We are only the marks we leave on others
The brash attempts to leave ourselves unscarred
We are the voices inside the withered heads
Of those who grew out of their own
We are the names that were meant to be forgotten
Cast aside on weathered tombs of Latin capillaries

Left for the sudden slow burn of midnight tobacco-smokers
And childish delight of dawn’s first glimmer
Shadowing the rays of unfaithful vagabonds
Who know their home lies with the silver tongue
They tried to part with

We are the lovers that did not get to meet each other’s flesh
The hollow chant of sweet nothings never whispered
We are the beaded rays that only burden the painter’s muse
And carefully enchant the skin of peeled fruit never ripened
We are the founders of deciduous beings that have not learnt
The ways of plastic religion and pastel-coloured dreams

Left for the peace-makers to tie into knots from coiled wool
And rope that can only wrap around your tired feet
Earnestly whispering to you the savoury everything’s
You burnt candles for

Uninvited sensibilities
That make me squirm
Give me fruit sweetened
By sugar and I will
Come to you in understanding
To cherish everything
Save the bitter core
Even the skin rots beautifully

Sweat

there is an un-holiness
about the way he watches
me in the morning
still in last night's clothes
with my head stuck
to lipstick-stained pillows
bedsheets that smell like sweat

Within my hand I held a rose

And each petal I kissed

With a fondness

As if it were the last

Flower upon this earth

And the only salvation

To touch my lips

And then I kissed you

And the rose fell out of my hand

Each petal burned slowly

As they fell to the ground

With ashes that promised me

Kissed that will never wilt

Who Owns Our Bodies?

Because when I think of me
And that perfect beach body
I’m not thinking of myself
I’m thinking of a celebrity

Because when I buy make-up
The receipt tells me everything
But my name
And then I’m to blame
When I start looking the same
As every other face on the street

Because every time I shave my legs
I’m taking my stance against nature
And I’m holding that razor
Like a cross around my neck
Even though I know
It will crucify me

Because when I walk down the high street
In a pair of shoes
Designed to make me taller
Not so I can get better sight of the views
But to ‘extenuate’ my figure
For the benefit of my gentleman caller

Because I see little girls
Being told that pink is what they should wear
And that’s the epitome of womanhood laid bare;
We are just a colour, a body of pink flesh
Laid bare with no hair except what’s on our heads’

Because it takes two people
To create life
And yet all the responsibility
Is mine from the moment I sigh
With the pain of not knowing why
I’ll be punished no matter what I choose
Have an abortion – congratulations you lose
Oh but you’re a single mother
You’re the bane of society
You’re the reason why we’re in these blues

Because when I say no
What I really mean is
“Go ahead and do it anyway”
It doesn’t matter, what’s mine is yours
I mean, what’s the point in autonomy
When my body is no longer me
But something that society
Can spit on and then make love to

Because too often I have watched a room full of men
Discussing the problem of sin
When women become everything
But pretty and thin
And what it says on the tin


Because I am a woman
And I have bought into all the
Values I have been told to
Despite knowing I shouldn’t
And waiting to fold
Back into a compact case
You can carry around
At your own personal taste

The Apple of Your Eye

I remember that day
The way old friends
Remember together
The laughs they have shared

The laughter now pittering
Into a dull, lifeless thud
That echoes the sound
Of my voice

Hoarse and distorted
Because my lungs fail
To release the stale air
They have been holding captive
All this time

That day the sun
Breathed little whispers
Upon your naked face
And kissed each freckle with warmth

I remember how hot it was
In contrast to your icy stare
The one where I reflected
Inside the hollow shells
Beneath your brow
        
And I saw that
The apple of your eye
Had rotted to its core                    

Growing Up

Do you think we ever knew
What would happen to us
When we were young and stable
And tears only flowed
With a bruise or a scraped knee
When the only drink in your hand
Didn’t hurt your head the next morning

Do you ever wonder
If colours will start to fade

Until they become just shades
Or if music can never again be
Accompanied by games played at parties
Where goodybags would be handed out at the end
And pictures would be taken
By adults with proud faces

Can I still paint a picture
With just my fingers and a star-shaped sponge
Or do I need a palette of dull colours
To cover up the beauty in our lives
When hearts were just paper cut-outs
And not fragile pieces of glass
When we thought being grown up
Was the only thing that mattered

