When I caught myself, I had to stop myself.

I am well and truly out of my depth.

I was waiting for him to come back after our row, my eyes watering periodically and tears streaming down my cheeks in unpredictable downpours.

I'd sat there staring into his green eyes and he pleaded with me to tell him the truth. There was no other way, I had to tell him.

"You're dying."

The words fell out of my mouth and hung in the air. For a moment I thought it would be okay but then they came crashing down like lead weights. He didn't believe me. He screamed at me, pacing up and down the room.
"You're scared. You've never gotten this close to anyone before and you're trying to push me away." I wanted to shake him; make him see that no I wasn't trying to push him away. I was trying to tell the truth.
"No, it's true. I can see it."

And with that he'd stormed out. His timer slowly ticking down, taking all his precious seconds with him and leaving me with what seemed like eternity.

I was looking for beauty...

I wrote a new poem and wasn't sure where to share it. I wasn't sure who to share it with. So I guess I'll put it here so I can share it with everyone/anyone.

If you're reading this: enjoy.

I saw God in mitosis,
he told me that it’s not
always as it seems.
The boats on the ocean floor are
full of mermaids. Starfish eyes on Broadway
and coral perms.
He laughed –
It sounded like waves against a rock.
Dangerous.

It's not supposed to be a serious piece. Just something from the crazed recesses that exist in my mind.

This is the last time...

Oh man, oh man, oh MAN!

I made that comment about being predictable and you said I wasn't and I knew, I just knew, that you were referring to the e-mail.
MAN!
Why did you have to waltz back into my life and shake me up so badly.

I was quite drunk, but I wasn't drunk enough to realise maybe what you were doing. I can't help but think that you started talking to me that night, after months and months of silence, because I was in a vulnerable position. Maybe I shouldn't have updated my Facebook status, but why shouldn't I?! It wasn't for you, because I never expected you to react to anything I wrote on there anyway.

I commented on your picture too. Yeah, maybe that wasn't the best of moves.

You spoke to me and I didn't feel scared, but I don't know if that was the alcohol numbing my senses or that I am actually over you. I could have bought it up. I could have confronted you; asked you why you were talking to me now. Maybe she had gone back home or something and you felt free. I don't know.

I don't want you to, impossibly, read this and think "Oh, shit. I shouldn't have done that. Now she thinks I love her." Because I don't. Honestly, I don't. I just got a little bit confused and couldn't help but think that you were trying to catch me off guard.

Anyway, this is now going to be addressed to my actual audience.

Can you believe the nerve of him? Doing that after so damn long?!
It was totally uncalled for. He even complimented my profile picture. I couldn't believe it. But at the same time I didn't care enough, I just didn't care.

College is out for Christmas. Yeeha! Although I've been ill for the past week because of a nasty flu/cold kind of thing. I'm very nearly over it.
I have to revise now, everyday. Because if I don't get AAB then Birmingham aren't going to want to have me. I don't know though. I kind of want to go to Plymouth or Hull. Because they're by the sea and I love it so much. I want to be able to learn how to surf - which if I get on the Cornwall campus at Exeter uni that is exactly what I'll be doing. Watch how my creative writing gets less and less creative.

It's exciting though. I was reading over some old school reports and the one from year 7 says that I have a flair for creative writing. I was just sitting there thinking 'Wow. It's like I was destined to be a writer.'

The novel is getting ever clearer in my mind. Bits of the plot come to me at really random times. But it's actually becoming a good read. Sometimes I wish I didn't have to write it so I could just read it. That sounds horribly big headed.

Ahh, still single. Still solitarily single. I like this guy. His name is Dave. There's no chance he will ever read this so it's okay. He's just funny, and easy to be myself around and fun to be with and talk to. We were at my friends house and it's the first time I've ever been in an environment like that with him. I wanted to be close to him, he has some kinda magnetism about him. Maybe the world will start turning my way soon? Who knows.

Ciao.

