Dear Heart, let it rain. poem

Dear Heart,
            
Don't you dare,
don't you dare come back to me
you can stand on your own feet
rain or sleet I don't care
I won't let you in, you'll stay out there
Let it rain, let it pour
I don't want you anymore
let the skies open up
didn't you ever see
my heart was never mine to give
so let it rain, let it pour
down on you as I close my door
it never was, what you thought
No one can ever break my heart.

Learning to be good in bed

I'm not the best, at anything really. I'm averagely nice looking providing I've slept well and put on something half decent, I get average grades, I suck at group games unless I'm cheating but in everything I do I generally put in 110% effort. I don't mind being poor at something, but I will thrive to better myself. I will push myself to do the best I can. So yes I was 19 when I lost my virginity, a trembling nervous wreck of self conscious satin and lace, and nine months later with the same person I know I have progressed somewhat from that bundle of nerves and closed off exterior. Even so, I am not satisfied with just letting myself be however I am, with just 'going with it.' I wouldn't slap some mascara on half heartedly and be happy with it, if I'm doing it, I'm doing it well.

I hate that word comfortable. I think it's so utterly lazy. Comfortable to me is tickle fights in p.js on a late Sunday morning, not hiding anything of yourself, and being honest regarding everything even the hard things. Comfortable is not going several months without shaving one's legs, or being bored during sex. Opinions differ but that to me is the sign of a sinking ship.

So my point, I want to learn, I want to explore and develop and experience the whole package not just the wrapping. I am not a child, I do not believe in fairy tales and I most certainly don't have any Disney princess ideals anymore, that side of me was destroyed and I will forever be prepared to handle the end, but for now, for the moment we live in I want to give 110% effort. I read, I research, I practice on my own and I will demand the odd piece of feedback. I don't care about his past because to do so is illogical, I don't care if he's done the dirty with half of England or none of it, and the same goes to anyone that may drift into my life in the future, but I want to be taught the good bits and the bad bits, magazines are written by women most of the time, women can't tell me what men want I don't care what they say, it's the man you're currently in bed with who is the master of his own pleasure, let me in, let me see your 'wank bank', tell me your hottest memory, your longest standing lover, what it was that worked, what didn't. Too many men are afraid that women judge, but I want to learn not criticise, I want to be the woman one day a man will remember as one of the best he had.

my book, some thoughts.

Sometimes it takes losing focus to remember what you were looking at in the first place. Sometimes the person to listen to is the person you're not brave enough to be. ....

I had a moment of Grace inspiration. I'm not ashamed to say I missed you girl.
You know I have let myself down, not just with a few decisions, but with my neglect of what is essentially my soul, my essence. I said a year ago that I could do anything, I jumped out of a plane. I jumped out of the sky 13,000 feet high, that was my moment of flying, the closest sensation to wings that I'll ever have. I jumped out of plane, when I was told that it was nothing but a dream that wouldn't come true. I can do whatever the hell I want.

I'm not settling,
I won't forget.
I will publish my book. I will make myself an author who people recognise.

Grace. new passage

It was like being hit by a train. Suddenly I couldn't remember any of the good things, I couldn't recall a single happy moment because my memory was clouded by sheer, undeniable pain. All I remember now is the pain, and crying. Crying uncontrollably every day for months. I think maybe the subconscious thinks you might cry out the pieces of your broken heart and then the pain will go away, well the subconscious is wrong. I cried until I was sure my pupils would run away too with the tears that poured down, and then I would be blind but for the constant image of your face burnt into my mind. I cried until one day I had nothing left in me to cry out. I haven't cried since, not for want of trying, oh I have tried. I have sat and tried to force tears of pain and sadness from my eyes but nothing is left. I cannot cry anymore, so don't expect me to. I shall never again cry from a broken heart. I have risen above such weakness, and now the hurt you brought me has made me fierce, you shall not shoot me down.

-Grace. New passage.

Soggy jigsaw piece 2

Soggy jigsaw piece, I've said it before, it seems to be the perfect metaphor for how I feel. Things I dream about are surreal to you, the views I have are not valid to you, the way I think baffles you, I cannot be myself without feeling as if  I am in the wrong, and I ask myself, how long will I go on not accepting who I am and who I'm not, mainly who I'm not.

It's common that I will retreat to my room to be alone when I'm upset. On occasion I run to my sister in law and my brother. It's a rarity I will feel upset or confused enough to fly to my parents, I have to be in a very odd state of mind to want my parents company and to talk things out with them. I don't really want advice, I answer my own questions, I just want to vent it out. My mother told me a story, about when I was about six and at a friends birthday party, all the other children were playing and having a great time and I was down the bottom of the garden having a full blown conversation with the nearest adult that I could find, and apparently when my mother asked me why I never played with other children I answered "Because they irritate me, grownups are more fun to talk to." My mother said its basically never changed. I despised being made to spend time with people my own age, I always radiated towards older people, well that's the thing isn't it. I might be a soggy jigsaw piece, but that's what I've always been.

Stay Anyway. Poem/song

 

Stay Anyway

 

I'll give you all my broken heart beats

though they don't sound the same

I'll give you every breath I take

though I think you'd stay anyway.

I think you'll stay anyway.

 

I'll give you all my real smiles

I'll walk with you for miles and miles

though my feet may bleed

I'll give you my everything

Give up my every need

though I think you'd stay with me anyway

I think you'll stay with me anyway

 

I'll do anything you need me to

I'd even run away with you

and leave my life behind

I'd say a thousand goodbyes,

so long as they're not to you.

But I think you might do the same anyway

I think you would do the same anyway

 

I'll give you all my broken heart beats

you don't have to do the same

I'll give you every breath I take

though I think you'll stay anyway

yes, you'll stay anyway.

following sound. poem

 

 

There's a sound that follows me,

almost everywhere I go

I can't block it out, and I wonder

will you ever leave me alone?

Because I held on for so long

when I should have let go

but now I'm desperate to forget

Desperate to be alone.

Like a shadow its attached to me

even if I cant see it,

I've begged and prayed and yet its here

why can't I be rid of you?

Memory is something to be cherished,

to be held in high esteem

but if I could rid myself of mine

I'd rather forget everything.

I wonder if in a week, I wont feel it anymore

I wonder if in another year I'll be off the kitchen floor

I left behind so much, when I started a new

but still I hear the sound of keys rattling behind

I wish to be free someday, somewhere in time

but I wonder and wish deep down that I knew,

does anything ever follow you?

the christmas dress

Oh dear. Oh very dear oh dear me! There it is, that shopaholic I wish I wish feeling of mouth drooling inaccessibility. It's always unexpected, and its usually red. The dress caught my eye from across the corridor of the mall, one of the lights bounced a dozen times from the sequins and drew me over, past the window and through the door. Heavy long sheets of black net, a tight waist and flared skirt, elegance and class wrapped together with a satin band. Red glittering shimmering festive sequins spilled down the fabric, every movement made the dress appear as if it had been weaved with pixie dust, a subtle hint of Christmas. No cleavage, no back display and too long to make the most of legs, and yet...this dress had class. This piece suggested that the wearer needed more than a decent figure, with nothing out in the open one needed confidence in their personality, their way of speaking, this was a dress for the woman of substance, the one who didn't need a flash of thigh or a bulge of breasts to feel sexy. This dress was beyond sexy, it was a little over elegant, is was classy Christmas and it was an unreachable, unkind £75.00. That's a figure to turn a girls stomach when your twirling a dress like that around. A heavy hand put that dress back.

