Red. Scarlet Red.
Like the colour of their blood.
A horror, lies in Flanders Fields,
between the rows of us.
We ask not for mercy,
just to remember what befell,
and through the sea of ruby red,
a story we must tell.
We are a mark,
a reminder,
a memory,
telling tales of courage
and men who paid their debt.
And beneath the days of golden rays,
we vow: “lest we forget.”
Tag Archives: Poem
Learning
I am learning,
slowly
to be okay with the things
that I am not okay with,
loose endings
broken friendships
with no reparation in sight.
I am learning to let go
and not hold on so tight,
to let memories be
instead of thinking of them
tainted.
What’s done is done.
What’s past is past.
There is no use in looking back
for it will do nothing to help you move on,
when yesterday us gone.
The only direction is forward.
Perspective is all we gain from hindsight,
watching the road in the rearview mirror,
seeing how far we’ve come
and of how things might
look different
be different
if we had made different choices
and taken different roads,
said ‘no’ instead of ‘yes’,
and ‘yes’ instead of no,
knowing when to keeps our mouths
closed.
Loose lips sink ships
and I have sunk a few,
accidentally with excitement
and wanting people to talk to.
I did not think of the consequences,
and was blind to the unforseen circumstances,
until the rose-coloured glasses
shattered upon my eyes,
and I saw things for how they are,
not how I wished them to be.
I am learning
to be okay with refusal of apologies,
for my actions
though I have tried to apologise
but perhaps I am already
the villain in some people’s eyes,
more than I realise.
I am learning to be kay
with the silence.
Silence is serenity,
sometimes necessary,
and often tells you everything you need to know.
Perhaps the things that bother me now
will not matter in a year, or so
and they will be just memories of their own.
I am learning every day,
how to be better and kinder,
to know what not to say
and to say to whom,
to sit with these feelings that feel overwhelming
and feel them,
in the hope that someday soon
they will shrink and dissolve
and disappear into the ether.
Who am I to know?
I am learning
that things change
and so do people,
and sometimes the greatest thing you can do for people
is change yourself
when you have become someone that is not authentic
and you are not the person you know you are,
when you hate the human being you’ve become.
I am learning that learning is constant
a constant, ongoing, evolutionary process.
To learn is to progress.
Mistakes are a part of learning too,
and to learn from them and start anew
is to bloom,
from bud to flower,
phoenix from the ashes,
all over again.
Untitled: 4
I am old enough to have known better,
so why didn’t I?
Am I too trusting?
Am I just naive?
Am I an idiot?
Am I all three?
Sometimes it feels like it,
at least,
recently.
Long Roads
The road is long
and sometimes
hard to follow
and disappears among the fog
or lost beneath a blanket of snow.
The winding bends
and dead ends
seem unnecessary
and pointless
and more hassle than the journey is worth.
But every turn
leads to the straight and narrow,
the wisps of fog clear,
and sunbeams melt the snow,
leaving behind
a brighter and clearer tomorrow.
The Devil (Drives A Red Corvette)
I should have listened when they said,
“he will only get in your head,
and make you think that you’re the problem,
while he takes another girl to bed”
but I just wanted to believe,
all the things he said to me.
He doesn’t talk much,
though his talk is sweet.
No,
it’s not sadness –
just regret
from ignoring all the flags,
though they were waving in the wind,
bright and burning red.
I look back
at my naivety,
feeling stupid for letting him in,
but they say the devil drives a hard bargain.
How were I to know
it came in the shape
of a red corvette?
We are the stars
Trust in the power of the universe,
for we are all made of the cosmos.
We are made of matter.
Though we feel inextricably small
in the scale of things,
we matter.
Do Not Tell Me
Do not tell me how to be a woman
to stop biting my lip because it turns you on
to stop playing with my hair
because it’s one of the things you like
to stop being articulate
because you find intelligent women sexy
or to stop wearing my favourite dress
because it reveals my legs
just enough to keep you interested.
Do not tell me how to think
how to act
how to dress
or what to do
while you have a faithful girlfriend
waiting for you
at home.
Do not tell me how to be,
just because you never really got over me.
