mypoetryisprettyshit

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

Sunflower

For the past 7 years I’ve pitched a tent on the fields of Cabra Road.

To the poets, performers

the vans and volunteers

I say thanks to you.

To

The Rubberbandits

To Ursula Burns

To Duke Special

To Amy Montgomery

To King Kong Company

To Mr B

To Beans on Toast

To Coco and the Butterfields

to Alice McCullough

To Elizabeth McGeown

To The Twisted Sisters

I say thanks to you.

To the late night sing alongs

to the dancing in the dark

to the passing out in strangers tents.

To coat on coat off

umbrellas up and umbrellas down

to throwing away the umbrella 

to dancing in the rain

I say thanks to you.

To walking up the hill then down

under the shiny sunflower sign

I say thanks to you.

To performing in puddles

to performing to crows

to seeing the words you wrote

come to life in front of smiling children

and not so sober parents

I say thanks to you.

To the sick sliding down 

the sides of the tent

to brushing you teeth from a cup

the Monday morning clear up

to the friends we brought

to the friends we made

to those we lost in-between 

I say thanks to you.

To the getting on stage

to the memories we made

to the beers we drank before lunch

the the circles we slept in 

to the barn and the moot and the glade

I say thanks to you.

To the photographers

to the sound engineers 

to the security

to the sunflowers and the sheep

to Vanessa and Micheal 

to all of the team

I want to say thanks to you, you and you. 

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

ecstasy

buzzing

eyes wide

heart racing

you feel loved and you feel love.

everyone you meet is fantastic 

this is a feeling like no other

it takes you to sticky dance floors and muddy fields.

you take it in bathrooms

with the bass rumbling

through the cracks on the mirrors

you're young and you’re free

this is exciting

this is the happiest you've ever been 

you look at yourself

your make up has run

theres sweat on your forehead

you begin to feel ill

but still you continue

on the manufactured happiness at

just ten pounds a pill.

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

Seasons of Change

Everything is breaking down

a strong rock warn 

away by harsh wind and rain.

friendships far away

feathers in spring

leaves in autumn

light breeze in summer.

The smashing crashing silence 

of a broken heart,

tears like April showers

pitter patter of drops on cheeks

you turn your nose up at the people you used to know

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

A short conversation

You tell me she’s not okay.

She thinks I’m filled with magic. I just want

to take care of you

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

sonnet for kirstin

Your big sad eyes look at me

other people asking who can she be?

I place my hands on either side of your head

through my mind runs everything he said.

Look out for her, I trust you to take care.

Here we stand your hands in my hair.

I feel a guilt in my gut

I should not partake in this smut.

Here time freezes in a kiss.

You probably thinks it’s hit or miss.

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

poetry day

I was never naive.

Always before my time

wanting to grow up as fast as I could.

Now I am nearly one year into official adulthood

and I am scared.

These ‘formative’ years when I am aware of my development

petrify me, now I’d like to go back to a baby

screaming, crying and shitting my knickers.

Or fast forward to marriage.

Me and my wife bouncing baby in arms.

Now I feel out of place.

Too old for my peers, too young

to be what I want. 

I am in-between.

Irrelevent.

Wandering through

with too much on my mind.

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

make up

First foundation the the powder and blush.

On to the eyebrows light to dark  highlight.

Am I dressing up? Eye shadow  sparkle then crease.

Mascara, mascara mascara, mascara lips.

Maybe only once a week 

but this routine cheers me up, 

fills me with confidence

and leaves me feeling powerful.

In this war paint I can 

take on nations

battle an army

and stand up to the bloke

outside the shop.

In this faceprint I am

more likely to have tears of 

laughter than sad

I am not wasting all 

that time to be miserable. 

In this dusting of powder

I am more likely to have

a spring in my step 

and twinkle in my eye

I don't do that for the boys.

my face is mine and by 

spending sometime highlighting 

it in the mirror 

I will feel good about myself.

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

There’s a dark path 

you walk down it everyday

hoping to find some light.

you know you should bring a torch

but you like the way you 

never know what might happen.

You mistake the thrill of feae for a sense of belonging.

