The back pages
that’s where I retreat
to the back pages
where no one seems to care
or read too much into it
where the story’s already been told
the last few words don’t hold as much weight
I love it here
the back pages
they expect nothing
that’s what I love
and it’s ironic really
given that I wrote this on the first page of a new book
but it’s easy to form low expectations.
My grandmother was a proud woman
and she always wore a long, dangling necklace of pearls
the same pearls that hit me round the face when attempting a hug.
I loved her, I really did.
Saturday’s were my favourite, squashed round the table eating spaghetti bolognese, laughter hearing up the room.
It was bliss, being that naive as to think it could never end
naive to the time that passed each Saturday.
Everyone must die, I know this
everyone must, life would be boring otherwise but…
My grandmother, she did not deserve to die, she deserved to love forever, to have the whole world know her name
and it sounds pathetic
it sounds just like any other rambling poet reaching for the words
but it’s true
She didn’t deserve to die
she deserved the world
and the world, it deserved her.
What’s the difference?
Another empty poem, thrown into the bottomless pit of useless creativity
I wouldn’t be surprised if I withered away here, right here, looming over a blank page.
Why do I do it?
I know my fate, I know how this will end, so, why?
Why do I do it?
There’s plenty more artists out there and they possess the same hunger as I, except they also harbour a talent
what a word! Talent.
To harbour a talent
I dream of that, that one word
that one word that seems to tie everything together neatly
that’s what we all want to have but few actually do
so, why do I do it?
What’s the difference?
Another depressed poet screaming into the void of their own thoughts and expecting a reply-
I guess the ego will never leave.
There’s nothing in this world
nothing for me, at least
it’s not like I’m bothered…
no bother, they’ll be other-
others tell me, they tell me I should feel content
content with the weight of my passing breath
content in the knowledge that I am “something”
but aren’t we all “something”?
Don’t we all breathe?
There’s nothing, nothing in this world that calls to me
that reaches out its arms
and it’s sad-
they all say, it’s sad as though at any second the tears will spring to my cheeks
it’s not sad, it’s the reality I find myself within and it’s not-
I’m tired of talking
tired of trying to explain
I don’t have to explain anything
this world, it offers me nothing
there’s nothing in this world, nothing
nothing that will allow me shelter
but I don’t care, I prefer the cold anyway.
What are we waiting for?
What am I waiting for?
Someone to say yes?
For the rejections to loosen their grip and allow praise an hour of its time?
What are you waiting for?
For someone to listen?
We all want someone to listen
no one wants to listen
except perhaps our mothers
what to do?
We could sit here and wait
many have done that
they waited for god knows how long
we could just give up
call it a day?
We can joke
we can nugget it under our breath
that’s no real option
this burning sensation that rests in the pits of our stomachs
that’s what’s real
no amount of praise
nothing could soothe the burn that sleeps within us.
The emptiness that woke me today
was an emptiness unlike any other
My bedroom window was hanging open
the breeze rolling in
there stood a tree
an old oak tree
and it was waving
each of its arms were waving
pointing at me
and I started to wave back!
I really did!
It was pleasant
for however long it was
it was pleasant
but the emptiness that woke me today
what a vile sensation
like ants crawling up the inside of my leg
I can’t rid myself of it
and I don’t think I have the capacity to even try
to live like this
breathe like this
waving at trees from my bolted window
the faces staring up
If I could just-
too many words
I used to be good
I used to have passion
and I even woke up early to see the sun rise
and I would write
I would write
the important thing about being a writer is that you write
and I did
words fell from my fingertips
it was magic
now there’s too many words
my brain’s constantly fighting to push a sentence out
nothing’s coming out
is this what writer’s block feels like?
Don’t you have to write in order to experience a block?
I don’t know
I don’t know anything anymore
and it feels good to say it aloud
to an empty room
but someone must be listening.