my baby when he loves someone else. I can't understand that you're ok without me because I am devastation personified.

I bought this song to remind me of you. I still can't get you out of my head. If I let you creep into my consciousness I feel sick to the stomach without you. Who am I now? I never felt completeness like being your girl. You loved me despite myself. The thought of you leaving me. Leaving me to leave you and not allowing me back on my word. You killed me that day. Those days - that I dragged out - making it impossible for you not to run. But I needed you so much you will never understand. I couldn't conceive of being without you because you made me better. You healed me because you loved me and I was sure of that.

I draw randoms.

I try to draw people with character. Their faces tell stories. 

I track every freckle, line and shadow - following no structure other than FACE.

What structure does your face have? Could it fit into a grid system format layout guideline? I flippin' hope not..

Poetree.

I wrote this around a year ago. 

For the most-part my writing comes from deep seated emotion. Soon, I will write about a bog standard average day in the life of...but for now here's some heartbreak.

The Winged Spindle Tree

I was once the winged spindle tree,

My branches whispered of our love-story.

Leaves carried your name in the wind through the air,

Happiness endured in their veins to declare.

Too soon you forgot to understand, to celebrate;

The truth of the words you could once relate.

You became the woodchopper, prepared to kill

Where once you'd carved your message, at my will. 

Blossom showered down, hitting ground with no life;

The bough, my heart: Your axe, the knife.

I did not speak as you worked, did not weep as I fell

I'd always been here, living to tell.

I felt it, despite the fragility of its nature,

Every leaf spoke of it: to be yours, to be sure.

I landed, and there was a stillness in place

The noise and movement made room for my case.

You had never even heard me, never really listened

But now you understood, like dew it glistened:

You'd been my thoughts and my praise

Since you touched me, to these last days.

And as you stood, finished and ready to leave

There was nothing left here, no way to decieve.

It seems what was between us was clear for all but few

See the wind had been carrying my words away from you. 

Finally, with your eyes upon me, I lay undisguised,

I imagine it was then that you realised.