aplaceforthewritings

[aplaceforthewritings]

My pain is a 2B pencil

Simple, common

Preferred in tests

Sharp until whittled to a dull constant grey

Tasting of lead and iron

Chewed eraser - self inflicted.

My pain is red wine to the sober

Slow poison in the veins

Guilty euphoria

A trickle of self destruction numbing

Swilled by a broken wrist

Lulling into deadened daze.

My healing is a gravel path

Gritty and lonely

Bruising bare feet

Staining clothes red dirt summer

Like the shadow of sunrise

With eraser mark clouds

[aplaceforthewritings]

My first beginning was the morning after

It was the soft space where your head rested on the pillow

Where romance had been wrestled between my cries,

Where the light could never make you beautiful again;

And water could never wash me clean.

I did not start afresh that day- I dragged my sheets through fire and ash,

I wore your skin under my nails like the mud and dirt it was,

I washed again and again, but the bruises were behind my eyes now

My first beginning was a battle ground. I was not conscripted, I was taken.

[aplaceforthewritings]

I found dust a curse and not a limeric

I was meant to be whole

This was meant to be a healing.

We were meant to put soil over exposed roots

And bury down into the bark left scarred by coming of age.

I was meant to be growing

I was meant to be bigger

And instead, I am red dust and cracked branches

Instead I am stuck in a stale space

That haunts all my worst nightmares

Instead I am devoid of romance and class,

I am a stagnant breathe

Barely stirring the heat.

And up here there is only the sour.

There is only the hollow.

And I built it around myself like an adventure

I forgot that I was not a heroine

I am not a character, nor a pillar of fiction.

My daydreams are blunt now- they cannot fit into the vast spaces and mining lights.

They are the hammer that wakes me before dawn

They are the aircon that takes away my petrol savings.

They are taunts from a girl who used to hope and is now a mess of half formed plans.

[aplaceforthewritings]

I used to measure success in back packs But now it is in messages that they will reply Now it is in BSB numbers that catch my side On their way to the exit. You only realise you’re lonely when it’s dark And there is no plane awaiting the poor No fuel tank to fill No summoning of angels to take the grey girl when she has no home Where lights have been left on

(via aplaceforthewritings)

Reply: 

I still find more value in tickets,  Than in job interviews and pay checks.

But you have kept the rent and paid your way,  You have walked mountains whilst knowing that a room is reserved by your hard work.  And the world has swung in so many circles all I know is that we have moved somewhere.  So stop holding all your dreams on the same paycheck. 

YOU HAVE TIME YOU HAVE TIME YOU HAVE TIME

[aplaceforthewritings]

Have you fought the ache in your chest so long it is in the tips of your hair? So that curls bounce with whispers of loneliness? Has the extrovert in you been held so high your skin crawls With the reality of the barren landscape caught in your bank account? And when you loved was it holy? When you fell did it hurt the soles of your feet For the feline impulses that taught you to kill, and to roam free with only manipulation and hunting to keep you warm- They did nothing to numb the pain of the alleyway reality The empty supermarket aisle The yellow light of the gas station Someone told you was an adventure

Very very very bad hour (via aplaceforthewritings)

A REFLECTION ON THIS: Circa 2017- YOU GOT UP AND YOU KEPT GOING AND YOU ARE STILL SURVIVING AND LAST MONTH YOU WENT TO ITALY AND were walking through a supermarket at midnight for cheese for people you loved and didn’t feel the slightest bit alone. This week you waltzed in the orange train station light and laughed because you looked like a David Bowie extra. And you skipped in an alleyway in Grenoble with someone who adores you until the cobblestones were stained with your affection. And all of this was done without the pressure on your chest that told you to be sad.

[aplaceforthewritings]

A Success Story

Would you like to hear a success story? 

I have been shown that beauty is always sad,  A minor is the best key, Nostalgia comes in pint glasses,  And that grey storms can be far prettier than sunshine- Especially when presented as limericks. 

