I’m Sorry that I Loved You

We didn’t know how sick we were

living on foundations of rotting wood

Lost children growing into the skin of adults

we kept up appearances with smiles fooling no one

A shadow hand lingers still on my cheek

and the darkness tastes like your ghost

We couldn’t see how twisted we had become

our love poisoned the water we drank

One day I lost the boy, and you lost the girl

and our hands pressed to our ears

They screamed the truth at us

but the harder we ran the deeper we crawled into our graves

With blackened finger nails and red raw cheeks

I carved into our headstone, ‘I’m sorry that I loved you.’

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Castles and Lovers

I found our memories yesterday

I didn’t understand then

But I know now and I can’t face them

You said you could tell I wasn’t there

But it wasn’t enough to stop you.

You promised to protect me from the world

They won’t like me, they won’t care

Yet the world doesn’t seem so bad now I’m here

If I think too much I find myself crying

You knew I wasn’t there

But it didn’t stop you.

Sat with my own thoughts too long and it comes back

I see you so I close my eyes

But it’s a memory not a photograph

Everlasting, branded in my mind

Ruined, ugly, stupid, I hear it

You knew I wasn’t there

But it didn’t stop you.

You laugh

I can’t forget that laugh

You smile

I’ll never not see that smile

You swore to be my light in the darkness

But you were the shadows

I was a match, sick without my flame

Put out between your callous fingers

You said you could tell I wasn’t there

But knowing that didn’t stop you.

And knowing that kills me

Now that I understand I don’t understand

My castle was a dungeon and my lover held the key

You wanted to rescue me from them

But they saved me from you.

You knew I wasn’t there,

You knew I wasn’t there.

Johnny Got Shot

Johnny Got Shot

Three, two, nope I can’t do it, not a chance in Hell. I’ll just have to get myself home and call Frankie. Frankie always knows best, I doubt he’s seen this before, but still, he’ll know what to do.

Jeez that hurt more than I expected, and now blood is pouring out from where the bugger shot me. Man I wish I had a phone. Why didn’t I listen to Mindy? She said, “Johnny you’ll regret it, everyone has one these days, what if you get shot in the leg?” Okay, so she didn’t say that last part, but imagine if she did?  That would have been funny. Actually, no, no it wouldn’t. This is so far from funny that I am now laughing hysterically as I drag my limp bleeding leg through the dusty path. Just what every open wound needs, dust.

If I had taken the arrow out I would have bled out there and then, back there, with the roses and those blue ones, I can never remember what they’re called. My mum always used to pick them and put them in the kitchen window. They were crawling with bugs, but she never seemed to mind, I always thought it peculiar.

An arrow in the leg is always better than being dead, that’s a saying, right? Well it should be, because it’s true. Who wants to be dead? Then again, who wants an arrow in their leg? I sure as Hell don’t.

I was just wandering through the way, and bang, the psychopath shot me. Okay, so it was less of a wander and more of a run, but who needs details? I have an arrow in my leg, what more do you need to know? It hurts, and now that I’m thinking about it even more it hurts even more, I need to take my mind off of it. Wow I feel woozy. I thought keeping the darn thing in would keep me plugged up? Turns out that was a stupid thought.

Come on Johnny walk faster, faster. It’s more of a crawl really. If he’s still behind me he’ll have an easy job of finding me, there’s a trail of my blood thick as my arm behind me, any fool could track me.

I used to shoot, when I was younger. Say nine or ten, I only did it for a little while. I stopped when my dad ran off with the waitress from the restaurant that sold the good peach pie. I love peach pie, but now it carries with it a bitter undertone of abandonment and resent. Still, I eat it every Friday night.

I wonder if mum still puts those blue flowers in the kitchen window. When I get home I think I’ll call her, it’ll be nice to hear her voice again, to tell her that I have been missing her, and that, well, I love her. I suppose I should probably apologise too, you know, for stealing from her.

What? When my dad left I didn’t know what to do with myself, my head was all over the place, and when Frankie told me to sneak the Mars into my pocket it only took the one time to get me addicted. That’s what got me into this mess, stealing. If I hadn’t have stolen from mum I wouldn’t have had to leave home, and I wouldn’t have ended up in my sorry excuse of an apartment sleeping with the roaches, and I wouldn’t have wandered through this dreary little village and tried to make off with a prize chicken, and I wouldn’t have been shot in the leg. So, if you think about it, this is Frankie’s fault.

I wonder if Frankie has ever sewn anyone up before. I know that he’s resuscitated a few people, he’s a hero around our parts, people don’t see him the way I do. Not many people know about his stealing, they don’t realise that a janitor’s wage couldn’t have afforded him such a hot lifestyle. They all see me though, they always have. I’ve got a rubbish poker face, that’s my problem. That, and the fact I listened to Frankie.

I’ll never forget my mother’s face when she found out. Oh the veins on her forehead almost jumped out and strangled me she was that mad. It was only a couple hundred quid, I needed a new bike, mine only had one wheel. Where was one wheel going to get me? She always went on at me to get a job, but how could I get to a job with one wheel on my bike. Slowly. And I don’t do slowly. Well, I am doing now, but I only have one leg.

I can almost see the road, man it’s far away, but it’s so close, it’s one of those what do you call thems? We learnt about them in English, and when I got home I told my mum about them, but she was too busy crying to take notice. She always cried, especially after dad left, I don’t remember seeing her smile. Boy I wish she was here now, she’d know what to do. When I get out of this mess I’m going home, home home.

Come on Johnny, not far now, I’m almost at the road. Oh man, things just got a whole lot woozier. Is it getting darker out here, or am I about to pass out?

Why Poetry

Finding words that roll off the ton-

gue,

can be just as hard as tonguing ‘gue’

When words are all I have,

to have lost them terrifies –

My mind cannot stay still,

for fear I might forget my name,

Never-mind the rest

This is what I want, more than that,

but my words are too simple,

says he

My words are too perplexing,

says she

Worlds, voices, action, love, death,

they play in my mind, I speak the words,

I sing the scenes,

yet pen to paper, fingers to keys,

nothing

spills

over

Not even one

drop,

I am not even a leaking faucet,

– Or tap as we call it

I avoid the chance to admit why,

I find myself here,

with this blank white page,

begging me to say something,

to give myself to it, to you,

to hold nothing back, but I –

Call it fear,

or doubt,

or both

This is where I am, this is why,

but this not who I am,

this is not.

The

End

 

It be well

I red a lot when I were young

Books and poems wrote by authors

People I dreamed of becoming

There words made me feel knew

They replenished my mind

And cleansed my sole

I writ until my hand did blister

And then I writ some more

I tried to find the secret, but

Wear it was I never discovered

In a book I red at school

One man writ that grammar,

That old muse, was key.

Yet, after all that I have read

and seen, and felt,

I say that love cannot be tamed,

By grammar, or anything else,

For when you love something,

Truly,

You give your time, your life to it,

You never stop,

And then one day

You start to get it right,

And suddenly,

Your dream of writing an epic poem

For generations to come to admire,

To create a world of wonder,

To make that girl proud

Of the person she has become,

It be well.