Kidding I would never throw them away! But I am not morosely miserable like I was when I wrote them. Walking around in the cold listening to This Mortal Coil and barely holding it together, albeit glamorously.
Playing with Petals
Playing with petals
I walk in circles in my ballet shoes
I’m not who I thought I was
My normality is me suspended
Once steadfast, now flinching
And still surprised to care
Margaret, Margaret
My film I gave away
No me I could recognise before or without
Am I thinking about him
Or am I thinking about me?
My lamentations are boring
Crystal tears and a tilted head
A final plea, a real pity
I peer up to the overwhelming Him
Catherine of Sienna
Catherine of Sienna is my reassurance
Of being interesting
Your clever girl
She reads writes and cries
Clawing for her Henry, John-Gregory
But most importantly
Your cold girl with sharp eyes
Lives in high contrast
Ignore the siren’s pleas
Her hair is falling out
Muse to mediocrity
Endlessly grateful to that perfect power
Kept out of my reach
My sickly baby needs a woman
But not me, too real
To make it brighter;
My love flows and flows
I smother myself
Surely no gaze holds
More meaning than mine
You remember everything
Then you’ll forget that I’m sad
But not broken enough for you
And I remember too
When you said, you said
A wish that you had meant me first
Now hope doesn’t hold weight
And I can’t see an ending
You are my sunrise and my sunset
Sunset, I’ll go gladly
And here is a little extract from what I’m working on when I say “What am I doing this weekend….I’ll do some writing I guess…”.
Walking walking walking. Shifting my gears, walking and stumbling and sometimes parading. Maybe if I were always prancing across the boulevards of Paris I would not feel this way. Maybe if I didn’t dwell morosely within my abjection, I would not let myself get so unravelled. Tip toeing on the edge of the rest of my life. A resting place for any semblance of common sense or feminine wisdom to marinate until I’m ready to put my face up to the cloudless sky again. Humid stained glass exacerbates my worries at the staying power of my painted doll face. My baby blues that he does not see. Track marks of mascara to remind us both that I am flawed. Miss English Rose blushing into a pint glass of diet coke.