My arthritis

Suffering from a long term illness from a young age has a huge impact on your life. For me, being diagnosed with  rheumatoid arthritis when I was five has meant part of my character has been shaped by a disease inside my body. I spent years being weak and surrounded by doctors, therapists, medication and a mother who held me back because she worried.

Fear is an awful thing for a child: fear of rain and getting wet because it would render me unable to move without pain. Fear of growing old and being crippled like the old people I saw on t.v who had arthritis. Fear of the pain that came every single day. I learnt to adapt; in the wet months I carry spare clothes around, extra socks, I waterproof myself, I have various medication and I take precautions to reduce the pain, warmth and comfort make a huge difference. Despite learning to deal with my arthritis as I got older I felt like I had something to prove, this weakness I'd been labelled with for so long I wanted to shake off. I still feel like I need to prove to myself that I am capable of doing things I was brought up to believe I couldn't.

What makes dealing with this sort of thing so much worse is that people don't understand. As a child I put up with mockery from other kids at school, having to sit on a chair instead of the floor made me stand out, being called a liar because 'only old people get arthritis' was cruel, and being kicked in the knees a lot was spiteful but you shrug off childhood bullies, it's ignorant people now that bother me. Some of the closest people to me can't understand why I have to bring my slippers with me when we go out, spare socks and cosy slippers in public are embarrassing. Not being able to drink alcohol occasionally because of my tablets is unacceptable. Not wanting to spend all night out on a dance floor is boring...people don't take it seriously that I have a very severe case of rheumatoid arthritis. I deal with it well, and you probably wouldn't ever know I had it unless I told you, but it's there and it's in my body and it's painful. I take every precaution to reduce the pain, it would be nice if people understood this.

Gone back. Poem

So many dreams get left behind

We walk away and forget

Too easily we forget,

But I have gone back to find mine

To see what hopes are left.

Parts of my soul I've given up

Why? I ask now, why? 

Too hard it is without my wings 

Too hard it is to fly 

I have gone back to look

To see if my soul is there

I have gone a while down this road

Too far and long I say

Without what matters most to me

I walked away and forgot

How easily we forget

But I have turned and gone back

A tiresome journey done over 

better than a road ending in regret. 

love and a lack of

It's very nice to feel like a man really loves you and is willing to take care of you, especially when the man whose biologically programed to care for you acts like an asshole most of the time. No love, no support not even gratitude or pride. Even when I'm in a state of agony, drugged up and more ill than I can remember being in my adult life, even then there's nothing but selfishness and the quick ability to brush me off.

I've suffered with rheumatoid arthritis since I was very young, this means that any time I get sick, or hurt or even just need to take certain medications, effects me harder than other people. You'd think someone who's watched you grow up with this affliction and heard you scream in pain and driven you to the hospital a hundred times would feel some sort of affection and compassion for you when you're clearly suffering and struggling. I know my mother loves me, she's obsessed with reminding me, but I often wonder if my dad would even notice if I were dead. Sounds rather dramatic but its true. Perhaps on some psychological level this is why I crave a strong male figure to be a part of my life. Jones is so most definitely the one. Someone I can depend on a little.

If dying is worse than this.

I cannot remember a time I was ever this ill. I can manage a short day but when it hits it hits hard. I'm sleepy, exhausted, sick feeling, cold shivering, then too hot. Both my kidneys now hurt making the pain in my back unbearable, I'm losing sleep, I feel dizzy, dehydrated, I can't express how bad I feel. 

I'm half way through my antibiotics, I still feel like I'm dying. I never ever want to have this infection again! I can't stand it. If dying is worse than this for gods sake let me go in my sleep at a grand old age. 

my path in life

I often debate whether or not I'm on the right path, it's one of the annoying thought processes that never seems to get out of my head. One day I hope to have found myself and see that I'm happy and know that I am on the right path. It's not that I'm afraid of hard work, as far as I'm concerned mentally stimulating work compared to dragging yourself half asleep around a restaurant, is a treat. I'm not worried about challenge, I'm not wary of new surroundings or new commitments. It's just when you hear people talking about passion, well passion is such a strong word, I don't care to use it often and lightly, I only have true, on fire, burning passion for two things and its always been the same; Mr Jones and writing. I've only ever wanted one thing so much that I'm sure I'll drown in disappointment if it doesn't come into being, I want to be a published author.

I know who I am, I know what makes me who I am. I'll do what I need to do because that's the appropriate and sensible thing to do, and I have no doubt I'll sink my teeth into it, but its not the passion that rages inside. My life was always meant to be half lived through the pages of a book. Nothing will ever mean as much to me, that doesn't mean I wont always put 100% effort into everything along my road, but I know what my destiny is and always has been, everything else is just part of the scenery, not the destination.

water infection :-(

Who knew too much hot and heavy sex causes a urine infection?
well, I know now!
After what was, quite literally, the BEST sex of the last 9 months, I mean the most earth shattering, scream worthy, crazy, begging to stop because I am going to die kind of sex, my god whoever says the G spot is a myth has got to be a moron, I so have one, science people are well and truly invited to check it out, anyway...after this...look I lay there mystified unable to construct a sentence, while he casually strolls out for loo roll and pops on The Walking Dead, it was..it was...it was too much! it was too good, I could not think straight.
Well I slept like a log, and then the next morning I get up bursting for the loo and am gripped by the worst burning stinging sensation I have ever experienced in my life. Cystitis: A horrible, painful, infuriating infection of the bladder.

Fast forward 6 days, I am literally dying. The left side of my back is in agony where I discovered the kidneys are, my kidneys are hurting! My pee hurts, I cant stop needing to pee. This sucks!

My point anyway is not to dwell on the fact that I am evidently dying. My point is a urine infection is not worth it! Crazy countless orgasm sex is not worth the week afterwards of pain and discomfort!

Two sides. One halves always bigger.

I'm beginning to get extremely annoyed with some of the people in my life lately. It's not that I can't take a joke or anything, I'm a fun person, but I still feel like I'm the butt sometimes, like I'm not good enough or something. I am overly mature for my age, I like things 20 year olds don't and 40 year olds do, but I'm happy. I am getting my future in order, or at least the basic plan, 'winging it' only can go so far. After uni I need to start a career, have a stable income, start saving. I don't see what's so awfully boring about that. It's all 'ha ha' jokes at my expense and mildly bored expressions, where's the support? The belief? I am getting more and more irritated by the feeling that I'm surrounded by children, and it's the people that don't grow up who I'll end up leaving behind which is a shame but its inevitable.