Abyss
You’re surrounded
covered by darkness
like a blanket
but it is not warm
or comforting.
It is cold,
like shards of rice ripping through your skin
deeper and deeper into your soul
drawing you in
until the light fades
and is replaced
with the nothingness,
the abyss.
Enchanted
I am enchanted by his magic smile
that turned me weak at the knees
his slicked back hair
and his gravelly morning voice
and the way he walked
with his hands
in the front pockets of his jeans.
I am enchanted by his corny jokes
and his childish banter,
his love of black and white movies,
and his captivating charm
that reminded me of James Dean.
I am enchanted by the look in his eyes
every time he looks at me
and the way my name
rolls off his tongue.
In a world of unfaithful, adulterous men,
he is
a gentleman.
Halls
These halls have changed so much
since I have been away,
that I barely recognise the place.
It doesn’t feel the same.
These walls do not understand me
in the same way,
they do not understand
who I am
or where I have been
or share the memories
that we built in them.
The tiles on the floors
do not remember my footsteps,
and these are not the same corridors
that I have walked a thousand times.
They do not remember the way I would laugh
with my friends
over an inside joke
or the hard work I put in,
or the the small moments in between
that I worry I have forgotten.
They do not remember the times I cried,
or the stories that have been told
behind a beaten old locker
before it was time to go home.
They do not remember the kisses and breakups
the making up
between friends
the queues in silence before exams
or two not quite lovers holding hands.
There used to be a photo of me
upon the wall,
but now there is a blank space
no memory of me at all.
Everything has been replaced
with new people and new things
and I find myself there,
staring.
I thought that it would feel
like returning to sacred ground
overwhelmed with emotion
the band playing out
like the end of a movie,
reminiscing.
But it doesn’t.
I am a stranger
that these halls let in.
And it will never be the same again.
Poison Apple
He is sweet
like American Pie
drawing you in
with the promise
of being everything you’ve ever wanted
the man of your dreams
saying he will give you
everything you need
and love you like you’re his only Queen.
But make no mistake,
he is not a knight in shining armour
and he does not ride around on a white horse.
He will not come and save you.
He breaks his promises
and he’s good at his disguise,
because behind his charming smile
and innocent eyes
are perfectly rehearsed lies.
So don’t believe everything he tells you,
for he is his father’s son,
and after all, as you may know
even the sweetest apple
can be laced with poison.
Sunshine and Gunpowder
Her.
Her perfect smile.
Her laugh.
Her everything.
Wonder woman encased in a fragile shell
that has seen hell
and more tragedy than a soul should ever bear.
She is beautifully broken
but not broken at all,
a masterpiece of the best and worst
that life has thrown at her,
a diamond in diguise.
She has walked through fire and she knows it burns.
She is courageous.
She is fierce.
She is brave.
She is the light in the dark,
the place in my head that numbs the pain,
the only thing that gets me through,
the person on this planet
whom I care most about.
She is my frozen lake.
My tonight.
My tomorrow.
My everything.
She is sunshine and gunpowder.
Two of my favourite things.
Untitled: 1
She was unpredictable
like a thunderstorm
cutting through
a clear summer’s day.
All In
We’re scared,
terrified,
terrified that this may not work,
terrified that it’s the biggest mistake of our lives
that this will end in heartbreak
leaving us a lost cause
and broken beyond repair.
We have never had anything like this.
From the moment I met you,
I knew you were the one,
between flirtatious banter
and stolen glances
my heart fell in love with yours.
It might be wrong,
and dangerous,
like comets colliding
but I want to be bold.
I want to be bold with you.
No more cat and mouse games.
No more pining away.
I want to go all in.
Tonight.
Tomorrow.
Forever.
Carousel
There’s a carousel,
like the ones you see at a fairground,
in vibrant red and vibrant yellow,
with intricate designs carved into every curve,
with bright lights constantly beaming,
where the horses jump from floor to ceiling,
bound by the metal ropes,
that hold them to the floor.
They can only go so far.
You ride the carousel,
spinning faster and faster and faster and faster,
your knuckles white as you hold on desperately,
gripping for dear life,
but you never slow down.
