I know I must have been happy then.
And if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost feel it
Between scrunched eyes and clenched teeth.

No more for you

How many more poems are in you?
I don’t want to keep writing about you.
Thinking about you.
Living and reliving you.
I don’t remember good with you.
I don’t want that nearness to you;
That association.
How much pain is in me still?
It is mine, not yours.
I reclaim my pain.
I reclaim my words.



Journalling eternally
Fulfilling something deep in me;
Nurturing maternally
The turmoil that stews in me;
Harnessing and channelling
The things that I find challenging;
The doubting and the piss-taking,
The venom-spat crap shit-talking.
The bothering, the bullying,
The bitching and the bollockings,
The two-faced pre-teen teasing,
Taunting, testing, second-guessing;
And the you can’t dance, and you can’t sing.
The slouching, acne,
You’re too fat,
You’re weird, you’re gross,
You can’t do that;
And shut your mouth, and sit back down;
The “Alright love, don’t have to frown”.
The fucking fights
And family
And friends
And “friends”,
And poverty.
And punishment and petulance,
And ill-judged verbal flatulence.
For every nasty, angry lie–
Another verse, another line,
Another day not in my mind.
Just ugly words for pretty rhymes.