When you know a person very well, you're not by any chance going to love, or even like EVERYTHING about them, but I have two very distinct sides. I'm a Gemini it's natural, I have the midsomer murder, knitting and crafting, Neil Diamond, cosy comfy let's have tea and cake side...which is my favourite. And incidentally this is the side I am more of when in a committed relationship, because it's more me, and its easier to be this person.

Then there's the other side, the daaaark side lol! as if
but there is the lets get drunk till the rooms spinning, dancing like a slut in a pair of shorts side. The more carefree, 'wing it' side. I am only ever this in 3 occasions 1.) I am showing off, usually with a drink. 2.)I am single and heartbroken and getting one leg over the 'I don't care' neon sign. or 3.) I have failed something perhaps an exam and Taylor Swift's song 22 comes on, usually with a drink.
More people asked me out when I was single, why? so they could try and get in my knickers? or try and get someone else in my knickers! Helloooo! I stayed a virgin for 5 years while with someone! casual was never going to happen.
 Look I'm the same person, I'm just being MY favourite side of myself. I don't have anything to prove anymore, I don't even know what I was trying to prove. A year ago I wanted to feel ok, because I didn't, I wanted to look on top of the world because I wasn't. I was buried six feet under the mass of broken dreams and hopes and my heart. I spent a long time trying to dig myself out and look great in the process. Doesn't anyone understand it was all my way of coping, of trying to cope. It's been exactly a year this month, since K.H and my god I feel amazed at what I've done in my life since.

I think when I was doing the 'I don't care' faze, filling my calendar with everyday events and people just for the sake of it, I was trying to prove I could be the fun, carefree young person that people expected and then the Keyholder would see I could be the person he thought I didn't have inside me. Well things are different now. Well I'm just really good at lying, I have said it a thousand times, I'm a great liar/ actress is a softer word. I'm really glad I had those months of craziness because I appreciated myself more after. It was all so mentally exhausting. When I met someone I could be my real favourite self with and who loved that side I fell so easily back into being me. I am happier with myself now, I haven't got to prove anything to anyone, but in the process of all this I proved to myself that I like who I am, and the right people will like me too. 

Vibrator

Soooo, here's the story...

     I am in the usual place, doing the miss Siviter thing: Ann Summers lingerie store buying a new divine piece of white satin and black bows, it's very chic and very 1950's wife screwing a soldier fantasy. I'm at the till, and suddenly I'm pulled into a very feminine moment of being offered a new toy half price with my purchase. "The body wand is small but powerful" the woman at the counter tells me, "it's subtle and convenient to pop into your handbag and take anywhere, and it's the most popular mini gadget in the sex industry at the moment. Of course I'm intrigued, I ask exactly what it is, this firm but handsize instrument in my hand that's bringing my pulse to a height with its insistent buzzing. Was it the excitement of something new? Or the fact that it was pretty with diamontes , but I gave a shrug and let the counter lady slip one into my bag. I must admit apart from an underwater buzzing ring with a clitoris stimulates that's come in the bath with me a few times, I haven't been one for toys. This little gadget intrigued me, it felt a little naughty having it in my bag. 

I waited until the night, I waited until I was alone and with the t.v turned up, mock the week hopefully disguising any sound this gadget makes....wow shit this thing is powerful. Oh Christ it's almost jumped from my hand three times, ok I have this under control, Wow Christ! That's fast, quiet my ass, turn up the t.v. ....

 

Ok so I'll spare the details, it's not a bad little gadget, no where near as much of a buzz or a shattering experience as with mr Jones, probably more fun if someone used it on you, under a table somewhere but it wasn't that quiet! Anyway, it's turned off and put away now in my 'private drawer' until a few hours later and I'm awoken in bed by an insistent crazy buzzing, vibrating from my drawer. It's the middle of the night, pitch black and silent apart from this screeching threatening to wake the whole damn house. I almost broke my neck crashing across the room, half naked and rummaging into the drawer. The damn thing wouldn't shut up! I twisted, I turned it, I could hear the sounds of disturbance in the next room, Christ don't let my mother come bursting in now! Finally I ripped the thing in half and emptied the batteries out to stop it, practically having a heart attack I sat back down on my bed, in time to hear my mum on the other Side of the door...

"Are you awake? Your phones making a hell of a racket!" 

Small but powerful i'll say! It won't even shut off while the batteries are still in there! 

Day after Halloween

People in the neighbourhood are setting off fireworks, it's rather annoying as its raining so they should give up and Halloween was yesterday! Despite this my mood has improved greatly since a few hours ago when I was in a sulk and threatening to cancel christmas. I am now well fed, well sexed and well entertained with Lee Mack live on the t.v. Mr Jones has outdone himself, after making it through 5am mornings all week he's serviced me, lovingly, and dropped off. Hmm it was nice, it calmed my mood right down, slower and softer than usual, left me on the edge so many times and held it there deliberately before tipping me over, the bastard, but it was loving, I'll never criticise being loved. Mr Jones is sooo damn good looking especially in his sleep. (Hey the fireworks have stopped, good job! ) Considering the mans almost ten years my senior there's not a line on Jones's face and he sleeps so soundly, he looks like one of those Greek fine sculptured statues, with the roman straight nose and sleek edges, but hairy like a bear. I'm very content right now, not just because of the sex, I knew I was getting that tonight, i dont usually know, i'm usually on my tiptoes trying to decide if i should pounce or wait and see if he has a pan in mind. However after 9 months I'm becoming accustomed now to picking up on certain tones and looks that mean particular things, Jones has a look sometimes, this little semi amused, thoughtful smile that lights up his eyes and it makes me feel self conscious and giddy. He lingers. Waits while I ramble on about this and that, he waits for me to run out of things to say, all the while with that look that's making my heart feel a little erratic and then I get a nudge, or a really slow kiss or a question that sounds more like a command, and I'm tumbled over and the entire atmosphere of the room has shifted, this is my favourite initiation, it reminds me of the first time. 

Anyway I could talk all bloody night about sex, if you're squeamish about sex then remove yourself from my blog because I really am obsessed and I mention it, a lot! 

What I was getting to was, I am very happy, because I like it here. I like being here with Jones where it's quiet and peaceful and no one is knocking my door and bothering me. No noise. This is my sanctuary. And I like nights like this, when Jones loves me, satisfies my lust and sleeps soundly at my side with one hand on my hipbone and I'm blogging so carefully on the iPad trying not to disturb that heavy hand, nights when he's all mine and no noise or people are intruding through any of life's technology. Just us, in this sanctuary and I feel warm and cosy and there's no unpleasant noise. Tomorrow I have work but tonight I'm snuggling in with Jones and I get to spoon all night! 

huge hole in my living room :-(

I really want my life to move forward. I want to push past the issues that have collected up as I've grown up and leave some people behind. I can only do that when I'm settled and have a steady income. I'm fed up of being let down. Why can't people just step up and do what they're supposed to.
I now have a huge ugly mess of a hole smack bang in the middle of the wall where the fireplace should be, right in our living room. Right before Christmas. It's a mess that my parents have made and left for someone else to sort out like kids playing with mud. Meanwhile my dad has bought another motorbike and is entertaining himself with it in the garage, and I am looking at a huge mess that I have to work out how to cover up in time for Christmas.