A Love Poem

I want to kiss your skin
The way you kiss my lips
I want to eat into your core
And not throw away the pips
I want to feel your breath
Like a gentle breeze
I want to whisper in your ear
I know you like the way I tease
I want to know your thoughts
So you won’t be so alone
I want you to know that I love you
Until you’re just rotten flesh and bone

Unfcomfortably Numb

I clench my hand into a fist
Dig the nails in deep
I need to know that I’m still alive
There is nothing I can do to keep
Myself from going numb

I feel so tired
Tired of trying to reassure myself…
That I’m not going insane
I can’t find my breath
I can’t feel heat or pain
They told me everything would be fine
But what’s the point in living
When nothing feels like mine

And where does this all stop
Will I suddenly feel okay once more
I can’t find a trigger
But I know it’s been done before
I can’t keep thinking like this
It’s teasing me inside
Am I living or have I died

The Apple Tree

The seed we planted
Has grown no crop
Instead before me
Begins to grow – an apple tree
You said we’ll take the fruit once ripened
And use it for our own
But I’ve been waiting years
And still no fruit has grown

 

The seasons change fast
From sun to rain
But still the tree stands alone
No fleshy leaves, just bark and bone
You told me to wait patiently
That we’ll harvest soon
But I do not see a single fruit
And it has already reached its 12th June

 

Perhaps it is the soil
No nutrients to provide
Or maybe the sun has not yet shone
On the fruit that should be growing there with pride
For you were once excited to see
Roots growing strong and deep
But now you have fallen victim to apathy
And our beloved apple tree—
Lies in parts amongst the compost heap

Just A Little Bit About Poetry

I’m going to write about poetry in this post, just for a little change. It’s all from my opinion and view-point though. I’m not trying to convert people to my way of thinking or saying that my way of thinking is right. When it comes to something as diverse as poetry, there really is no wrong or right! We have the power to like or dislike certain poems, to understand them individually (as most poems mean different things to different people). But I think that perhaps we should all have a certain amount of respect for the poet, any poet, whether we like or dislike their work. Actually... let me rephrase that... I think we should all respect everyone for what they do creatively. Because we will never fully understand what it meant to the creator. We can analyse, discuss and debate works of art, literature, film etc. but we will never be in the position of the ‘creator’ and we should respect their work as something personal to them even if it’s not personal to us.

So why do I write poetry? Well, in year 8 I had an English teacher who was very supportive of my poetry and motivated me to write more. She asked for one of my poems to be published in the school bulletin (for little 12 year old me that was quite an accomplishment)! So if it had not been for her, I probably would never have really delved into the world of poetry – at least, not as young as I did.

To me, when I write a poem I feel a personal responsibility to make it mean something to me but perhaps something else to someone else. I don’t want people to see everything in the same way, the same light. It’s good to get out of that factory packaging we’re so used to! So I try to write in a way that has the potential to appeal to several viewpoints.

I wonder my dear reader, if you are familiar with The Picture of Dorian Gray by the wonderfully talented Oscar Wilde? I am almost certainly sure that you are! And if not… please, I urge you my humble friend that you go out and instantly buy/borrow a copy to read and ponder with! It’s a marvellous story. You see, when I write a poem, if it’s confessional, personal, about someone or something that I feel has been through or going through a tough time, I have this sort of superficial belief that by writing it down into a poem it has a Dorian Gray effect. And by that I mean; the poem has some sort of ability to absorb the pain from me, the person or thing I am writing about and a little stays on the page, stuck in the writing. Like the problem is shared and everything’s a little lighter.

But ho hum, it could just be me sinking slowly and not-so-blissfully into insanity… who knows? I do hope y’all like this little one-off post. I haven’t written properly in a while and itching like mad to get back into it! I hope you’re all wonderful and well, be happy and kind and expect a lot from life please, because there is a lot it has to offer!

Megan Xx

 

"Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." - Carl Sandburg

 

The Smell of Dust

To me, time smells like dust
Dust settled upon old books
Or falling from vinyl sleeves
Dust gathered beneath the carpet
Caught by high shelves
And corners of pretty things
You can’t remember buying

Dust that follows you in the light
And awaits movement

To carry on its journey
Through decades and possessions
Dead particles gathering new life
Helping to remind the living
That they too, shall one day be time
The kind that that smells like dust