Stand Up

I’m done with being part of a generation

obsessed with image manipulation;

where sport is exercise and not recreation

and beauty is obtained through starvation.

Aren’t we tired of teaching our daughters

that it’s better to be a listener than a talker;

that it’s okay to order ‘just water’ and

follow the latest fad diet of a pauper.

And what can we do about our sons?

Who watched their beautiful mums

talk about needing to lose a tonne

and what on earth could be done?

Where do our children learn self love,

if they don’t learn it from the adults above?

When perfection is all we speak of

and insecurity fits us like a glove.

We have got stop sucking our cheeks in

and fixating on being stick-thin;

stop chucking nourishment in the nearest bin

in a misguided attempt to fit in.

Our bones belong on the inside

and we need that food we’re trying to hide

and so does every other person worldwide

who’s try’na lose weight for people they can’t abide.

You shouldn’t want to fit into a society

that values you just for looking pretty.

When you think about it, isn’t it a pity,

that self-care is such a rarity?

Don’t you think that it’s backwards

that people think that your size matters;

even if your mental health lies in tatters

doesn’t conforming to it all leave you shattered?

If it does put your hands up,

so for a minute we can back up.

And this phenomenon can be just a hiccup

on our way to the love we’re trying to develop

for our bodies and our faces without makeup;

because these beauty standards are messed up.

So I ask you, does our culture make you fed up?

Because, if it does you should stand up.

(Love Doesn't Hurt)

You tell me that you’re loving
when you’re acting so cruel;
you’ve got space in my heart
but I need you to move.

Scald

We're all crazy here.

She bled from her eyes
                  until she saw blood red skies.
Hold tight. Don’t (let) go.
Oh she -
            an exorcism of the physical kind.
With skin that wasn’t breathable,
                                         demons began to choke.
                      Hold tight, my dear
                      we’re all crazy here.

Say something.

Fatal

It was a red string
that tugged us together.
When I was lost
you were point B; base camp.
When you were crying for an echo
I could be a reflection.
Cool glass in my own two hands
fate incarnate.
But string is string
and life is sharp
the pain was twisting
and you ran away –
it’s too much strain
to put on a little, red string.
(And I think you know that).

Say it.

Rosie Was A Little Girl

Rosie was a little girl
who sang a wild tune;
and wore the bluest socks
whose favourite month was June.

Rosie was a little girl
who smiled up at the sun
who skipped everywhere she went
and thought life a synonym of fun.

Rosie was a little girl
trapped in an old fish tank
whose food came down on ropes
with an order to ‘say thanks’.

Rosie was a little girl
whose happiness was incomplete.
At her they chipped away
until her sides became all neat.

Rosie was a little girl
who remembered to always say please
who instead of looking in a mirror
would fall down upon her knees.

Rosie was a little girl
whose knees were strong as sin.
When raised in half-happiness
could let nobody in.

Rosie was a little girl
who had a lot of friends
who danced with her by day
and were there until the end.

Rosie was a little girl
with faith as strong as manners
who though their purpose was to fix
when they came armed with hammers.

Rosie was a little girl
who tried to make amends
and tried to hold on tight
to what she thought the Lord had sent.

Rosie was a little girl
who learned to speak in rhyme
with pockets full of hope and pain
she died a very many times.

Rosie was a little girl
who couldn’t lift her soul
who lived out her days half-sad
and hurried growing old.

Rosie was a little girl
who didn’t die from shouts
or hammers in their hands
but quietly, alone she bled out.

Rosie was a little girl
who lived a metaphor;
became a bomb of pain and hurt;
and died a tragedy, dreaming of more.

Road Trip Baby

I’d take on a road trip
to Dublin or Berlin
we’d have to take a ferry –
but the sights we could take in!

I’d give you an adventure
we would dip our toes
in the bluest, swimming seas;
and forget about our woes.

I’d take a photo of you –
every city, every day
to remind you of your beauty
each time you go away.

I’d take you on a road trip
darling, we could go so far.
I’d save you from monotony
but I’m afraid you’d crash the car.

Ties turn, people learn

One Late New Year's Poem

Have you ever noticed how
around December time
the year becomes old, and
tatty around the edges.
It is written with reluctance.

It creeps around
hips creaking when it stands.
It drinks a dozen cups of coffee
each day of December,
to keep it going - just until the 31st.

The end of the year
is a hangover,
and there isn't a fry up big enough.
All it wants is to crawl into a photo album,
and sleep.

So when we put this year to bed
and we look towards the future,
we can remember the times
it ran and jumped
and cartwheeled in front of our eyes.
When the year was young.

We know each year,
must come to a close:
must make way for the next,
big, bold, sparkling Year.
But, for now, we shall put
this year to bed,
and head our letters
with new numbers.

This One's From Me

If trust is a gift,
I hope you've got the receipt.
In fact -
I hope it's a puzzle
with three of the pieces missing.
I hope it's a pair of stillettos
with no grip
that you wear every morning it's icy out.
I hope it's the food you hate;
the song that makes you mad;
and a photo just before you sneeze.
If trust is a gift
I hope it's all of your hopes and dreams
made entirely of sand;
so you can watch as they cascade
to the floor
through your fingers.
I hope it's the book that could save your life;
with all of the pages stuck together.
I hope it's ten pounds short for the rent,
and torrential rain every year
on your birthday.
I hope it's your car breaking down half-way down the M40
during rush hour
and you don't have time
to pull onto the hard shoulder.
If trust is a gift
I hope it's second-hand and it smells funny.
I hope it's almost what you wanted
but not what you needed.
If trust is a gift
I hope it brings you back to my front door
so you can knock until your knuckles bleed
and your wrists are weak.
If trust is a gift I hope you can't take it out of the box
without a gut-renching guilt.
If trust is a gift I hope it's got a gift tag
saying, 'THIS ONE'S FROM ME'.

Afraid of the Dark

A twenty-something afraid of the dark

sets her own goals and falls short of the mark.

Seeking approval from the world around,

she's taking offense as the trees fall down.

Conversations with God

What makes us who we are?
We are the words we say.
And what about the things
we almost said, but didn’t?
Well they are who we almost were -
but weren’t.