Its how everyone feels

when you talk to yourself

you won't get a reply you don't like.

The darkness tells you 

secrets that you never 

should have known 

if only you'd turned your bedroom light on 

and looked in the mirror.

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

“broken”

“bruised”

“whore”

The names we call ourselves can be worse than what others think. Maybe someone called you it once now it’s stuck with you forever.

“ugly” “fat” “whore” “slut”

are the names I try to push to the back of my mind pack them in a box labelled “The Past”

but sometimes they box tips over, the lid wasn't on tight enough and the words escape. 

you take some time, you put the lid back on and add another layer of masking tape

adjust your mask, the one with the smile. The weird smile that doesn't belong to you until you know the box is back in place. 

“beautiful” “intelligent” “kind”

These words don't go in a box. They float in one ear and out the other. Wings attached like fairies you try desperately to catch them but really it is imposible.

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

A Razor Blade

I miss that warm trickle of blood running down my thigh.

Falling down my arm 

The drip drip of the ticker than water.

cat scratches

dog claws

The burning showers and itchy tights.

The long sleeved tops and multiple bracelets.

I miss the red,

the swirling comfort.

Deep breath in:

push down and drag.

Not ready to die but not ready to live

lost and alone, scared and scared 

I miss the trickle of blood

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

How did I get from A to B to back again?

For the past 5 years

I have been swinging back and forth

from happy to sad

from free to trapped

from angry to content.

I don't know if I can get off the swing.

I don't know if the playground is for me anymore.

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

Post Limelight

There’s an ache in my stomach.It’s tearing away at my insides like when you violently strip wallpaper off a wall.

A pain in my heart like when you stub your toe and you swear and get over it but this is a constant.

There’s a ringing in my head negative thoughts swirling and swirling on to damp wet like the snow storm outside.

My body doesn't feel right, not at ease like it has been for a long time. 

I replay those moments again and I feel anger, pain, pity, dirty. 

I feel like I will never be clean again. 

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

Cells

Our bodies are made up of cells

cellulite 

prison cells

cellular connection

sell

sell yourself

selfish 

my body is made up of cells

good cells that deserve to be there

cells that keep me alive

cells that make me

cellulite holds my legs

cellular holds my attention 

I like my body and you should to

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

I don’t write.

I want to write what I hear and take inspiration from the women who tell their stories.

Their stories are so similar to mine but more articulate. 

I never seem to be able to find the right rhyme, right rhythm or correct spelling.

Poetry is for everyone the poets say. 

Poetry is for old white men who have moved house a few times says our schools. 

I want to hear more about the women who apologise for reading at festivals, making no money and writing because they love it.

If I knew about them I could be inspired to write something amazing, instead I write about my anger, about how in education I am not represented, I don't get a say so 

I don't write. 

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

HER/ME

She is plain and ordinary

She likes to be different and tries had to be.

She stands out by her ordinary.

Can she not see

she sparkles and glitters

her hair as wild as flame

she doesn't know how good she is. 

The movies she watches

show what she wants to be;

a wild adventurer driving off cliffs with her best friend.

In her head she is different,

an outcast, a dreamer.

In real life she is a party.

A much needed wild night out. 

She is mother, carer, friend.

In charge and comforting

a soft person, a kind person

a raging lesbian feminist.

She is far from plain and ordinary.

She is alive. Living, breathing.

Wonderful. Original and beautiful. 

I am me and that is good. 

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

A portrait of scars ~ self harm doesn’t always look like long sleeved t-shorts or pulled down jumpers with holes for your thumbs Scars aren’t always on wrists or on legs hidden away from prying eyes things of shame or something your scared of Chapped lips aren’t always from the cold or the harsh weather beating your skin as you walk They someone times begin their life that way but if you can control it and keep picking away eventually these picks all start to stay. It begins by mistake but you make it worse you know that this is a gift not a curse. Picking and picking it’s easier than having to hide or steal you won’t have to lie you won’t have to hide. People make assumptions and you won’t deny when they had you their chapstick you might thank them then start to cry.

[mypoetryisprettyshit]

Soft touches Gentile kisses Slow burn Wait The beginning is where we start our journey