My closest family wont visit here.
I'm embarrassed to bring my friends here.
It took all my nerve to bring Mr Jones here.
It would take me less than eight minutes to leave here.

There is one feature in my family that ruins everything. One feature that pulls us all apart, that taints everything. My parents. Three of my brothers with their wives and kids live in the same street as us, there's a reason why they hardly if ever come and visit. Life sucks sometimes.

Dear Heart

Dear Heart
   Come back. Come back now I tell you,
I am mistress here. Come back and be with me,
alone and safe from harm
how can you watch me, watch you break
come back I say, before its too late
come back, come back, come back
don't break, let me shelter you
come back damn you!
don't break, don't break.
I'm sorry I told you not to come home
I was angry you'd been gone so long
just come back now, we'll be alright
don't make me march down there,
don't ask me to fight
come back, come back, don't break.

little bird poem

 

Don’t leave me, said the little bird

Do not break what has already been broken

Or let go of what was once lost

You took the shards left over

And I have not much left of my heart

 

Don’t rain upon my wings

And then bid me fly alone

My heart it beats so slowly now

So frightened of its own

Dark and dangerous place inside

Where one might die alone

Don’t leave me, said the little bird

Don’t set me free from your window

 

I shall fly back until my wings shred

And drift as ash does in the air

This little bird, when there’s no heart left

Will still fight for more

As I shall fight for us

Until my last feather falls.

 

Fallen angel. Last night.

The angel was already breathless. The hard strong pressure between her legs was tantalisingly soft, bare legs restlessly rubbing up the sheets she pushed the hand further down, thighs parting silently begging. He pulled her pants off roughly quicker than expected and suddenly She was conscious of the rapidly building heat deep inside her pussy where a finger or two jabbed furiously and brought force a warm wetness. No build up this time, hardly even a prelude to what was about to unfold. The angel was tossed over onto her knees, dragged back and poised like a rampant doe eager to be mounted. Those damp fingered hands moving up the back of her thighs, her legs wide resembling bambi on ice, a few deep breaths rasping with anticipation, blind to everything made the sensation of the devils hard persistant push behind her heart stopping. Then it forced entry and filled her mercilessly , hard, slow, hard, slow, fuck! Faster, hands rubbing over her shoulders down her back, spanning her hips, feeling like a woman, feeling the power of animal instinct she ground back encouraged by his hands pulling her back with strength and authority, one hand pulling teasingly on her hair, she came at the command of a biting pull on her locks and thighs still quivering reared up and let the power of her rider take her over the edge in quick succession of the last time crying out louder this time. It slowed down, she caught her breath, the angels breasts had spilt out over the top of her bodice and his hands slipped round to take advantage. It wasn't long before the pace picked up again, and her shoulders were gripped and tugged back sitting her up and she rocked back and forth eager for another turn of earth shattering pleasure. It was more intense this time, it worked its way up in bursts, then the devil stirring inside her core began to lose control, a few swear words in her ear egged her on and made her buzz and the sound of his ecstasy tipped the angel over the edge letting her come harder and better than before, he spilt into her at the same time and she fell shuddering down on the pillows and in a daze waited for him to dismount. Indifferent, unattached? ...the soft and lingering kisses on her back contradicting that idea. Thinking vaguely that being fucked like an animal with such raw and rough passion was the most detached and unemotional way to be together the angel sighed happily into the bunched up sheets, she loved every moment of it, she couldn't wait for more of the same. 

I do fucking everything myself!

I've looked after myself for a long time. I have been expected to look after myself for longer. I work part time while I'm studying at University. A university I had to get into on my own. I eat food that I buy with MY money, even down to the bread and butter on my toast and the milk in my tea. If I'm cold while sat in a jumper and a jacket I have to put money on the metre for electricity. I have to pay for the gas if I want to use the oven, the second hand oven that I paid for!

Everything I own even my laptop, my little table, my tiny box t.v all came either from my own pocket or from the mercy of my brothers. I have no license and no car because I cant afford it. I've never been abroad because I cant afford it. I think a luxury is buying a £12 pair of boots to keep my feet dry through the wet months when I travel 3 buses and 2 short walks to uni. I never get the odd £20 handed to me towards my university stuff, I don't get a couple of bags of food shopping put in the cupboards to tide me over. I got fuck all for my birthday this year. Last year a card when the day was almost over.

Christmas is a pointless misery of no expectations, and gotten used to disappointed hopes. I was twelve when my mother told me in December that there was no money for Christmas, and I dealt with it, I have dealt with it every year since. The year my parents said "What's the point in putting up the tree, don't bother" was the year I gave up hope on them. (The tree and the decorations are my favourite part, they should have known that) I could overlook everything else. My brothers have taken pity on me too many times and I'll be forever grateful that they've included me in their own separate families to save me from being alone, even the decent floor in my bedroom is there because my brother laid it down. This year will no doubt be the best year I can remember because it will be spent with someone who wants to spend it with me and he will be my salvation. I actually feel like I'm the heart and not the spare part this time.

I come home to a cold house, an almost empty fridge and matching shelves. (My fridge contents at the moment is an almost empty bottle of milk, 2 half tubs of butter, one of which I have bought, and half a bar of chocolate) the shelf has five items on one of which is cat food, no more details necessary.
The thing is I'm used to all this. I have dealt with standing on my own feet for years, I know if I want to put food in my mouth the money for it will first come from my purse. Everything I am, I have become on my own.

What I can't stand, what I cannot deal with is being treated with such careless, insensitive disrespect as if I owe the world to my parents and this house. As if I have been given the best and looked after when I've had fuck all for too sodding long to even try and pretend you have any right to say these things. "What about the times I drove you to those interviews?" YOU GOD DAMN TWAT! Is that really what you're saying to me? Are you really acting as if I owe you. I even paid for the petrol! Sorry for getting off my ass and getting a job! Unlike you! Sorry for buying my own washing powder! The cutlery you're using downstairs I bought! That kettle you make your drinks with every sodding day I paid for! You ungrateful scum. I would never have a child without being fully prepared to support and love and cherish them, and it doesn't matter how old they get you are a parent for life and you should be their support if and when they need it. You don't have a kid and the moment they're too old for benefits to reap in treat them like a burden when you do fuck all for me! I expect nothing! I stopped expecting when I was twelve years old. But a little respect, for your only daughter who gets nothing, a little respect would have been appreciated. The reason I don't bring food here anymore is because I don't hear the end of it until I give in and let you eat it! Now I have a place to be comfortable, to put a few things, to be quiet and peaceful and warm and loved and I wont give it up until I'm bodily thrown out, and you wonder why I never want to be home.

