Past Poetry

No signposting in my mind, thank you very much, I’ll take the beat down stubborn path. I’ll walk, feet pounding to block out panic, until I near the edge. So fucking close to the edge. Neck twists, zigzag searching for someone to drag me back, but I’m behind the trickery of a mirror, staring contest with myself, unaware of supportive hands. I step off, return to my twisted dancing lover, who holds all manner of sin disguised as succour. We dance until I bruise, cut, break, shoes worn, arms tired, posture poor, believing I’m fine, I’m in love with life again. Only hindsight can shake you into order again, only a cloudy sky can remind you of before. 

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Tap dancing on the brain

Crushes are nice, they don’t confuse me as much anymore. 

Down a few drinks, ease a few nerves, legs greet each other in a cautious flirt; nothing too unusual. So why can I hear those tapping clicks of voice, eyes, smile, you?    It’s an irritating noise for such a simple dance between lust and loneliness. There’s no off button, no magical blind to yank down, just my brain twirling around, clicking and clapping in time to your tune.        I’m either a delusional creep or an intense romantic, the line is kind of blurry. Or maybe I’ve been driven mad by all those silly dancing questions of want, doubt and curiosity. Dizzy with newly acquainted intrigue, sipping mugs of tea to settle the pondering. 

What the fuck has happened?    What happened to silence and prohibition of dirty dancing?

Share the madness with me

[Might change title]

Oh it would be so lovely, if you shared the madness with me.

We would skate over small talk and never stumble.

Notifications, whispers, greetings, gifs – your name attached would add eccentricity and excitement.

The radio broadcasts the early hour, if you were here you’d probably pester me to relax, breathe, sleep.

For you I’d dim down the manic momentarily, well I’d at least try.

Smiles would fold in on themselves, connected as intensely as veins.

The addition of your voice to the inhabitants in my head would create captivating chaos.

I cannot deny, chaos and uncertainty have never looked so attractive until now.

Daydreams of you wade through overgrown, neglected drudgery, come out on top in prominent position.

For now I’ll wait, perhaps when I feel bolder, I’ll ask you to share the madness with me.

Moments of Madness

Cornered in a circular room –

illogical as it sounds, on the tip of a toxic tongue.

Breath refusing to be wasted, yearning to be savoured.

Pick the easy option, pleads and pressures the long-term drive.

Choose not to think, collapse on foggy bed, but no sleep joins –

you’re not exactly the best company.

Toss, turn, toss, until rationality resigns himself to the sofa.

Pick the easy option, even if no one else understands.

 

A single prick can revive exhausted questions, every sigh less stiff.

Who needs to talk when bloody screaming is an option?

Who needs to listen when tissued silence comforts your wounds?

Tripping backwards over feet, crying over dormant memories,

wondering what the colour blue feels like –

write in present tense until you remember how shoes meet ground.

Repainting a personality until value is believable, the brush strokes

take time, but the framing is easy.

 

Stars strangle cloudy nights yet this pain is so fucking beautiful.

Emotions are now as indecisive as the breeze,

but when it’s past midnight, it’s understandable.

Languid conversations circulate and mingle, pass business cards of loathing;

psychological pandering at its finest.

Close burdened eyes for a minute,  body numb as mind, until alarm clock rings.

 

 

 

What you left

You parade through my mind, my veins, my eyes and I’m bloody sick of it. What the hell have you done? 

You weren’t invited into my headspace, with your lazy smile and relaxed eyes. 

A safe distance was enforced, guarding against drunken textual confessions. 

I was protecting myself from the throng of flustered feelings. 

The smooth scalpel drew paths and plans into the core of my body. Peeled away tissue and tendons, reached in and yanked out the gritty truth. 

I don’t regret the hands on my body, God no, it felt so fucking good. I do regret letting you weave your way into my bloodstream and breath, something so sacred that I don’t just give up for anyone. I regret letting you cause this anger to bump against my skull like dodgems. 

Naive hope has clutched its chubby hand round mine since birth. Now it tears up, fatty purple droplets, and I can do nothing to stop the cries. 

Radio befriends me in the early hours between sunset and sunrise, lies with me until thoughts of you drift off with my dreamy REM. 

Rain drops bump into umbrella fabric, in a moment of madness I curse umbrella and cloudy gods and run, feet slamming on pavement as though it was you.  Look what you’ve lead me to do – I fucking hate running.

Insta Convos

We tap in short-hand and it all makes sense. Snipping the ends of words before we run out of breath. We all understand, grammar critiques simply ignored. We whisper secrets to a keyboard and our lol-ing proves we’re listening. Time plods through mundane puddles and we all try to avoid getting our shoes wet. Hopping and hoping our way through life, yet our chats are our umbrella, that brief moment of laughter and friendship, before a gust pushes us forward again.