Saturday, 25 February 2017

Just venting as usual

I don't know what's wrong with me, I can't write my book, I can't sketch. I am literally at a loss.
I'm just not myself anymore, this whole thing is not me.
Not this place, not this job, not any of it.

I don't know what I am expecting to happen, but I know it hasn't happened yet.

A few years ago I was certain about so many things, I was prepared to be patient because I knew I was heading somewhere. Now...well so much has changed and now I'm not sure of anything anymore.

Not sure of my career, not my relationship, not sure of my life. When did everything give me a headache? When did I become impossible to please? None of this is good enough because I am not where I want to be, I'm not doing what I want to do, this is not who I am.

I thought this would all turn out one way, and it hasn't. I thought this arrangement would be much different to how it is. I'm actually thinking more and more about just getting the hell out of here and hightailing it away. I haven't thought about running anyway from anything for a long time, the fact I now have one imaginary hand on the door is just proof that I am not 100% in this.

If I could rewind time back a few years, I couldn't really say what I would do differently, maybe I'd just tell myself to have more confidence and take the risk to do what I want. Maybe it would have worked out. I didn't have any responsibilities to worry about back then...I really wish I could give myself that advice. -always thinking about that time machine.


Technology poem

No milkman to collect a recycled glass bottle,
No freshly baked bread, from the bakers counter
a supermarket bought out his stock of flour,
and now the butcher struggles on, closed for most of the week
those buy one get one free's...good quality can't compete.
Nobody serves me, when I want to buy something,
and no arguing for directions, or getting lost together
an automatic voice, now tells us left or right.
Friends don't see each other,
but their phones don't stop bleeping
You 'like' everything about me, but don't remember my name
I hate everything about you, but online -we're best mates
The ticket officer at the train station, is awfully quiet these days
his uniform is a grey box, his voice a bleeping noise
The Receptionist at the doctors, is never there anymore
I press a screen to 'check myself in'
no need for honest jobs anymore,
when a machine is just as good.
Can't keep up with the technology
when it feels like we're losing humanity
machinery taking our roles, changing lives
keep on extending that unemployment line
I back into a corner, reaching for a previous time
but even this, in all my despair will go straight online.
How else do we connect now? Will our children know any better?
when our brains have shut down, and we depend on a computer.


Smog over Birmingham

Smog over Birmingham
You can see it from up here
We sit on the edge of the city
we're not Americans.
This is the original- not just a second hand name
we lie amongst the dead workers,
the factories now mostly closed
we built this land up from the ground
and stained the blue sky permanently grey
here in this city, where we built a life
here in this city, we worked to the bone
to give you, our ancestors, a working class home.


Wet Weekend Poem

It rains all the time,
and we sit in our white walled houses
staring out at the grey.
We put broken umbrellas to rest like the dead
we're used to washing lines getting wet
naked trees line the landscape
and the kettle boils- for the seventh time
We sip our steaming mugs counting the hours go by
Kids restless underfoot- Can't play outside
Once it stops, will take days before the ground dries out
skies will rain again before then.
So we sit in our central heated homes,
Nothing new you know,
dreaming of a sandy beach
a sun that takes forever to set
Warmth, light- far out of reach
Too scared to move away, too poor to even save
so we just pretend
whilst we sit inside, another wet Weekend

Wednesday, 22 February 2017

Poem

I dyed my hair red again,
it didn't change anything
I guess I didn't really think it would
but worth a try I say.
I'm counting again, like you know I do
September is so far away
We have the Summer to get through
before we run or stay.

Cracks in the Paint Poem

Tremors under the surface
cracks in the paint
white walls are flaking,
It's not too late
You went running once before
said it was to lose weight
you never came home
where have you gone Grace?
The wind howls up here
like a murdered soul out in the night
across the muddy way
where no one sets the plant pot right
where no children play.


Friday, 17 February 2017

Grace poem

Grace,

Did I not forward you my new address?
Did I leave without a word?
Because for months you've not found me out?
I wonder if you know where I am.
In this life, surrounded by such uncertainty
like a cancer, waiting dormant
never sure if it is me.
I write to you, like my oldest friend
wait for you to lead me back
where we came from, no not there.
Where we were going,
which we too often forget.
We were going somewhere Grace,
you and I, we mapped out a course
in a street light sky
When did everything start to feel so hard
shouldn't we have been there now?
Have we really come this far?
I've not forgotten you, though it seems that way
this life I have, it's taken me away
but I'm still here, on the windowsill
Fifteen years old, waiting still.