I don't expect an outsider to understand this post. There have only ever been two people that understood this. This what I live through. One left me. I'm waiting for the other one to as well, but he doesn't seem to be going anywhere. My writing is my salvation, but he's my dream.

(This is the fridge. I wasn't kidding.

See the 2 white labels on that left draw?...that's my name, because that's my butter, and I have to label it. Because its take take take here, and no sodding give what so ever. )

Lingerie

For myself, shopping for underwear isn't just about buying a necessary item to keep my womanly parts in check, it's more an addiction to a taste of luxury, a one stocking footed dip into the pool of confidence. Underwear gives me a thrill. For a lot of women I guess it's shoes? I hear that a lot, but I'm five foot, nine. I wear heals and I worry I'll be mistaken for being a transvestite, so my little drag on the cigarette chain of addictions is lingerie. Lingerie (a French word, and any historian knows the French have always been hyped up on sex. a bit like me at the moment )

Obviously it's not impossible to find a cheap set that's worth while, if you dig around and choose carefully a good looking ensemble can be achieved with a tenner. However...this doesn't quite give me the same kick. I like underwear shops. Stores dedicated to, and exclusively for what's worn behind closed doors. Gentle lighting, impeccable service that only comes in the shadow of money, sweet smelling essence of luxury.

It's the draws that really get my skin tingling, I like the soft sliding draws labelled with golden plates of numbers that hold each bra so conveniently. I've been measured half a dozen times, hell just for the fun of it! and I'm an odd size of 32 D. D sounds huge but no really, 32 is small around the underneath. Anywhere but a good quality store struggles to meet my size requirement. Underwear stores are the only shops I enjoy the 'fitting room' experience. Long sweeping mirrors, soft luscious curtains, glittering lights, and assistants that help pluck and slip any loose straps and wayward lace into place.

Scarlet red, ebony black lace, lipstick pink satin, slippery smooth nighties and see through almost not there chiffon. Push up balcony's, daring plunge, sweet miss daisy cotton. corsets, bodices, negligees, sheer body suits and transparent knickers. Crotchless.

I generally avoid where I can the formidable air filled padded push up. I just think it looks silly, more silly than dealing with what you've got. Look amazing, take your bra off and oh shit! your tits went with the bra onto the floor. I like bras that encase my breasts like a mans hands, I want them to embrace them and gently expose the real plumpness of being young. I prefer French panties to thongs but I'm not adverse to anything, I have a selection in my underwear cupboard (oh yes, that right, a cupboard, not a draw or a shelf, a full blown cupboard...I did say this was an addiction)

It's so rare that I feel confident in myself, in my looks, but when I buy good luxury underwear I feel good, I feel great! I stand in my stockings (I don't do tights) and whatever get up I have slipped myself into and I feel good, I have a good pair of tits and long legs have to be used for something. This is all I've got, my experience in the bedroom limited as its been and selected to Mr Jones, means that the underwear thing is my best asset as a woman. I'll wear anything. Cute cotton picking girl next door, to high class call girl.

I love the way that when you purchase something divine, as I have today, you have a naughty giggle and gossip with the counter girl as she lovingly wraps your items in pink tissue paper and seals it with a trademark, the scented sachet is sweet and womanly, a sprinkle of white flower petals in the bag, the swipe of a card and it's mine. My bank must find it curious on my statements when they read Asda own baked beans, and underneath that £50 Boux Avenue Lingerie, almost a double life that me and my undergarments share sometimes.

I leave my secret in its wrapping, I have a scorching hot bath and with the precision of a surgeon I shave everything-a new habit of mine, very Egyptian. Coat myself in bath oil, dry and curl and tousle my hair which has been coloured red and conditioned to a point of mirror shine quality (I'm a tad over indulgent on the health condition and cleanliness of my hair), I go through the makeup routine, matching my face to whatever I have waiting in that bag. Then its a Belle De Jour moment for me in the most flattering, and gorgeous items I own. I don't understand why someone would feel more confident with their clothes off than with them on but I do. I can walk around all day and feel insignificant and self conscious. Let me shake up a head of curls, strip off and slip some perfume down the valley of my breasts and suddenly I'm confident and I'm ready and by this point I've built it up so much all day that I'm desperate and raring to go. Standing in my underwear I like the way I look, probably because the focus is on my tits and everything else instead of my face. Its the feeling I'm addicted to, and the trail of events that follow. I only developed this habit of mine six or so months ago. The same time I discovered sex. The two go hand in hand. This is your fault Jones. You acquired a sex crazed girlfriend and I acquired an expensive addiction. Hmmm.

crying heart out

people often say "crying your heart out" and I love that expression, its perfectly accurate because when you cry so very hard about something truly devastating in terms of love you are literally trying to cry your heart out of yourself so that its not there anymore to cause you this grief.

My heater.

I've been in this house for an hour and already I've buckled to the cold, put a fiver on the electric metre and dug out my little heater. Memories of last year were rather vivid when I dusted the little machine off and plugged it in. I remember last year, it was the beginning of next month, huddled on the floor most nights on a blanket next to the warm air, crying. It's so bloody pathetic. That day we went and got this heater was the day we split up, the Keyholder he did a decent thing, guilty as hell I guess and drove me to purchase this so I wouldn't freeze, because it really was bloody cold, he dropped me at home and drove away and that was that. I opened it up and plugged it in and huddled there crying and sobbing my wretched heart out.

I'm feeling a little bit..... 'uncomfortable' that's the word. It's just that time of year, I love October, I love Halloween, but now its slightly tainted by the memory of last year. I've been doing rather well making new memories: life experiences that have been breath taking. The heaters already taking the chill from the room, it really is grand this little machine and we've been through so much together. That little whirling machine has seen me break down in a way no one in the world not even my dearest friends or even my mother have seen. That heater has been my only comfort in some long minutes of misery when I have truly, truly sobbed until my throat hurt. I'll never cry like that again.

I'll never be over it. No one ever really gets over pain. It wasn't love, it wasn't the friendship, it wasn't even the person or the company or any of that. It's the pain that I can't forget, the memory of it that will no doubt hold me back that little bit for the rest of my life. I'll never get over that pain, and I will write about it forever. It's the only way I can deal with it.

On the bus

The bus is like a public exhibition of modern working class society. For the price of £3.90 you can view the complex and diverse circles of interwoven Birmingham culture all day! Despite the ever changing exhibits on display,  there are always available for viewing pleasure a few select and consistent pieces, for example the modern day young person in tracksuit bottoms low over an unwashed arse, a cigarette tucked conveniently behind an ear and an acne complexion half shadowed by a hood or scumbag hat, this particular exhibit is accompanied by an ensemble of new age music particularly sounds such as "arrrr bitch in ma home, gonna get blown, bitch in the club say wahaaaaat! And me N****** gonna get some, rocking in her trunk trunk, blaaaa blaaaaa" obviously the pleasure of such lyrical genius is shared with the bus at a high volume. 