And I will always live in lows Far more articulately than soaring heights, But that is because I have signed on for silent euphoria,  Just as much as loud suffering.

But a success story: 

When I woke up at 2pm today,  I could barely brush my teeth before I wanted to keep reading. The day was still mine. I listened to the same orchestral piece 8 times,  And yet wanted to run and scream and fight dragons with every crescendo.

Yesterday I got glass merry with people who loved me,  Who slowed down in Mario kart because I can be a sore loser.  The day before,  I served a customer who didn’t laugh at my degree And instead was impressed that I was staying so calm  When the chef’s were yelling. 

And she was right. 

I am a small space person living as big as I can.  I will grow and grow and grow,  I will be the ivy on the ruins I write about. 

We will have a moment when the sky is not big enough  To cope with the happiness we have cultivated,  In late mornings and pool games,  In the novels I can’t name for fear of teasing. 

There will be storm clouds that balk at the way we dance in rain.  There will be lightning who has to compete with our smiles,  There will be poetry that disappears because I am too busy living,  To find the words to shade this feeling right. 

[aplaceforthewritings]

July 2017 - 2 years later

I have a tongue as full as the moon We were taught devils howl at.  I wish I had trusted the honest devils, before you. 

Dressed in gold and paper,  you’ve picked at my skin.  In fact,  You picked at my eyelids, So that even views of darkness Have the shadows of your hands. 

After you, came the child friend, Whom loved me out of loyalty,  And I loved as a tenuous connection to home.  A home which deserted me long ago but still became  the clay between bricks I chose. 

The third flattered me.  I did not know I was so vain. 

The fourth I met in hot weather, You seduced me through the salt and sand,  Less than your hands.  In fact, it became apparent I was a lucky guess On a vegas style romance.  You were dating someone else and  Hoping neither of us knew. 

The fifth was a man. The first I had tried.  I liked dating boys apparently. I didn’t hear from you for a month.  Your friends were only friends  If they posed a mystery. 

The last was so kind.  So gentle. So soft under my tongue.  So willing to tell me its okay that the words drove me numb He liked me so honestly and simply,  That for a while I was willing to be vanilla calm. He was safe and I could trust him. 

But I couldn’t love him. 

You took that away from me By the scars on my eyelids. By the bruises on my arm.  By the cold in your words.  By the pierce of something 

I did not give. 

You took that 

When you said that I would drown in the same depths as my mother.  When you said that I was terrifying to love.  When you said I was the Minotaur of youth.  When you said that to love me was to swallow a thousand knives

And that I was in debt for even asking you to try.

I was alone 

Until sad songs sent an ache into my chest Until I raced down whiskey with wine Until I got scared of the youth in kindness Until I could only look at the moon

And wonder when such a light decided to forsake it’s daughter 

To a mere man. 

[aplaceforthewritings]

I've got a two faced happiness That deserts me at a moments notice Maybe when caffeine fades, Or when I see a mirror. Maybe when I get less of a smile, Or if I commit the fraud of pretending That I am not drowning When my eyes forget to lie And the grin in my cheek rises too far. I'm stuck here Stuck in stagnation Stuck in the mud of a degree that got me nowhere Stuck in the mud of a casual job Stuck in the ambition of apathy

[aplaceforthewritings]

No one tells you about the small strokes girls lay across each other’s chests

Like cracks of armor sisterhood was meant to have forged. 

Where we whip into shape a dependency borne of exclusivity.

No one tells you to love a boy is to be driven out of the sanctity of friendships Because belonging is a jealously guarded currency  A butcher’s knife to the feminine underbelly of a jilted lover  It is the scent of skin om platonic horizons that cannot coexist in the same sheets as sex.

No one lies out the metaphors for you to pick and they end up confused between love and trust; sex and friendships; raindrops and hand holds. 

