Poetry is a curious thing.

It’s a code far greater than the enigma.
For I can be a feline, a flower or a breeze.
And no one would know.

It’s about straying as far from sane
As possible.
Learning to understand  yourself whilst leaving others baffled.

The cheapest therapy I’ve found.

A poet is a mad man, a romantic, a philosopher.
I am all,
And none.

What I’ve finally come to understand,
Is that the beauty of poetry,
Is that it cannot,
be understood.

You have not known pain,
Until you’re looking into the eyes of someone
You want to love
But only feel hate.

I check to see if people care,
By ignoring them all day.

It seems perverse,
I know.

But if they notice,
And call me to inquire,
I know they think about me.
I know that I’m not forgotten.

I have this thing that happens to me,
That causes unexplainable fear.
It feels like a freudian uncanny.
It’s been happening for years,
Since I was a child.
It’s when my mind and body begin,
To move in slow motion, to lag.
In that moment, it feels as though I have surrendered
Ownership of my mind, of my body.

It’s utterly terrifying.

Have you ever seen the look
someone gives you
when the get a peek of your darkness.
My Darkness is kept, deep,
this doesn't happen often.
But when it does,
it's enough to make me afraid of
Myself.

I’m tired of forgiving.
I’m tired of seeing from their perspective.
I’m tired of letting it go.
I’m tired of telling them it’s ok when it’s not.
I’m tired of having to remember everything I’ve allowed them to do.
I’m tired of being the kind, supportive friend.

I’m so **** tired, I’m becoming
Angry.

The urge to run away to a
green, open field,
Is always stronger on Sundays.

I’m not sure when I became convinced the world was full of liars.

You tell me I’m beautiful,
I shout liar.

You tell me I’m smart,
I shout liar.

You tell I’m worth it,
I shout liar.

I’m tired of shouting.
My voice hurts.

Another leaf wilts.
It quits the collective.
Choosing solitude over
ancestral pain.
No longer indebted to
this things we call shame

I’ve decided to accept I’m lonely.
Perhaps I’ll learn to be happy alone.

In time, I’ll pick the duets at karaoke night,
I’ll sign up for a couples massage,
Watching the notebook will become an activity for one.

Is it possible that solitude is a blessing?
Independence is a virtue.
Your rejection is my growth.

Am I all too optimistic,
Is it manifesting to delusion.

I suppose I wouldn’t know,
The thing about delusion,
Is that it takes someone close to point it out.
And being alone,
Means I don’t have that someone.

If we hadn’t discovered Gravity,
Do you think we’d feel different?

Perhaps more unique?
Less aware that our relationship
To this earth is mimicked by
every other person
That we encounter.

Perhaps more able?
Would flight not seem so
Foreign
And unattainable,
And would it be less associated with
Aerodynamic engineering,
And more understood as  
Liberation.

So perhaps, we would feel more free.
As though we weren’t being pulled,
And ‘acted on’.
And instead, in ownership and
Powered by
Choice.

A free association,
A weightless laughter,
An endless day.

I would wish the apples away.

It’s exhausting.  
To have laboured,
To have fought,
To have clawed your way
With hands and feet
out of ‘that’ place.

Just to fall back
to where you started.

We have this image of what mental illness looks like.
A girl with sunken eyes and dull skin.
So when it creeps up on you,
It can take forever,
To refocus your eyes,
And see that the girl
Lives within you.

My nails are ***** and chipped.
Dusty rose turns rotten.
Jagged edges sharpened
Switch flipped and I'd claw you open.
I'd say you provoked The *****.
But really,
I'm just broken.

I’m terrified of myself.
Of what I don’t understand,
Of the darker voice getting too loud.
I don’t know what she’ll do,
I don’t know if I’m strong enough to
Stop her.

I have so much love to give.
I thought a boyfriend might be the answer.
Silly of me, not to see,
That the person that needed my love most,
Was me.

I asked you how you test was,
You never replied.
I hope you failed.

