the world needs reassurance

On this cynical globe that I have found myself walking
Around there are many life lessons worth hearing. There
Are many people worth fearing and many sites worth
Seeing and, even when you’re having ‘one of those days’
It’s important to remember how lucky you are for just
Being here.  On this perverse planet, lingering boldly
Out in space, there are times when your duvet seems
Like your only safe place and I know from experience
That those are the days when you should definitely
Get out of bed, because no one ever shook the world
By the shoulders with a pillow under their head. No, in
This world, you need a helmet. You need crash gear so
When the world comes crumbling in on you, you can
Fight your way out and shout, ‘Hey, world, I’m still
Here.’ You’re right, it is easier said than done. But this
World, despite being beautiful, has bad days, just like
Us, and rather than flap about to make a fuss I think
We should all just breathe deeply, relax, take the
Weight of our shoulders and the burdens off our
Backs and remember, we are lucky to be here. So
When the world tries to tear you down, remind
Yourselves of that. When it treats you like the gum
On its shoe, you hold it with the tenderness of a
Lover and say, ‘Hey, things will be okay.’ Because
Sometimes, the world needs reassurance too.

things aren't always fair

Life is like the playground bully while you are the child.
You are either the child that rolls with the punches, steals
Other children’s lunches and simply takes things as they
Come. Or, you are the child that eats their luncheon meat
Perched on the edge of the toilet seat because you are
Tired of going hungry. Either way you will grow up into
The type of person that says, ‘Life isn’t fair.’ And you’re
Right. When you’re staring up at your ceiling the middle
Of the night, counting bills to the soundtrack of checkout
Tills to try and calculate how to negotiate your way past
The tax man this month, life isn’t fair. Nor is it fair when
You’ve been stuck in traffic long enough to make you late
For work, you miss the Monday morning perk of bacon
Sandwiches and you have to stay late to compensate for
The behaviour of the slow driver in front of you that
Morning. Life isn’t fair when you are caught yawning and
Looked at like you’re being rude when actually, you’re just
Looking for a little oxygen. Life isn’t fair when you need a
Talk and can’t find a friend. Life isn’t fair when the nail
That’s been holding your puncture together finally
Disappears in a bout of bad weather and you find yourself
Driving on steel. Life isn’t fair when the dream you’ve had
Since you were eight shrivels and, you suddenly realise
The possibility was never real. Life isn’t fair when, after
Giving her everything, she says, ‘I’m sorry, I just don’t
Love you anymore.’ And as she leaves she doesn’t even
Close the door. She took your heart and left a draught.

Sure, life isn’t always fair, but what’s your other route?

words in my throat

If you were to stretch your slender fingers into my throat, maybe
Even down into my heart to find the things on which I dote you
Would find innards of an usual kind, intestines made of poetry.
From my throat you will pluck words, unwritten, unheard,
Unspoken. They are merely a token. A symbolic offering of the
Inner walls of my mind that verbalise things through lines cute,
And unkind and they, linger here. After years spent bouncing in
Between my two hemispheres they will eventually settle, and
Mature, and await the day when I open the door that entraps
Them within my chords so they may lurch forwards, and be
Set upon the world. But I know, if I were brave enough to hurl
Them, if were to pluck them from my vocal chamber and gently
Uncurl them, I, their creator, would not be ready to let go. They
Are a secret that I, am not ready for the world to know. So I will
Leave them tucked up in the mattress of my larynx, cuddled and
Huddled under my vocal folds that will keep them warm until
They are ready. Until my confidence is stable and my voice is
Steady and then, then I will unleash them on your ears.

that little girl

That little girl in the corner. You all take the time to mourn

Her while I, seem to be the only person who realises she’s still

Here. Living in fear somewhere deep inside my chest but we’re

Both trying our very best to keep her hidden. She comes out

At night. When the bedside light is the only positive glow

There to comfort either of us and she, just needs someone

To talk to. And that’s okay, because so do I. We’ll lie there,

Staring up at the sky we can’t see because of the ceiling

Baring down heavy and we’ll exchange war stories. Detail

Our histories. And she’ll tell me that mum is upset again, and

She doesn’t know why, but by default, dad has told her that

It’s her fault and parents don’t lie. Sweetie, they do. It’s a

Truth I don’t have the heart to tell. That little girl, it’s like

Looking into a mirror; a mirror with chubbier cheeks and

Hair a bit thinner than the tangled mane that trails behind

My hunched over ego but a mirror, nevertheless. She’s so

Pretty in her sunflower sun dress, pouring out her poor

Childhood issues into a box of tissues and into my eager

Ears, where I will unknowingly absorb those fears and

Transfer them into my adult life without fully realising

What’s happened. Until she asks me if I ever get blamed.

Suddenly my bravery is tamed. My heart slips into some kind

Of arrest, even though I’m desperately trying by best to

Be the brave grown up. But I’m not. Her miniature hand

Slips into mine and delivers an over-familiar squeeze as

She pulls herself up onto her knees and burrows back

Into my chest. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow. I guess.

bananas

Why are those bananas bruised? I bought them two hours ago,

New and unused, they were green. Perfect bananas if ever I’ve

Seen them and now, they curve against the inner edge of the

Glass fruit bowl that cradles them. Pulling away from the man-

Made light that is glaring down at them, growing bruises. There

Is something that looks like a graze, that I spot through the haze

Of my living room lighting. Did they fall? Out of the bag and

Onto the floor. No. I feel fairly sure they didn’t. Should I eat

Them, or leave the bruises to linger? I question, pressing one

Down with my finger and taking a sick pleasure in seeing the

Bright yellow turn dull brown at my touch. I’ll just let them spoil.

an abandoned shell

The abandoned shell that lingers in the centre of the pavement;
The snail has bravely upped and left and that shell, bereft, feels
The void. It lies in wait. It will anticipate the arrival of its old
Inhabitant because, there’s no place like home. With the over-
Bearing weight of a clumsy size nine, the shell is destroyed.

bending over backwards

A disfigured spine. Rather than a shape it is a something like,
When a young boy collides into a brick wall with his bike
And the tyres won’t sit straight, and it becomes impossible
To negotiate a straight line. The visual qualities of a tree-root,
Underfoot, that after years of accommodating Mother Earth,
Can no longer lie flat. A broken shelf with only one bracket
Intact.  Did you hear that crack? Echoing up from the centre
Vertebras of my back. I suspect that’s my old body, taking a
Stand, attempting to gain the upper hand and punish me,
For bending over backwards once too often.

i cried in the rain

It’s been a long time, a good while, since I cried in the rain;
Somewhere in my cheeks the excrement of my eyes and
The excrement of the clouds meet and, I forget which is
Natural, and which is manmade. Down my cheeks they fall,
They cascade. It’s been a long time since I cried in the rain.