Track, track, track. Those little red brick bungalows Allotments and flats Suburbs and leaves Track, track, track. Get out of the city, The sun on a hill, Cow, cow, sheep, Old man reads Backpacker sleeps. Track, track, track, Hedgerow, Corn row, Hedgerow, The sea. I’m gone, gone, gone, Or going back, back, back Forest, flowers
Category: Poetry
My libraries were never silent They were rarely even quiet When the kids came down from the flats because they had never held a book someone else hadn’t read before them they would chatter and their mothers would scold I wish I could say I never minded Never judged those who came in and only
I am abrasive. I am armed to the teeth with knives of hand and mind and fangs and quips behind these lips so it can be unwise to tell me to smile. So despite a love/hate relationship with the word I have an abrasive personality, But then I came by it honestly. I inherited it
It is as simple as skin on skin, And as pure as day’s first light, No words can justify the thing That against all odds just might Save the very soul of us. For this I’d give up the arrogant Cynical heart for one of trust In you at least. This sentiment Does not explain
There are contrasts and you’ve got to laugh. I am nearly finished university, brushing out my hair at the top of the stairs, the longest it has been in eight years when the boy I had first cut it all off for walks by. He hadn’t noticed at the time. When the man who tried
Are you the subject of debate? Not a debater or a judge but a motion waiting to be carried or defeated. And to hate someone not because they are evil but because they see you as an object for argument. Your existence is a political opinion. You are fair game for showing up. And I
This would feel like the middle of a beautiful friendship if I wasn’t explaining where I’ve been – again and this might take a good few lines. See, I know I didn’t say goodbye, I do that, I’m sorry. Ask people who use to know me. I just drop off the face of the earth