I washed my hair for you,
I grew it long.
Now I’ll cut it all off.

It hurts,
When I’m trying to tell you something important to me,
Something that isn’t easy to talk about,
And all you’re doing,
Is searching for the punch line.

When will you see that my hurt isn’t a joke.

I do believe that mother’s love
Was modelled after you.
It is the only way,
Your love could be so true.

For I have never witnessed a
Love with such little hesitation,
Shampoo in the eye,
A cut on the knee,
Mother is at my station.

And my home is always carried with you,
With the memories of your voice,
Singing lullabies and soothing my blues.
And with the smell of borrowed clothes and
Everlasting perfume.

I’m desperate to thank you, mother,
For all that you do
And have done.
And in my journey to show gratitude,
I have only just begun.

The moon stares at her reflection.
It’s different today.
Today, the people see her half full.
Days later, she is halved again.
She’s unsure which version to believe.
For half the world shouts ‘quarter’
And a quarter shouts ‘she’s empty.’
A phase they call new moon.
But the moon doesn’t feel renewed,
She’s tired, she’s confused.

She’s unsure which version is true.

These fabrics,
Unforgiving, Unkind.
I want to tear what does not fit me.
Scream "Why do I not fit?"
not even a little bit.
Why do these mirrors shine light on my ugly?
"Why am I ugly".

He turned me and said, 'I like the way you make me see the world'

May I teach a course,
So people can learn to love like I do.
Perhaps they will understand how to support.
To feel deeply,
To know
Without explanation.
I’m left in a state of narcissism
Because I have yet to find someone,
Who feels as I do.
I’m Left longing to duplicate myself,
For I long to be understood,
known
supported.
I need it more than you.

Cross, Skip -
Child’s gallop -
Through man’s field.
Field of red lights,
Field of smoke grown.
Eyes closed,
‘Top 10’ beat.
Run,
Run, run run.
Past zebras and yellow punches.
Past Pipers, squares and other shapes.
Get to the green.
Trot, canter, gallop.
Get to nature’s field.

Every time I start to think
I’ve accepted the goodbye
At quarter past nine,
When the hues of
Pink and purple
Begin to seep through the
Once untainted sky,  
I start to cry.

Stop holding back tears.
Didn’t you learn that dams never last long?
That SubSahara would **** for you water
Be it salty.

To you I’ll preach the cautionary tale of Tokyo.
That the untreated quake or break,
Drowns.

And if, by chance, you aren’t
The cherry blossom that stands
Despite tsunami

I ask,
Beg even.
That you stop holding
Back tears.

‘Love you!’,
Spoken quickly,
So that the absence of ‘I’ cannot
Be heard.
I, is personal,
I, is suffocating,
I, isn’t real.

I refuse to say
I love you.

Please don’t ask me how I am.
I don’t want to
Lie
Today.

I cannot understand
Why, with but a second’s notice,  
My stomach turns to clay.
Available to whoever wishes to mold it.
Guilt races worry,
Sorrow faces rage.

In the end, my clay is left mangled and alone.
For when guilt, sorrow and rage are bored
They leave, perhaps for a return on a new day.
Yet the clay remains deformed.

I splashed in a puddle
And I drowned.
The mud tainted me and the droplets wouldn’t dry.
The damage so heavy I shrunk in size.

The puddle grew,
Till I was swimming in a Pool
Of tears sourced from innocent eyes.

Before I could believe,
I was floating in a sea
with gusts of wind, I felt I could no longer breathe.

The waves multiplied,
So great I thought Noah was nearby,
Yet he didn’t respond to my shouts or my cries,

And so the whirlpool got me,
pulling till I let go
and drowned.

And as you may predict,
Today I still swim,
Yet I have seem to have left the tricks of the puddle,  
And joined the River Styx.

He told me then that he hated poetry.
thought it useless and indirect.

And then I knew
He is not mine

For all I am is poetry

On this beautiful summer day,
I question why the sun’s departure
brings such fierce grief.

