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?

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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?

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…

What You Did To Me.

Claws come out to play at night.

I’m falling behind on deadlines,

just like I fell behind with us.

I’m THAT girl.

The loyal one.

The nice one.

The she’s-kind-of-a-bitch-banter one.

I was good to you.

You hurt me.

Sound familiar?

Isn’t that every relationship ever?

Funny how

People who do the breaking-up never write these things.

Let me tell you a story.

Four years.

Two of them we were us.

One of them we were maybe-yes-no-Idon’tknow.

The rest…I’m not sure…

Purgatory.

This isn’t for details,

or cheated time,

this isn’t to say I want you back

because trust me,

this heart can’t be trusted in your hands again.

It’s for now,

the aftermath.

The me I’m not sure I recognise.

The girl almost two years on in our dust.

The girl who didn’t write poetry until six months ago.

The girl who doesn’t need you.

She’s a stranger even to me.

I’m hoping someday I’ll grow to know her.

That I’ll like this mirror image again.

The reflection lies.

I write romance –

I did that before we met –

you gave me heartbreak,

but guess what,

I can make that a superpower too.

Enjoy being the second protagonist of my story.

Someday you won’t be.

Stranger Street.

I’m used to being stared at.

I’m not beautiful,

I just have a crazy fashion sense.

That colour

And that one

Don’t exactly match.

But, then,

I never felt right

In ‘normal’ clothes

Anyway.

Maybe that’s rooted

Somewhere

In my whacked-up DNA.

But. That’s for another day.

Please, go ahead.

Stare.

I’ve been told this ‘look’ suits me.

Bet you couldn’t pull it off.

Shall we see?