Then there's the regulars, raisin like and white topped, with tartan and carpet patterned attire. Members of this flock will croon to one another, and take pleasure in running younglings over with their trolleys, a weapon of survival in the OAP community. 

Akin to the above are the 'mothers' varying in ages from 13 to 30 the mothers dominate the bus,they squawk and squabble as an example to their spawn who follow suit and squawk along with them. The pushing and shoving of pram into pram, shopping bag into shopping bag is a prime example of urban survival of the strongest aka the fattest subject generally wins the battle. 

This brings me to report my particular experience today. Not always but definitely on occasion you may while travelling on a bus experience the pleasure of breathing the same air as the older, disgustingly obese and dirty tramp like individual who graces our community. This is the person who for either medical or social reasons is so huge and dirty that they emit a foul stench from their person. Their clothes are often stained and spent 3 months outside of a washing machine, their hair is likewise caked in grease and debris, but it's the smell that draws ones attention, everyone on the bus knows when this person has arrived. God forbid they sit by you. Luckily I was too far back for this to be a possibility however the young man, rather good looking actually with his 'I should have been a member of the script' look and his 'I'm a student aspiring to be something awesome' bag. This poor fellow had the burden of being the chosen one of who must deal with the foul scented grunge. 

A normal person brought up in polite society would have gritted their teeth, sat very still, tried not to touch any part of their body to the fat rolls of this creature, oh who are we kidding, you cannot not touch them, their entire person unfolds itself into the seat they practically drown you in fat flesh, but a normal person doesn't remark, they try and move casually at their earliest convenience to another seat and forget the horrid ordeal. Not this young man, not this guy. 

I listened intently to the following exchange and along with the rest of the bus I tried to bite my tongue and not react to the funny side of such a rude exchange.

The grotesque woman clambered along the platform of the bus and I smelt it from as far back as I was and almost gagged. She heaved herself into the seat next to the young man and as previously mentioned she overflowed the space, the young man visibility tensed, he looked slightly discomforted that he hadn't noticed her approaching and therefore had no chance to escape. At first I thought he was going to settle and be silent as we all are in these circumstances, but then the woman shuffled and said rudely

"You could budge up mate, them seats am for the elderly you should give it up if you 'ad any respect"  (To clarify, this woman was no way past 50, not exactly at her grave) I don't know if this chap had had a bad day but he blew up with words I didn't know anyone would have the nerve to say out loud particularly without planning. 

"Excuse me? You're telling me I should move. You have slumped your rotting carcass into this seat when there are others available, your flab is pushing into me!  clearly you're in no physical condition to even consider leaving your house but the fact that you have I would have thought you might consider washing yourself, what, what is that disgusting smell? You've either pissed yourself and not noticed or it's just a collection of rotten gone off muck that's collected under all that fat, but it's fucking disgusting, you reek! Everyone here is suffering because you reek! And you have the nerve to tell me I'm being disrespectful, you are disrespecting the fucking environment, it's people like you with a stink like that that's burning holes in the ozone." 

With that the young man stood up, forced his way past the stinking shocked faced flab woman and strode to the front of the bus and glared at the woman before sitting down, 

"There, the seats all yours. Bloody say I've got no manners."  

The woman stared at the young man for a good while, not saying anything, I wondered if she'd died in that position from either the shock or whatever it was infecting her with that stench. But finally she blinked a few times and turned to sulk out of the window. I don't think she really took in what he said, or what it meant, and I seriously doubt it changed her lifestyle what so ever. But that young man was frankly a hero of honesty and when he got off 2 stops later I found myself wondering if was an aspiring reporter or something, I wanted to add him on Facebook and see if he did these sorts of outraged speech to strangers regularly or if this particular day caught him roughly. I just watched him stride down the road, shrugging his college bag up on his shoulder and disappeared probably more scarred by the episode with the fat stench than she was. 

bored, Thought process on sorting this out lol

I have a stuffy nose. I am not amused. I refuse, absolutely refuse to fall at the hands of the common cold this early in the winter season. My student money has still not been paid into my bank account and I am seriously ready to dunk my head in a bowl of soup just for something different to do. I'm so bored. Sooooooo bored. Maybe I should streak, strip off and streak up and down the road, it would liven life up a bit, and its cold so my tits will look awesome. Nobody wants to streak alone though, that's just weird and creepy. If you have a group of people naked and running round its 'young people' and its 'a phase' 'just fun' when its some individual who's just bored out their brain well then its creepy and not so acceptable.

I need some income, I need to feel a few crisp notes in my hand and know their power. You know what...for the first time in months I feel like getting drunk. Wearing something inappropriate and having four too many ice cold Malibu doubles easy on the coke and fresh in a crystal glass. I'm just fed up and bored and a party would some equally inappropriate and drunk people would be fun. This is when I miss people of that sort, when I'm so bored I cant think of anything better to do than 'the student thing'. Really I'd like to munch a Mllies giant cookie with my sister in law Chrissie while drinking a bottle of rum and dancing for an hour, before jumping on 'what' his face' :-P for a decent screw out of my mind because I always have the worst most disgusting thoughts when I'm drunk. Then in the morning, nursing a sore head and sore whatever else, I'd like to eat twenty chicken nuggets and 3 double cheeseburgers with a peanut butter milkshake, while staying in bed all day watching repeats of Midsomer Murders, now that sounds tremendous!

God I'm bored. Just send me my money student finance! Cant you hear from the sound of my voice on the phone that you have a woman on the edge here? I'm hungry, I'm horny, I want a drink, I want some craft supplies, some new pencils and my uni books arn't going to pay for themselves. I'm so bored I will go insane if it lasts a week longer.

On watching Porn. Poem

Poem: On watching Porn

a window into a tainted room

the sound so low, so no one knows

a few foul words and widening eyes

two strangers, a camera, a sigh.

Already hot, now inflamed

desperate, shameful, counting the days

like deer in season, the male mounts

skin, so much skin, open, spread out

disgusting, not allowed, sirens scream

look away look back, crave what you've seen

forbidden, sinful, all alone

to touch ones self while on ones own.

insignificantly significant. Poem

A poem written for me
'a dance upon a wall'
an awkward wave, a shy smile
a few ill disguised glances across the hall
a mix up that first night
but we got there in the end
a silver box, and I started to fall

A thumb running over mine
a quickened heartbeat
a thrill I didn't recognise
an arm around me all the way home
a pointless umbrella, an uncertain pause
a kiss in the rain, under the tree
the moment you and I, turned into us

An innocent night asleep in your arms
I was certain then that you were the one
the words I Love You held back on my tongue
silent I was, so you wouldn't know
one date with your friends for me to love them too
a night with my brother for him to accept you.

