You don’t get to blow out my flame
when you huff and you puff.
You don’t get to turn down my glow
when you’re feeling bored.
You don’t get to shame my spark
Into snuffing itself out.
You don’t get me to dim my light
so yours can shine brighter.
Shade
The only metaphor that works, right now,
is a plant in a corner of the garden
that’s always known its inner-most colour,
kept secret, to adapt and fit in.
This plant isn’t stretching to reach the sun.
It’s been content with its lot on the lawn,
accepting that others will burst and bloom
while it keeps to itself, forlorn.
Imagine this plant could transplant its space
to a patch that was easily lit,
giving a chance to grow like the rest.
But it flinches, retreats as though hit.
Why would a plant not take a chance to grow?
‘Cos it’s forgotten it really can?
Or has its true nature been buried beneath
those decades of soul-sucking soil?
Sun
What if the gardener was calling time
on the plants that had real worthwhile?
What if there was a ruthless deadline,
on the blooms with a chance of life?
What would our shady plant have to say
about the finite – the limit of time?
Would it continue to rot in the safety of shade,
or risk the scrutiny of sun?
Given a push, it will feel the sense
to die, to shift, or move out.
What’s no longer left is the chance to risk
the outcome of years of self-doubt.
So, time to make a shift towards
a sun that could no longer steal.
Trust the gardener of this gorgeous space
where the thorns could ultimately heal?
Tell me when you want it to end.
Don’t just gift me, compliment me,
and say I was brilliant, while it lasted.
Then leave.
I need a beginning,
middle,
end.
I trusted you, felt we had a connection,
built part of my diary around you.
To deprive me of my wind-down time
feels cruel, unfair.
And honesty was your core value,
so why not square up to me
when endings are why you came
to help you find your answer.
Leave me without a proper ending
and I hold the unprocessed story:
wondering about your (and my)
happily ever after.
you mess me about, afraid to commit,
and I let you get away with it.
I’m scared that if I pin you down
you’ll punish me by flying away.
So do I let you flit among my flowers,
skim the best of my summer blooms,
while deep in my roots I feel unrest
as I’m sapped of what keeps me whole?
Or do I insist you choose a stem to sit on
that won’t always bend to your whim,
and risk losing your custom for good –
though at least I won’t be short-changed?
I shrug and say it’s normal:
what’s so special about what I write?
I also kind of feel a fraud
‘cos it comes so naturally to me.
I just sit at the laptop and type,
without having to re-read back.
I know that what’s come out
is final, total, complete.
So, when people add me to writerly feeds
I wonder what they see in my words.
It’s as natural to me as breathing and dressing.
So where’s the speciality in that?
Reasons
Walk in, chat, feel welcomed and held.
I’m rated by bosses, part of the meld.
Means a lot to belong, when everything else
could be me, alone, days become dense.
Urges
It’s regular work, though boring old admin
that takes me away from what I’ve been yearning.
Bored. Hate it. Feel something else is calling.
I can teach, write, blog, and be free.
Reasons
Fear of unknown is what keeps me here
and a deep-down blankie of safety.
If I leave, what’ll become of my time:
squandered, wasted, wishing-well drowned?
Urges
I can meet new people, be open to new things
Be alert and fit, not a slave to alarm rings.
Reasons
Can’t trust myself to follow my dream.
End up bereft, broke, regretting my tears.
Urges
Run out of urges. Can’t remember the pull
to be free of misery, detached from the dull.
Reasons
Perhaps there’s a part of me that isn’t done yet.
Maybe a lesson to learn, an unspun pirouette?
doing what other people want
has squished my me,
engrandised your you,
and left me wondering ‘what if’…?
Your sigh is deep, you bleat your woes,
dump them at my feet
expecting me to pick them up
and hand them back, all fixed.
Something in the line of jaw,
desperation in your eye,
that carries age-old, deep-set wounds
I can never hope to heal.
I protect my ego’s sacred part
from your needy, devouring stare
forcing me responsible
for making you feel whole.
If I do that, it’s me who’s sucked
of life’s enduring force.
I trust that you can find within
a healing, hopeful resource.
You’re waiting for me to say the ‘right’ thing
while doing nothing yourself,
except switching off every light in the room,
shuttering your self from earth.
What sits in your impatient pockets
is an urge to cover your scars.
You expect me to be your fairy truth
and to wave a wand of stars.
But my truth is, honestly, more like the moon:
a beam in the night field of doom.
Take your needs, your pitiful looks:
sit, and transform them alone.
I’ve always been afraid of you,
since you first terrorised my dream,
sank your teeth into my innocent forearm,
leaving droplets of freckle blood.
I always leapt onto my childhood bed
knowing you lay beneath,
ready to reach out and swipe with a paw
any sign of vigilance weak.
The cool of your eye made me fear my blue
avoiding it as alien to me.
Better my red, to warn you off,
keep me safe from your knowing prowl.
And yet you haunt my waking life:
on your hind legs now, you smirk at my work.
As if you can’t bear for my truth to break free
you keep me caged in your mockery.
If you were my friend, I’d keep you my pet
to bite at my enemies instead.
Yet that’s what I let you do to me:
keeps me superior, smug, lonely, apart.
Wolves are meant to hunt in packs
so why did I get you alone?
Why are you lost, tormenting me so?
Do wolf and go howl at the moon.
(pic courtesy of nixxphotography/freedigitalphotos.com)
the one who gets under my skin
is needy, lays back,
waiting to be fed;
but what I put on the plate
will never be enough:
it’s too late, too meagre,
too tasteless, too wrong.
the most sumptuous feast
will never sate
the appetite that devours;
bones are sucked dry
teeth are picked
a sneer that reeks of menace
mocks my begging bowl
as I wait for a tiny morsel
of gratitude.
I won’t stop cooking for good
but I have to stop buttering you up
with dishes I don’t even like,
puddings far too fancy
mains that betray their true meat,
and sides that sell their soul.
I have to accept, finally,
that even the finest recipe
made to your exacting order
will leave me tasting your bile.
inktuition 