Song Lyrics…

Fire burst from inside her.

She trod on the flames

And walked in stardust.

Thunder in her throat,

Lightning in her hair,

She’s a danger to my heart.

Those eyes like moons,

Crescent and full.

She’s a night angel –

Wings from flowers

And stems for socks.

Are my insides in trouble?

Dragons ate from her palm,

She’s got me like putty,

Mould be into the guardian you need,

Back off knights –

She’s all mine.

We’re crestfallen and in pain at midnight.

Flutter now

Out come all the love

She’s held inside.

Oh, my love,

I’ll build us a castle

From the ashes.

We’ll ride this dragon into the sunset.

Does my touch

Hold the key

To the cage

Around her heart?

Something To Come Back To…

Do you think sometimes

you run out of words.

There’s only so many times

you can say somebody hurt you.

Sure, there’s always that imprint.

Stamp upon the heart

but it’s still beating.

You are not lifeless.

You’re hurting,

but you’ve been here before.

You can survive this

and though they might not be,

I am so proud of us.

You broke me

but I found myself in the dust

and I’ll be dammned

if I don’t even try

to turn that shit into glitter.

Watch me…

Last night.

You messaged me on Tuesday…

though technically it was Wednesday morning

just after 1am.

You spelt my name wrong.

I thought I was numb talking to you.

You’re not like the last

but I guess

now it’s your turn.

We met up once,

a long time ago now,

we kissed

then like most things

-people-

in my life

you just seemed to stop talking to me.

Why was that?

You told me last night

how cute it must be

to still be a virgin.

How rare it must be.

I wasn’t sure how we got onto my virginity

or why others have an opinion

over something that is mine and mine alone.

It’s been almost a year

since we met up.

I’m not sure

why whenever we talk

it’s always after hours.

I no longer know how

you make me feel.

I don’t know if I like myself, I mean.

Because, you see, that girl,

who I was in August.

She’s been hurt since,

she’s been broken since,

she’s been promised fake things since.

Maybe she still is.

Point is, why should I

put my heart on the line

when

you can’t decided what you want.

You told me

how you’ve been sleeping around.

You think that makes me sad

because you hurt me

but it makes me sad

that you feel

the need to do these things.

Excuse me,

I’m a little rusty.

Never written about you before.

Let’s be real.

You’re one of two people I’ve kissed.

The other, well maybe

I’ll never be done writing about that.

I’m 5’4 ish,

I think

that’s a lot of hurt

for someone of my height.

How am I supposed to compete

with all these girls?

Is it because I said no?

Is that why you asked me out

and kept me up

till all hours this morning?

I can’t be the reason you want to change.

You have to want that all by yourself.

You were the first boy to call me sexy,

I was different with you.

You called me honest

which I always am with everything

-including, I hope

the way I write-.

You called me cute,

I get that a lot.

I don’t mind it.

You’ve struck something inside me,

but you’ve had all this time

to talk to me.

And now,

I’m good.

Sorry.

Maybe there’s potential elsewhere

though he probably thinks I’m a weirdo,

I like smiling again.

I like the potential

I’m seeing in myself.

I won’t speak too soon

but I like -maybe-

this girl.

Girl tired

after studying.

Girl broken

but ‘brave,’ strong.

Girl who may someday

be unfazed by people who hurt her.

You said that you thought of me often,

how sorry you were to have hurt me.

I told you it was okay.

I wasn’t lying.

You noticed me for a little while

-as most people seem to do-

then forgot about me

until you’re sleepy,

or alone

or turned on.

I’m not an object.

It was just kissing.

It meant a great deal to me.

Mostly past tense,

I don’t think you’re my future,

and I’m not yours.

It was nice for a while

August Girl says thank you.

Sorry you’ve ended up

as writing material.

I’m trying to learn new things

about myself.

I don’t think

you’re capable of waiting.

After a while

you might not even recognize me anymore.

I won’t be a stranger

but the smile takes a little more work than it used to.

Scratches on a bedpost.

Usually they’re about numbers, right?

People numbers.

Sometimes they can be about other numbers,

tiny nicks of success or opportunities.

Mum said last night to do some spoken word.

