Drivel

In a mood.

I finally get what people mean when they say they’re drowning,

even though the last time I swam was three summers ago in a frigid Cornwall sea.

I wish I had somewhere to read and share and get it all out of my fucking head,

but alas I don’t have a cool spoken-word voice or the boldness of performers,

I don’t have real problems – I have small pathetic issues and that’s it.

I’m just a broken megaphone trying to be creative, wasting words and space on a

keyboard of craziness.

So lucky, so many opportunities, so fortunate, but wasting, wasting, wasting, wasting

away,

hiding again because it’s easy to look perfect, to feel perfect, no one is perfect I know,

but it’s nice to be admired and not seem so fucked-up for once.

Repeating the same bloody mistakes again and again and again,

until pins and needles throw their arms up in frustration.

Helpless – unable to do anything effective, accept feel, share and listen to myself.

Brain Hurts

This isn’t even a bloody poem because exam revision has rendered my brain a pile of overheated mush. I’ve used all my creativity and imagination into anagrams and triggers to help me memorise the case list that never seems to end. Let me virtually scream my frustration through this keyboard on my phone. Let me complain about my “woe is me” exam life. Let me vent to no one in particular. Let me persevere to the fucking finish line. 

Product of my mind

Someone give me a gold star for predictable imagery that you’re about to read! Validate my unoriginalness!

Arms rise and hand thuds against 

bed side table. 

What a bruising way to wake up 

from a dream about Amsterdam and

carbs. 

I didn’t wake with the sun, too late,

sun deserted me and left with the

clouds – damn, maybe tomorrow?

Shower nudges my body awake,

coffee proves a helpful sidekick. 

Productive – I plan to be productive,

despite the fact that planning to be

productive is not actually being 

productive,

just like a bird flying in a cage is not

flying free. 

I want to fly free, but I have to be 

productive,

by typing until my fingers fall madly

for the mature keyboard and coffee

stains rest against my mug. 

For I have memorising and creating 

on my to-do list and I long for the 

sweet satisfaction of red lines 

drawn, like the welcoming pillow

at night. 
My mind is a cog in the machine and

I just keep grinding, grinding until

I wonder if the work I’m doing can

even constitute grinding,

grinding until my legs are so glued

to the sofa I don’t think they could

grind ever again, even if I did want

to grind. 

I’m left mentally exhausted and 

I begin overanalysing every little 

word, sound, shade of light, with

remnants of coffee clutching my 

brain. 

At least I was productive. 

Dangerous Daze

Socks grounded on floor,

hair tied up, mind up,

hand clutched knife –

What the fuck?

Wake up, wake up from this 

dangerous daze. 

Sleep-walking before the sun sets,

 contemplating proverbial sun sets,

the carousel of triggers taking 

in the skyline of anxious hopes. 

Mouth betrays your pledge of truth,

“I’m fine, I promise” on repeat in the

car. 

Wake up, wake up from this 

delusional daze. 

Infelicitous ice-breakers mingle,

amongst unwelcome guests from

spectrums of childhood and past. 

Guests of honour cannot leave,

think of all the people you would 

hurt if you did – convincing 

contention isn’t it?

Guilt is barging up on stage,

ripping mic away from insanity,

dragging shame with him. 

Wake up, wake up from this

dangerous daze. 

Desire in simple words

Your words,

Nurture my ego, crumbled, defeated soil. 

Introduce a new perspective,

like a long lost relative just discovered. 

Cause longing to flutter awake in my eyes. 

Liquidate sensibilities into lust. 

Refuse to let me slip away so easily,

rather they 

Slip into my panties. 

Burrow against hot skin,

Crawl over every sensitive pin

resting on my edges. 

Leave my body a fidgeting mess of butterflies and bees. 

Challenge rigid aches, softening them into dribbling pleasure. 

Carve fine imagination out of a block of stubborn rationality. 

Hold attention up to scrutinising lamplight. 

Heat up confusion until comfort smokes the room. 

Fuck up the standard mindset, barely clasping at cliff edge. 

So many questions

Did he look better than last time?

When did I last see him?

Am I wearing lonely-tinted shades?

Or am I drinking him differently?

Did time and distance frustrate 

my view?

What did he think of me?

Did he get that confusing feeling 

too?

Did he feel the feathery finger tips 

press against his stomach too?

Perhaps my ability to twist and twirl

stories from dusty regularity has 

improved?

Or maybe I’m overthinking it all 

again, PPI calls on repeat in my 

head, questions with no purposeful

partner to hold and share with.