Don’t play me or swathe me
or stretch my trust.
Don’t go for the kill
‘til you’ve proved enough.
You’ve got an agenda
that suits only you.
My naïve old heart
gets twisted and blue.
My soul will learn
what you leached from my life
with your grooming, your promise,
your complete lack of spine.
My car is pathetic, purple and slow
yet my accelerating thrust
can be devastatingly annoying
to the fast cars I leave for dust.
My athletic girl is diddy and slight:
her running gear shows her tiny waist.
Yet, with her spikes, her ferocious grit
leaves the rest to give her chase.
My spirit was crushed and left for nought
after I dealt with one death too many.
Yet I still live my heart and express my soul,
because the blessings I count are plenty.
Control was my calling card,
what everyone knew me for.
Control was my comfort,
a way to keep the score.
Control took my humour,
replaced it with sour lips.
Control was my defence
against the highs and dips.
Control and I had a battle
until I learned who was boss.
Control gave me power
that was way too easily lost.
Control I gave up
when robbed of those I loved.
Control I still explore
through story, rhyme and word.
my full moon is pure and proud
in defiance of what’s not allowed
it knows its time is short but bold
everyone looks, in awe to behold
the perfect roundness, circle cute
all knowing, feeling, cool, astute
There’s a magnetic lean to the front
of the elderly, knowing they’re dying.
Will I be next, they say
as their curiosity bends in
to smell the freshly tossed earth,
circling the inevitable grave.
There’s a reticence from the heart
of the broken soul knowing it’s over.
Will I finally leave, they ask,
as they submit to one more abuse
from a partner who says they deserve it.
When will alone beat feeling lonely?
I win a race. I achieve something great.
Yet the girls in the playground
mock me til I cry and I deflate.
What’s wrong with putting my all
into a sprint I really meant? Yet I bow and say
I’m sorry to the losers who cajole.
Can’t we all be equal partners in the race
of life and love? Or is losing just so shameful
that to want to win is a self-centred disgrace?
People pool, don’t they –
into clique-y groups, fiery moments
and watery, stroppy, wish-we-coulds?
The outsider is a needle in the hay:
the heart is there. The soul
is, surely, connected with the rest.
But the sense of one girl’s skin
waits, crawls, skitters and drools
and skates a lonely figure
on the playground of the cool.
What she needs to do
is treat expectation like a foe.
Why lie down and take it,
when victory’s won versus the lazy?
it used to be all about me
now it’s kind of all about them
because when I help all of them out there
I learn things about me in here
and in seeing things about me
I grow and understand more
which helps me understand them
and isn’t that life’s adventure…?
I fill in an online form.
The missed bit just keeps on repeating.
I paint a wall white-as-white brilliant.
The grey bit’s still pale and bleating.
I cook with a heart full of herbs.
The dish, I end up overheating.
I vigorously vacuum the floor.
My nose, the dust motes keep teasing.
I bear my pure soul on the page.
The sneers, they stop my pulse beating.
You give me fleeting hints that you’re looking after me.
You throw me toxic trails that you’re teasing me with glee.
You remind me of my sadness through scents from deep indoors.
You show me cheeky glimpses of the chance to feel restored.
I think you’re trying to prove that
I should relax and get the groove.
But I’m tussling with the tension:
is it far too late to mention
that I’ve kind of got you sussed?
In my soul I totally trust.
inktuition 