Well, some more spoken word.

I’m shy and confident and awkward

all in one.

Not sure how that would work.

She says my delivery is good…

But, Mum, you make me sound like take-out.

You make it sound easy.

I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.

I’ve been told that’s normal.

Does anyone?

I just want to write

but there’s times

where my mind doesn’t agree

and my heart doesn’t want to talk

so, what do I do then?

I’ve done spoken word twice.

I’ve written almost a book

and dozens of others.

I write poetry because…

Well, I’m not sure.

I’m not a poet.

I’m into prose.

I’m into romance stories

but been told I’m one of the most cynical people about love there is.

That’s true.

I’m sorry.

I may post some prose on here soon.

For now,

I’ve been thinking about the nicks,

the scratches on a bedpost.

My bed is metal,

not wooden.

It shows me nothing but fairy lights…

Isn’t there some magic in that as well, though?

Spoken Word Performance – 5.4.17

I remember,

I remember the way

your skin felt

against mine.

How these two atoms

had never met

and will never meet again.

How hands on waist

curved like

sand timers.

How dirt under

fingernails

could be creeping

along my hip.

How kisses on

shoulder blades

and stubble on cheek

became butterflies of life.

Sprouting and blooming

until you had me.

I remember,

I remember you said

‘Don’t worry

you got this,’

as I face-planted the floor

and fell down the stairs.

All the while

keeping my head high

so I could have the last laugh.

How we practised

cursive with left hands,

and discussed how

Doctor Who,

and brown eyes,

and French lessons

were things we had in common.

Conversations built on

yellow snow,

melted into puddles

of deadlines.

I remember,

I remember when you lied.

Poison spewed from

mouths of teenagers

who instead of horns

spread the bible.

Good girls

churning out the bad.

Hung me up like Jesus

pinned me,

with words,

with rumours.

I’m viewed

and dying

on Facebook.

Please no more.

Insert War Doctor,

Season seven above.

Add some mess,

of feelings

confusion,

hate,

love,

want,

and here we are four years later.

The spell still conducting.

I remember,

I remember when the

fireworks died

blizzards stopped

clear skies

of regret

and time.

Because time

wasn’t time anymore.

It was measurements

and cupfuls

and spaces

without us in the world.

It was clocks spinning,

watches whispering

Globe twisting.

Ashes from fires

didn’t sprout dragons,

only dust,

that we breathe in

Over our baked bean tea.

You were always

the better cook.

I read ninety miles an hour,

heart pumping,

brain racing.

I’m high on fiction

of romance that lasted.

We’re all fuelled with

a need

to be wanted.

Sonic the screwdriver

and zap me into opening.

It’s two in the morning

such a cliché,

but I remember.

I remember all the wrong things.

Things we didn’t have in common.

Like the ability to cause pain.

It’s hurting inside,

I’ll let it bleed.

 

It’s 4.25 am.

My flatmate just asked me to make him a Nesquik,

turning the box with his toe

so I could see how you spell ‘Nesquik’.

I just finished uni.

I know I could have tried harder

but who couldn’t?

Three years now complete.

Fuck.

What will I do now?

Not sleep, that’s for sure.

I’m wide awake.

I’m not making him a milkshake

unless he’s super nice to me.

I have no idea why he’s awake.

We’re in the kitchen,

he’s on his phone,

I’m doing this,

relishing over the words I can write for me

again.

Not marked, not scorned, not judged.

Not yet anyway.

Earlier someone called me brave.

I’ve been thinking about it a lot.

Brave connotes an armour,

a defence,

a strength.

I’m 21, I’ve lived a lot of years,

done a lot of shit,

got more to come

but right now

I’m fine with brave.

It’s easy to wear your heart on your sleeve.

It’s harder to talk about it.

I’m not sure what’s next for me.

Home is home but the people there aren’t.

Family don’t treat you like this.

They don’t even know

that I’m done,

polished,

ready.

This year is the beginning.

The first for others to tell me I’m good at this.

I like brave.

I like wearing my heart on my sleeve.

Honesty is both poison and heaven.

Take it or leave it.

I have a lot of decisions to make.

Maybe I’ll make that milkshake now…