Wednesday, 17 December 2014

Turn me away. Poem

I offer my time, from each precious day
but you scornfully turn me away
I offer my labour with no chance of pay
but again you turn me away
I offer my knowledge, my talent to display
it's not enough, you turn me away
I offer my blood, to my dismay 
you still turn me away
my life,
my soul, 
my faith, 
you don't give way
each one of you in turn, turns me away.

Forgotten. Poem

Drifting, rather than living 
that's what we do 
we drift through day to day
us forgotten few 
You let us go without a hope 
you sent us to our grave 
and I remember how you wished us well
with a happy, deceitful wave. 

Tuesday, 16 December 2014

Homeless. Poem

Plastic bags caught in a tree
or a broken toy lost in the debris
of the scattered remains of yesterday
a writers last work, taken by the breeze
Or a broken bottle,
it's message has drowned in the sea.
Where do the homeless go
When they are no longer there?
Does anyone know?
...did you spare a moment
to care.


Dissapointment...again

I know disappointment is a part of life, ok I have learnt that lesson, so maybe now it's time to let up and give me a break. I couldn't put more effort into life if I took an elixir of immortality. I throw on my 'make the most of it' smile, I dress myself up, prepare myself with the hope of actually achieving some worth while experience and for what?...a dingy freezing cold room someone has the nerve to call an office, I sit at an age old desktop doing nothing. Even if I had to answer a phone it would class as 'doing something' but staring at an unmoving screen isn't worth the time of day.

This 'office space' is a waste of this so called 'company's' money. A one man team doing nothing he couldn't do in the comfort of his own home. This is pathetic. I'm sent here by our countries flawed system to get more 'experience' for my C.V because three years of uni, a portfolio, an unpaid placement, two part time jobs and several volunteer positions don't qualify me to be worth employing. I'm so frustrated I could scream the whole street into opening their windows and doors.

If I stick at this for four weeks (which I will do, out of a simple drive to finish what's started) I'll come out at the end with nothing more than another signed reference and a name to exaggerate around on my next pointless cover letter...I won't be getting anything real; no new skills, or valuable knowledge or hands on experience. All I get is another possibility for a good embellishment of the barely-there-truth. Worst of all, for the hours of misery and boredom I'll put in here, I won't receive a single tarnished penny. Not one. I feel utterly pointless.

Sometimes I genuinely think I have nothing of substance in this world, nothing you can touch or see, I've often said before there's nothing so important to me in these four walls that I'd have to take with me, and so far the world isn't offering me anything.

I have beautiful things only I know of for certain: an imagination, I have my Mr Jones, a rare few people I care about. Some might say I'm luckier than most to have such things, It's a damn shame love and passion don't buy tins of beans or pay the gas metre.


Sunday, 14 December 2014

Grace Christmas

Grace,
     We're both at such a standstill now, we never planned for that. I don't suppose we ever thought we would still be here this far along: Lost and a little low. I don't know which direction to turn now, or what to do, I could really do with your fighting spirit in my pocket especially since there's really nothing else in there. I don't have much else to say, except I wish you were here-I'm certain you'd know what to do. Christmas will be over soon, you know the significance of that. With September gone Spring is all we can set our hopes upon, when the new leaves come I'll write again.
 Yours, Always.
  P.S. The Pond has gone...You won't find me there any longer. I'll wait beneath the tree.

Tuesday, 9 December 2014

Freezing

It's just so cold. These four walls are like thin sheets of ice, letting the chill inside and cooling it all the more as it circulates. My fingers to touch feel like snow, my legs and shoulders keep twitching and all my muscles are tensed up. I might as well be sat outside. Let me put this into perspective, if you have a conservatory or a green house, in December go out and sit in it with no heating, no source of warmth what so ever. That is the temperature of my bedroom without exaggeration.
Even hugging a hot filled water bottle on my lap against my belly isn't fending off the cold in my hands. It's enough to drive anyone to distraction. I miss you Connie, every moment I'm away I miss you. You've no idea the sanctuary you offer me.

Left Overs poem

Let the tears commence oh merciless one
let us crumble into the dust,
you push down until our backs break
upon a dusk of a setting amber sun
then with our bones you make
another brick to build upon the rest of us.
Have you no heart oh mericless one?
when tears of sweat and blood we drink
thirst so harsh it scratches us
and then you drag us to the brink,
the brink of eclipse you drag us, one by one
and leave us to rot in the mist.
Ghosts we are, the mist absorbs us it seems
you call us the leftovers, left over from last years dreams.