You never stop.
Because the carousel never stops turning.
The Trouble With Love
The trouble with love is
we give it away too freely,
to people who do not deserve it
because there is an expectation
for us to love the ones we came from,
even though they have done us wrong
in more ways than one.
We give it to hearts where it is unrequited,
who do not treat it like the gift that it is,
for to love someone completely
is to give all of yourself to them
your light and darkness
with an understanding that it is delicate,
like the petal of a freshly bloomed flower.
The trouble with love is that it is not rational –
we fall into it too deeply
and fall out of it too quickly
or sometimes never fall into it at all,
merely teetering on the edge of ‘like’
for adoration does not come easily to us.
It crushes and destroys the essence of our being
as we crumple beneath its weight
until we slowly regain our strength
with lessons learned
and hard hearts earned.
We worry that we do it wrong,
for what is love to us
may not be love to someone else
our forever after all,
our in sickness and in health,
is not a tether shared
nor is a heart spared
the pain of this realisation.
The trouble with love
is the pressure
society puts on us to find it
romantically
as if we as human beings are not complete
without another soul
to accompany us on this journey.
We buy into this pressure
entering into relationships
situationships
cohabitation
with people who are not meant for us
at times when we are not ready
as a way to be ready
to answer all of the questions they will ask
about our futures
of rocks on our fingers
and the cries of an infant
as if both of these will give us purpose,
meaning.
We know they don’t meant it
at least,
not in a way that offends us.
They are simply a product of their generation
where gender roles were at the forefront of a partnership
and though most are open minded
to the way that things have changed
there is still a sense of
them being stuck with the same
ideas and ideals
that they always have been.
Love has progressed. To love is progress.
And yet we cling to the idea that we are failing,
sinking,
if we have not found the one person
whom we call the love of our life,
our everything.
We are conditioned to believe that this is the love that matters
when all that really matters
is that we are loved
by the people who have raised us
nurtured us,
empowered us,
held us while we have cried
witnessed our becoming
and our unbecoming,
those who have been there by our side
for our entire lives
whose love does not come with conditions
and we do not have to prove ourselves
or be anything we’re not,
because it is not judgmental
and cannot be forgotten.
Can it?
We become so focused on finding love
that sometimes we forget
love has already found us
in more ways than one,
and though it cannot kiss us passionately
or propose marriage
perhaps it is the only love we can truly depend on,
the kind of love that
no matter how much we take it for granted
will never leave.
But still, the problem with love is that we are too blind to see,
that sometimes the love we have with us already
is all the love we might ever need.
81 Days
It’s been 81 days since you left
and I still wait
with bated breath
for someone to exclaim
that it is all a dream
and what I know
isn’t really happening.
It’s been 81 days
since you last smiled
a cheshire cat grin –
the kind that makes you feel something,
everything.
It’s been 81 days
since you last spoke
some words
any words
but being five thousand miles away
I will never know what they were.
It’s been 81 days since
I last saw your face
on my screen
as a human being
alive
pulse
beating.
81 days later
and it has yet to sink in
that you’re not coming back
that you will not laugh
sing
cry
joke
breathe
or be
again.
Double Standards
They tell you to be yourself
but what good is it
when they mock your health
and your wealth?
‘Stand out from the crowd!’ they scream
‘Do your own thing!’
But how do you do your own thing
when the thing you want to do
is be like everyone else?
‘Stand up,’ they say, ‘even if you’re standing alone’
but how can you,
when they are quick to break your bones
and shatter your spirit,
your dreams?
‘We must do what is right,’ they’ll say;
that it is our responsibility to speak for those who are marginalised
underrepresented
undervalued
unnoticed.
But those saying such words are the first to criticise us for not being authentic,
for being too white for black,
too straight for gay,
too rich for poor,
too young for old,
too uneducated to question what we’re told,
to not take things at face value,
because faces can mask the truth.
We are imposed with double standards
but what if double did not exist
and standards were simply
to stand
and fight for what is right
and what is true
without anybody
humiliating,
mocking,
condescending
or scolding you.
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