I am straddling a sinking plank with a woman who is trying her way to the shore and a boy who may have found a lifeboat.  I cannot stay in the deep alone. 

[aplaceforthewritings]

The sides of my cheeks 

Have always been candy wrappers 

From a girl too eager to let common sense and restraint 

Guide her to satisfaction. 

And I live in small space hopes 

Where salt stone lamps romanticise 

Darkness. 

I wanted salt on my lips and rainstorms;

For poetry to inspire reality 

And not the reverse. 

Instead I have straws to guess at 

sucking the plastic still 

So that my tongue has choked out promises 

And knows hesitation like a lover. 

[aplaceforthewritings]

I've got a timer on my chest That counts heartbreaks Like pulses - That tries to tie the swallowing of a throat throttled in grief To the passing of minutes. I think it's bruised by the sections of my life that determine happiness: Numeracy Romance Intimacy Trust and Pride The first was lost in the moments I stole for rest And by a system I tried to deny - My second trying to drown out the cacophony of reality in failed attempts of grandeur Which betrayed the third by hoping for the fourth None of which was allowed by pride. So when I hear the beat of a rhythm Far too fast and too frequent for the survivors heart to bear I give a nod to the arrogance my father told me was confidence And my mother who taught hypocrisy And tie the noose around my throat To choke out the coming fears.

[aplaceforthewritings]

I used to measure success in back packs But now it is in messages that they will reply Now it is in BSB numbers that catch my side On their way to the exit. You only realise you're lonely when it's dark And there is no plane awaiting the poor No fuel tank to fill No summoning of angels to take the grey girl when she has no home Where lights have been left on

[aplaceforthewritings]

Have you fought the ache in your chest so long it is in the tips of your hair? So that curls bounce with whispers of loneliness? Has the extrovert in you been held so high your skin crawls With the reality of the barren landscape caught in your bank account? And when you loved was it holy? When you fell did it hurt the soles of your feet For the feline impulses that taught you to kill, and to roam free with only manipulation and hunting to keep you warm- They did nothing to numb the pain of the alleyway reality The empty supermarket aisle The yellow light of the gas station Someone told you was an adventure

Very very very bad hour

[aplaceforthewritings]

A broken mirror

When my eyes sink further back into a skull echoing with the dryness of doubt When my high mound has taught me that I am too proud to believe That my cries are heard by those who I water That my tongue will clatter less in the chest of another And more in the cage that is my teeth That I am stupid to trust in time As a guarded of memories When distance smashes sanctity of tears When I am synonymous with lonesome and my mouth is only poison That drives away the cleverer hoards. And I hate the expectations that reminisce in my skin That cloud my skies That rain down like bitter snowflakes Each unique in their betrayal For I am not receiving not worthy of the melting warmth of summer When I have painted rainbow skies Too high for mortals to reach.

[aplaceforthewritings]

Listed Summer

The pen is only a weapon When it's ink can rain tears Of joy or frustration Onto the paper with such force The white will be stained. But for the bland grey I am feeling When I'm in silence Getting splinters in my thighs From the desks I strap myself to There is no use trying to write When I cannot conjure feeling To inspire.

[aplaceforthewritings]

I like to paint stories at the bottom of beer My escapism can be described in liquid form My reflection always laughs And I pick skin on my face Almost obsessively I ask people how they'd survive The end of the world Like it's inevitable They have a plan Like we all should live in this prism Where anxiety comes between breathes Like the chinks of glasses on bar tops Like the clothes I scrub down tables with Like the smiles I force out at customers As if they aren't arguments between necessity and pride Like washing tables back in a town I vanished from With puberty, hope and finance Wasn't a form of defeat That I'm trying to quash with small talk.

[aplaceforthewritings]

All I do is drink alone And take photos of the films I watch In silent pleas For a hand to hold When coffee gets cold And ice starts to melt In my wine glass Like I can organise A saviour to love When my naked skin shivers From lonely mattresses When there's no conversation Other than the empty space online