This Place // Poetry Series Part 5

This house is not a home

Built with faded walls and

Crumbling ceilings

of words never meant.

This room is not a living room

The walls are too cold

and the living never enter,

Only lies, only death.

A green door,

Scratched paint, a faded number

Never judge a book,

Never judge a home

By its cover.

What you see is not

What is there.

A family home, reduced to

Hostile silence and

Angry thoughts.

It can never be the same,

It will never be the same.

Justified Injustice // Poetry Series Part 4

A Series of Haiku On Living

Where is the beauty

In believing we should die?

This is not beauty.

Where is the beauty

In wanting to stay in bed

For days, weeks on end?

It’s not beautiful.

Not brave, romantic, or cute

To wish away life.

There should be light in

Everything around us.

Not dark, emptiness.

Where flowers can grow,

There will always be a light.

There is light in you.

See this light, and you

Too, can live the way you wish.

No one can stop you.

You may feel as though,

This life is weighed on your hands.

That you cannot breathe.

You must know. Know this;

There is nothing in your way.

Do not stop yourself

From living, loving.

From experiencing life.

From knowing yourself.

See the light around

You, and feel the warmth it gives.

You are not alone.

My Thoughts Are Stars I Cannot Blah, Blah, Blah…

“My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.”

Yes, I did just quote John Green. Sorry.

As much as I hate it though, the man has some good points. That quote, in particular.

Upon first glance it makes next to no sense. Another pretentious line that an actual seventeen year old would never even think, let alone say aloud for fear of being shanked by their peers. So typical of Mr. Green.

But, upon the second, third or maybe tenth time of reading, the line starts to make more sense. It’s about the muddled bits inside your head. The idea that there’s so much going on up there that when it comes to speaking or writing or getting it out in some way, it’s impossible. Because there’s so much. Clever, no?

I spent a little while thinking about this quote after I first finished Green’s most romantically infamous novel (and don’t pretend you don’t know which one I’m talking about) and thinking that yeah, this makes sense. Because it’s what I have felt for a long time myself.

A few years ago – and anyone that knew me at the time could tell you the same – I was never not writing. On the off chance I wasn’t writing, I was thinking about writing. I would have bits of paper randomly stuck all over my person with notes and ideas and sentences that just came out of nowhere that I just had to use.

Of course, I was thirteen and most of it was utter bollocks but… the sentiment is still nice to think about. The point is: I was writing. I was obsessed. Car journeys, watching films, even before going to sleep was filled with daydreams about the characters and stories I’d made and what was going to happen next to them. That was the time when I could fathom.

Now, I’m not so lucky.

I’m not sure what happened and when and why, but I lost the knack. Not of writing, per se, but of the ideas part. The ideas just kind of…stopped coming. They didn’t arrive out of nowhere any more. They didn’t just come to me. The words didn’t “flow through me” (ew) any more.

I don’t know whether I just had more drive and motivation to do the writing as a thirteen year old and I’m just doing the lazy teenager thing to the max, or whether something actually went wrong but it struck me a lot. That my favourite thing ever, my defining thing, maybe wasn’t what I was meant to be doing.

I’m still recovering from this. And it’s hard. I often doubt whether I’m meant to be doing this at all, the writing this. I took a qualification in Creative Writing just to try and get myself back on track, but wrote next to nothing for the entire year. It’s a harsh blow, really. The hardest thing is that I know I can still write, but like the quote says, it’s hard to put those ideas into something tangible. Something worth reading.

But hey, keep going. If something like this has happened to anyone reading, keep your head up. If you really love it, keep pushing it. Exercise the muscle. I made the mistake of letting it cramp up over a long time and let me tell you, when I work out now, it’s sore in the morning (is this even a metaphor any more?).

My point is… keep going for it. Whether it’s writing, or cooking or fitness or…. getting your eye-liner just right (on fleek). *Shia Labeouf voice* Just keep doing it.