Oh please, I'm in love...

I felt like writing, but didn't know what to write so I looked over some of my old poetry for inspiration. It was strange.
I read a poem. A silly little poem I wrote during an English lesson and I literally felt my heart swell up with love for it. I'm not saying it was the best poem ever written, because that would be a huge lie. I got so passionate about it because I love writing things like that. When I look at my poetry of 3/4 years ago and then look to now I see such a difference. I can see just how much I've progressed as a writer without any real educational guidance, just through sitting and reading poetry written by other people. I feel proud of myself for doing that, for perservering and carrying on. I feel like I am a writer now. I feel like I can call myself a poet.
I won't carry on being all saft - it's not really like me. I'll just leave you with the poem.

The man from next door
has a wooden leg and a parrot.
Everyday he sits on his doorstep
tapping wood against stone; foreboding.
The rhythm; a mismatched waltz mimicks
my heart, sets it on fire, makes me want
to run,
run so very far away.

The Skeptic

My eyes were open, a circuit board of fuses
With a hot-wired heart.
You –
An uncontrollable jerk through every frayed nerve ending
split by the appetites of hungry hamsters.
A computer whirs in the back of my head,
It pulsates with nervous tension and denies a password
I thought I knew.

Mechanical animals leap towards the kill;
a stuttering foot smokes at the toe.
Images; red, green, blue flash along an army of retinas.
They rest upon a twisted version of you.

I’m paralysed – soldered to a seat of pink plastic.
My iron lung spasms; then collapses under the pressure.

An unknown command, the question mark is thrusting;
up and down, up and down.
A finger – so unlike the rest – traces the keys
looking for the right words to feel.
Stare long enough and it may fold like poker players
during nuclear war.

Comments welcome!

I thought he was a man but he was just a little boy...

The Strand

Breath grazes the edge of her skin

and pulls so gently inwards.

Prays,

no,no,no.

Last forever.

A clock ticks towards the end,

unforgiving to the lost minutes.

Prays,

no,no,no.

Last forever.

I went crazy searching between faces

and hands.

Numbers don't tell the story

half as well as pain.

Still I pray,

no,no,no.

Last forever.

Not sure about this. Feedback, anyone?

Sorrow and fear is the same thing in a shot glass.

All I ever asked was for the bile to be withdrawn,

the wind to change and throw it back into your mottled face.

All I ever wished for was the door to close,

So you could laugh upon your empire of bottles.

Empty.

Brain dead from the lie my eyelids are full of ash

that blows from every cigarette tale and lunatic word.

I tell you to “hush” as gentle as the rain before a hurricane,

but all you do is laugh, throw your head back

And drown.

She can’t bring herself to glimpse at her reflection, in fear of

(Hating?)

loathing what she sees.

It’s all a matter of waiting,

waiting for themto rip out a yellowed liver and say,

"This one was destined to be trapped,

trapped in the empty recesses of a broken shot glass.”

It was just something I wrote today in the JCR. Nothing really related to anything.


I knew it wasn't you and I knew I couldn't make it you, but still there was this line. Maybe it was crossing over into the murky depths of madness for a few seconds. Sort of like the feeling you get when you look out of a window for too long and the pane of glass seems to disappear. I started and stared at the back of this man's head, and I saw you. His mannerisms were yours, the way he moved was the way you moved. Not that I would know given that I can't see you anymore but I have to hold on to those shreds of memory. Those shreds of hope.
I sat down and very firmly noted that it wasn't you. I rationalised every factor of the situation. Why on earth would you be on a bus when you have a working car? Why would you be here, on this bus, when you live miles away from here?
All of this I knew in my head and, I stress this, I knew it wasn't you. Yet I stared and stared and still saw you.

I suppose it means I still miss you. I suppose that it means I still love you. That's the most frustrating part. It's not that you left, I can deal with that. It's missing you and loving you and wanting you so much that the past and the present intermingle and there you are, sitting in front of me on the bus.