Poetry

Rotten, ripen

I grew up hating myself

I would lace my blooming body in dirty rags

Slam it into walls to disfigure my ripening bossoms

And drape cloth over curves to hide away my woman-hood.

It didn’t make sense to me.

How could fruit grow

On the outside

Of a rotten centre?

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moments

Moments: A Series

So, I decided quite randomly today in the shower that I wanted to create a new series called ‘Moments’. Basically what this series will be doing is capturing little moments in my day or week or in certain situations and my thought process during it. It would be written in prose or through a poem.

It’s just kind of like a vlog that captures candid moments in my life, but instead of a camera capturing these moments, it will be me and my keyboard. Or paper and pen, whichever is closest. And then I will post it.

Sorry, it’s something that occurred to me in the shower.

Aye then, talk later.

Nakedstreetkid out x

Poetry

A Question of Time

I feel sick
Even my name makes me sick
Each syllable a tick 
Alluding to something that should not exist
And my hands
They are juxtaposed
One warmed from the heat of the sun
The other lying away from it
Cold, dripping of blood
I wonder
How long can I sit here?
How long until my reality dissolves into dreams and my wrist is no longer bleeding?
How long until I have found my call?
And the drip, drip, dripping of blood
Has hauled me away and dumped me in a casket
Waiting for me to lose consciousness
Never waking me from my dream
How long, I ask, how long?

Poetry

Well done, A

It was partly because A now had a life
A’s golden hair standing on end
A was a sun that blemished my childhood

But A claimed to be a hair dresser
Refining the work of God
Trimming away human’s distasteful need to grow

A said the customers were usually celebrities
Their laughs almost obnoxious
Their screeches of disapproval cutting too finely into the cold air

But because A’s manager understood A’s perils
A never got sacked
I wish A had gotten sacked

It would have made these thoughts less painful
The way A’s hand would skim higher and higher up my legs
Penetrating through my innocence with a single glance

I hate A

But now A had a life

A’s life was full of pride
A’s parents, friends, family were all proud of A
Well done A

Congratulations on zip locking my self-worth
Hammering away my pride and covering it in a cloak of shame

I really appreciate it

Poetry

grow timid

I wonder what they feel
Do they feel power in their glares?
Eyes full of anger
Waiting for you to despair?

Their teeth grind away
Chewing on their hate
Consuming through their meal
Do they wait?

Wait for you to serve them
Wait for you to bow and kneel
Hold out your key to them
Fast behind their heels

It was strange when you got up
Marched away, only to return with his paper
Each step growing timid as you approached him
How could you feel safer?

Sit next to him
Feed him his food
Maybe he’ll treat you nicely
If he’s in the mood

No hits when you get home
No shouting or screaming
No cheeks hitting the floor
Nor skin on your body peeling

You’ll be safe for now
You’re hidden in the crowd
Your face a blur
Just be careful not to say a word

Poetry

Poppy seeds

When we mourn, we mourn silently
Our heads dropped
Hands clasped together, behind out backs

Jack had fallen where he stood, gun in hand, pointed limply at the enemy that shot him
We stayed behind the trenches and watched how each bullet poked holes through him
As if he was a piece of paper, sliced open by the teeth of dogs
The shooting had ceased after a while
The blood remaining in his body soaked through into the ground
We buried him where he had stood, where he had fallen
Dug up a hole and lowered his previously decaying body into it
He was finally at peace
I stared into his eyes, dead of any light as we shoveled wet mud onto him

Over and over and over again we did this to our comrades

Buried them where they stood
Buried them where they fell
But we never found any of them again
We had already moved past their makeshift graves
Powered by the need to defeat the “enemy”
Who had hurled bombs our way, pieces of shrapnel exploding into the terrain behind us

By the time the war had finally finished
By the time we returned to each respective grave
We couldn’t find them
Their limbs lay dispersed from their body
Like poppy seeds
Scattered across no mans land
So, we left their parts on foreign soil and powered forward

When we mourn, we mourn silently
We mourn at an empty grave, an empty tomb
Matured poppies alive on the surface of our hearts
Hands clasped behind our backs
Reading a muted prayer to God for us to find them

Poetry

Upside Down World

When I was four
I would hang my head from a wooden chair rather than my legs
I would walk on my hands rather than my feet
Treading carefully across the cold ground
Kissing it softly with the grip of my hands as I aimed to remain in balance

Seeing the world upside down had its perks
The sofa no longer looked like a torn, ragged throne that my father would occupy
It now looked calm, transforming into a radiant fire as the sun slapped against it
Allowing silver, red and orange to sparkle

The mirror no longer looked like a sheet of reflection
But rather a portal to another world where the fire of the couch rained above me
And as I held onto the lava floor
A floor made from circular patterns spinning against my palms
I walked towards the portal on my hands
Slowly at first and then suddenly, running towards it

I regretted it instantly
A ray of sun had hit me against my face
Searing my skin with its fiery vengeance
Mercilessly hitting me again from another angle

I tumbled down clumsily, trying desperately to dodge its rays
And suddenly upside down world was gone
Disappearing behind the mirror

As I lay down on the carpet
Waiting for my mother to find me