A few weeks desperation, me denying you
an embarrassing revelation, but you already knew
a moments hesitation, a breath caught in my chest
another kiss from you, and I whispered yes.
one night you said you loved me
and I finally said it too.

It's the insignificant things that are significantly yours and mine
the insignificance of us that's significant in time.

It took... Poem

It took a winter without warmth
to make me appreciate the sun
a room without a light
to stop me fearing the night.
it took a bully pushing too far
to give me the courage not to run
to turn around and face the threat
to stop being their hateful fun.

It took one double at work
to make me know what hard works like
it took my baby niece one smile at me
for me to know what I want in life
it took one ride on dad's bike
to feel what adrenaline is like
it took a cage around my life
to know what it is to be free

It took a broken heart
to know the truth of pain
it took my own strength one day
to realise I'd been wrong
it took him leaving me
to know I was waiting for you all along
it took the kitchen floor
to make me stand up, be strong.

It took that first night in your room
to know what passion could do
it took a few more nights after
for me to give in too soon
it took the broken seal of virtue
to withdraw me from faith
it took one look from you
to make wish you'd stay
it took your eyes to make me feel pretty
it took a man to make a woman of me.

Today's lecture, psychology

Same cold room, seriously would a radiator be too much to ask? Glance round and see some familiar faces, chap from some of my previous classes is a few rows back, I fancied him before back when I was too shy to speak a word to anyone. Casting that pointless thought away I sat away from the window today in a conscious attempt to stay focused. It wasn't as hard as I expected, today's lecturer was worth while listening to, an energetic woman with carrot colour hair she reminded me of a rabbit. Not the cute bunny type but a fully grown British hare. (I don't find animal characteristics in everyone, this morning I compared a man on the bus to a postbox) my lecturer spoke with a sort of lisp but it didn't bother me, she was fast paced, her voice raced out and hardly stopped, that didn't bother me either, being from the Black Country I preferred the ramble of speech it absorbed into my brain. No pauses.

The hare has composed a brilliant list of electronic online resources for the module, my respect has soared up five points. This is what I expect for £3000 a year, a little assistance, a little consideration that the library is shit and students are broke. I'm looking forward to working my way through these texts. Already I'm engrossed in this module, sanity and the lack of, is much more interesting than a fourteen word poem imposter. Edgar Allen Poe with his gothic demeanour and disgusting detail fascinates me, the odd and the mental conjures up more questions in my mind than a rhyming couplet about some random lover. I have definitely found where my priority lies. The hare will need to get accustomed to my hanging around her office with various scraps of paper. This year I will be relentless in my quest for the best that I can do. 

Now I have a headache, and all I want is to snuggle in a warm comfy place and sleep for half an hour.

Yesterday's Lecture

Over indulged pauses, and a slightly confused facial expression, do you remember what you were supposed to be talking about? The flush of interest first inspired this morning had well and truly died after exactly 50 seconds of this inarticulate dribble. The overpaid and over weight pauser at the front of the room reminded me of a mole, I found myself tilting my head and observing him with a dedicated thought process to turn him into a character for a children's book. His eyes squinted so much behind the glasses I couldn't determine the colour, I was certain though that my mole character would have better things to say than a long and slightly off putting pause. At least something came from this lecture.


That settled my eyes drifted off, the view framed by the dingy windows wasn't all that glorious, trapped in a room that was bloody cold! Paying £3000 a year and they cant put the heating on?, stuck in the middle of a dingy disused industrial city where our heritage has practically gone down the drain with the rise of technology, and now what do we have over once green grass? (I know there was a lot of grass because they're are representations of this place in the museum "Birmingham as it used to be" now there's nothing to take in but the grave yard of crumbling factories and whatever else is down there. I started counting the pylons, comparing them to the poem we were supposed to be academically excited about, Spender was right, they were everywhere, I counted eight and imagined from the poets point of view, 1930's and these massive constructions grew like metal trees over night, when there was none of this built up misery, when it was stretched out; a rug of greens and golds, yes I could well emphasize with this poet. If only the Mole was more interested in Spender, no, as all modernist idiots he was more concerned with the piece of scrap that was fourteen lines long. fourteen lines is not a poem, its half a sentence and not a very interesting one at that! It really was bloody cold in this room, the chair and desk all compacted together were the most uncomfortable combination I'd had to endure. I imagined my character Mole, lets call him Duncan, Duncan in a boring shirt, and the collar looks like it's cutting off the artery in his podgy neck, is that why he keeps pausing? Duncan would live in the country that once was, he'll sprout out of the ground one night and squint and squint and look as if he has no eyes at all, just two crinkly holes in his podgy face, sheltered by a reflective pair of glasses, he'll discover these tall ugly pylons erected in replace of trees, and so the story shall proceed.

Fifteen minutes to go...classes for discussion are separated, I shrug my bag on, listen out for the room number...I'm in the moles class. Damn.

Kicking the door down to my last year.

First day of my last year at university approaches as tonight's hours trudge past. I've spent the last two hours studying tomorrows texts and materials, researching and note taking, scribbling definitions and opinions both my own and that of academics, even some random bloggers in a somewhat desperate attempt to absorb everything. This last year is so important to me I can feel the course content already wrapping itself around my lungs giving a subtle squeeze to remind me that there is no room for error, not now. I feel close to the end, even though I know I still have a while to go I can almost smell the fresh blossom that spring will introduce when this last year comes to an end, I can taste the crisp relief and feel the satisfaction.

Almost there. Just a little further to go. My brain isn't as quick as I've always wished it to be, but it had better be ready for this year, as I am going to put it through the paces and there's no second chances from now on. I've been told by numerous people that have flickered in and out of my life that I was capable of this, it's only ever been me that's doubted my own abilities. Now more than ever I want that confidence in myself, I want to believe that they knew me better than I thought I knew myself. This is it, I am steps away from the door to my future, now Siviter, lace up your boots and kick that door down.

Your Name. Poem

That word, it sounds like scraping nails
breaking glass, screeching rails
a train crash inside my soul
an ache where my heart was, but now there's a hole.
Why? I ask, do they torture me so?
its hurts even now, it hurts don't they know
that word is vicious, it's pain in a jar
its rings in my ears and asks for my heart
that word it burns every time its near,
why cant they forget it, why can't I not fear
that word, it's devastation, the memory of pain
the sorrow of friendship lost; the sound of your name.
that word is devastation, the memory of pain
every time I cringe when I hear your name.

Feeling lost.

When you get used to experiencing new things and soaring through an area of new found life it becomes hard to adjust back into a semi average routine. Obviously money would remedy this rather well to an extent for being poor and stuck down a bloody dark well is worse than if I had a little money to toss around. I'm so bored. I know they say that only fools wait for things to happen, real adventurers go out and make things happen, but right now I am unable to do that. I'm bored out of my brain. I need to have fun. I got too used to being out, too used to filling my calendar with every day and night events. I embellished my schedule with new things all at once and it was thrilling. Uni, fitness class, shopping, coffee, rock climbing, date night, club night. Every night was full and flowed into a full morning. Freedom is an odd sort of feeling, when you're able to fly and find yourself released from a cage the last thing you're going to do is stay on the ground. I flew, but now I've settled back down. Someone knocked me out of the sky as sure as a hunter with a bullet, I've fallen so very hard and very far. You can't fly forever, and you can't have roots and wings. I understand that.