Why as others, in awe,
Capture photos and spread them
On their instagram wall,
I cannot bring myself to say goodbye.

Perhaps it’s Apollo’s enchantment.
In Ancient arrogance
Did he spell his light,
So in its absence I beg and
praise his name?  

Or, is the knowledge, that without the
Relativity of the sun’s size,
Everything appears so
Large, Troubles heavier.  

It seems to me that the sun
Convinces that I might have some
light of my own.
So that when the sun sets I will continue
To be radiant,
To emit a glow.

Yet as she falls and greets another,
Some miles away,
I seem to rediscover,
That the glow was
Unfortunately, just
A day show.

I'm sorry I wasn't there,
Mr judge.
I tore my achilles heel
On a run.

I told the doctor to prescribe
Me some ***.
It's been a while since
I've had my fun.

And though I know it will not
Solve my sorrow,
Nor my fear,
A drink will disguise my
Worry lines and tears,
as Laughter.

Will you sue me for
Neglecting my minor,
Her name, Emotion.
For tort, is what I have been taught.

Or will you understand.
that mine is a mind of commotion.
Tequila, *****
My love potion.

And as potato and sugar become
Addiction and Sin,
I ask that you find it within
Yourself to understand,

We're an act that I can't
Disband.

It seems it's impossible for us to agree.
You, with a respectable law degree,
I, with experience worth writing symphonies
Over

And over again
I turn to wrong.
Today I have paid
with a toll to my brawn.

Thus, All I ask, is,
Will you sign my cast?

Cannibal
You scorn me.

Cannibal
You’ve torn me.

Cannibal
Claim me.
Adorn me.

I’m grateful.
For your sacrifice.
For years spent at your desk,
Blood pressure high,
Trade pending.
For years spent providing,
Giving, and never spending.

But I wish you had spent,
Just a little more time
Present. Here with us.
Because at home, you were there,
Phone on. Trade still pending.

I wish we had conversations,
Not interrogations,
About life, about my day, about my opinions, or what I have to say.
About films, my interpretation,
About school, my life’s destination.

With you there is no in-between.
It’s figure of authority,
Or you begin to act like a teen.
Keen to make me uncomfortable.

Around you, I rarely feel comfortable.

Passion isn’t a fire fuelling,
But rather an itch that cannot be scratched,
Until what you must do,
Is done.

I want to craft something beautiful to express how I'm feeling
But I'm too desperate.
I need an immediate release.
There's no time for beauty so
A careless rant will have to do.

Sometimes,
The thought that keeps me alive,
Is the knowledge that I
Haven’t really lived.

I’m not sure,
When the words
‘You’re not enough’
became so familiar.
But these days,
They’re all I see

I’m the girl who smiles.
The one you greets you with warm eyes,
Asks you how you are,
Hopes that you go far.

But my heart is heavy.
Weighted by the anger that I bottle.
There’s so much of it,
Too much.
I’m going to burst soon,
Very soon.
I’ll be the villain who used
To smile.

To be so
uncomfortable
In your body,
The skin feels itchy

To choose a duvet
Over a dres,
out of fear it will
Display all that
Is wrong.

they call it dysmorphia

It seems as though you
Jump, at the opportunity to
Show me you hate me.
I sense truth in your jokes,
In your banter.
In the way you switch to oppose me
So so quickly.

I never thought you liked me.
I’m just searching for confirmation
Of it.

I am certain you don't know
just how much I hate you.
I am certain you would never guess
of the nights spent
cursing your name.

When I face you I laugh and smile.
But as your back turns that laughter
turn to bile.
As your back turns,
I remember you weren't there.
As your back turns
I understand how little
you really care.

So **** the man that make me
so hateful.

I feel suffocated by the world around me.
As though everyone I know
Has wrapped their hand around my
Throat. A chokehold of a thousand
grips. Every time I squirm,
The grip tightens. Every time
I beg for final release, they loosen
A tad. They won’t grant me
Mercy, an easy out.

So I'm stuck in chokehold.