Maybe life's gotten a little out of my hands, because I'm feeling a tad suffocated, just a tiny bit lost.
Where are you Siviter? Where are you and when are you coming back?

a soggy jigsaw piece

I'm a spare screw in a machine that works without me, I roll around pretending to be significant but that's all it is: pretending. A room full of people but I'm alone inside, forever withdrawn, always behind. I don't fit, like a jigsaw piece that got soggy in tipped over juice, it will never fit and look right now no matter how you push, but it should have fit, that's the tragedy!

Does it all stem from a physiological depth? I was born to a family where everyone was ten years my senior, I was forced into an early independence when I turned twelve and what I knew as childhood ended. Maybe I was just caught in the wrong time as I've often thought, maybe I really am just a boring and weird old person in a twenty year old body. I grew up too fast.

Several times I've wondered if I ever didn't pretend when I was with the Keyholder, did a day pass when I was really truly myself? I remember moments I began to come out of this shell but retracted so quickly, a snail faced with a million threats from everyday life. I was a liar, in every sense of the word, I lied to myself everyday. I've met someone who has seen almost every corner of my true self, the only person I have come across who understands me, and doesn't try to change anything. It's too bizarre for me to understand the way our paths crossed when they did, I've been waiting for this since I first knew what friendship was, and I knew then that the friendship I had wasn't the right kind. I was about six when I had my first friend and they didn't suit me, no one ever has until now.

It really puts me on edge, because this is too precious to be careless with, like a weak and lonely seedling it needs to be handled so carefully. I don't want to be without this friend, I've only felt this undeniable ache today, this moment. Before I was fine, I was strong and detached just enough but now I've hit the bottom of that well. I don't think I can be without you, I'd rather lock myself back in a cage then imagine letting go of this beautiful wonderful connection I've stumbled upon and grown to the stage its at now. I can't be without this, you're the other half I thought I'd never find.
 

Creativity or madness

This room has not one element of someone else, it is all me and all mine. The artwork on the walls is made up of children's illustrations, I'm sat here with a paper mache alien and a scrubby Indian giraffe named Jerome. There's definitely remains of the inner child scattered about this cage and I wonder if it proves I'm slightly mad or very creative in truth I favour the madness. If there is no madness then how can one distinguish a sane thought process from the bizarre and its always the bizarre that I write about. It's stopped raining, that's a sane thought, why it matters is bizarre but it always fascinates me when it rains.

The cold has crept in

The cold has crept in too early, me and Jerome are huddling together and this tea is doing a poor job of warming my insides. The little white heater beside my bed is silent and turned away in defiance, for now there is no money, and no money means not enough electricity on the metre, the radiators are equally dead and pointless, they installed them in the house when I went to highschool, I still wonder why they bothered, they're never on, and on the rare occasion I do feel a glow from mine it is quickly diminished, heat does not keep in a poor house especially with windows so old and thin as these. They would have done better sorting out the windows instead of the radiators, at least then we could have generated heat by use of wood in the hole of a fireplace. No point going on about it outside of this passage, nothing changes what this house is.
  It's just bloody cold, and sitting here grinds against my teeth, it shatters my nerve, no amount of country music or art work on the walls will change that this is not my home and never will be, it's just a house I was born in, and one I shall leave behind like the dirty dishrag that it is.

suicidal pain. poem

I hold my wrist, it's bleeding out
onto the bed sheets, once fresh laundered cotton
the crimson will stain, this mark wont wash away
they'll find my lifeless corpse later today
how long will it take, my face has gone white
I dip a finger in the blood it's an awful sight
a puddle of red in the palm of my hand
running down my arm into the bed
I thought I'd do both, but now the scissors are on the floor
jagged and scarlet where I let them fall
my arm is too weak to do the deed again
it hurt more than I thought, suicidal pain.

(note: This is a fictional piece and does not refer to anybody particular, only a serious issue)

I remembered why I went to uni.

I remembered why I went to university today,
because it was a door that opened onto a path of escape, the only door in fact. I am worth more than the life I was born to, and I'll be damned if I don't rise above this lifestyle. I'd rather be dead than be this forever.Everything about this house is like a dark rain cloud, it's inhabitants, the smell, it's appearance, the atmosphere...I was never meant to be here. I don't suit this place and it wants to spit me out as soon as I walk through the door. When I signed up to go to university it was with the intention of improving my circumstances, working towards a better future with a job that meant I'd be comfortable and a doorway out of this street that I've endured for 20 years. I just have to keep reminding myself that I'm almost there. Almost there. 

noise. poem

I hate your noise, it thunders against my skull

You wonder why I hate it here,

Why I hate the prison of these four walls

Shut up, just shut up

You’re hurting my head

If I have to stay living in this house

Well I’d rather be dead.

You drive out the little life that may be left here

You ruin the light in my mind

Shut up, shut up I can still hear your noise

The out of date music doesn't quite hide the sound

 
of the two of you shouting, as you drive me to the ground


I hate it here, I hate this house


I have overwhelming freedom every time I'm out
 

 

 

It's raining now. Poem

It's raining now,
and I need a cup of tea
there's not much left, of the view I can see
through my window it's as grey as grey can be
the dishwater sky is like my eyes
lustre lost and ready to cry
what's the point now?
why should I leave?
when it's raining now
and I need a cup of tea.

It's cold in my cell, warmth is just out of reach
so cold I tremble a little,
what's the point in today?
what's the point of all this?
It's raining outside, and I'm shivering within
It's raining, and I need a cup of tea
all alone with a damp view
a cold cup of tea and me.

I have not forgotten

I touch your shoulder as you cry
making my presence known
yes it's me, I am still here
I have not forgotten you, sitting at home
I shall not wake you and leave at random one day
neither will I cage you, and force you to stay
where you are not happy
where you are not free.

So many forget what they cannot see
so much is lost too easily
but I cling to you and you cling to me
I shall not forget you, my dear sweet thing
Don't believe that I have forgotten
when time passes us both by
I will never forget you
as your heart weeps and your mind has to cry
I am your inspiration and I'm here, inside.

There's something poem

There's something beautiful about my life with you
there's something special about coming home to you
there's something real with us, that happens to so few
 something strong, something certain, something true

There's something sweet in that last kiss goodnight
something natural, honest, something right
there's something humble in your eyes sometimes
an affection that's reflected brightly in mine

there's something primal when you take me as your own
something raw and carved in stone
we two are meant together, we two make a home
we once were blind but Fate has known,
we two make us, and we are right
you are my shadow, and I am your light.