You’re bird shit on my window
every day, I don’t see you
but if you left, I’d miss you.
You’re a cloud around my dreams
try as I might, I can’t see
how you could possibly be.
You’re the abstract on my wall
images painting the clues
can’t you see my, your, our truth.
You’re a voice drawn on my phone
speaking words I cannot hear
I just don’t care – that’s my fear.
I’m the unicorn you wanted
I’m creative and I flaunt it
I’m screaming for you… can you hear it!
I’m a bi-racial unicorn
just living life and going strong.
I got my non-fat-mocha-latte
a pick me up from last nights party.
Morning time is always buzzin’
social media all a fussin’
Way up North the earth is shaking
Way down South they’re all a baking.
Mr Z has spoken honest words
two links up from the dying birds.
Mysteries showed on a foreign shore
but that was it, they say no more.
Sports fans are afraid to boo
just in case the media shoot
no need for questions, no need for why
that’s there story, don’t bother to cry.
It’s all white noise in my ears
propoganda, sensationalist fear.
Winter is her weakness
a body trapped in bleakness
shaking and aching
the darkness enchanting
her hopes bequeathed
as she falls like leaves
windows fill with teariness
as she is locked inside by weariness
waiting to see again
waiting to hear again
waiting to sing again
Tomorrow starts with latte
the fuel of fearful Friday
and the fire inside her ignites
as Winter continues to bite.
Like an old weary discontinued doll
She breathed all her music to her last breath
and now she is thrown down the dark rabbit hole
no one wants her, there is no one left.
Tears streaming down those glossy plastic eyes
her dreams deflated like an old balloon
times bumps and bruises can not be disguised
as her heart drifts further from the blue moon.
The truth radiates through these broken parts
a truth that cannot be written or said
a truth that has been there right from the start
whispering quietly inside her head.
They say it’s better to have loved and lost
so cherish the moments before they are tossed.
Postcards picture perfect days
that magnified glasses will betray
these fantastical notions
of still quiet oceans.
A mind, like a carousel spinning
knows something is missing
like a broken doll part
all alone from the start.
Dancing to someone else’s beat
unable to feel her own feet
a marionette of expectations
pulls away in every direction.
All I need is someone to lean on
a strong arm to keep me strong
A kindred spirit to harness
the secrets and the darkness.
Postcard pictures perfect days
that hazel eyes will betray
with the worn imperfections
of a weary souls reflection.
It’s suspended reality
above an open valley
breathing the serenity
in awe of the immensity.
Urban eyes sense tranquility
sense the natural harmony
far away from the city
a refuge washing over me.
Inspired by the bards birthday and it being St Georges Day in England. Love my homeland…
My soul searches all the small ancient nooks
but the verbal spaghetti isn’t clear
despite the exhaustive amounts of books
I say, Happy Birthday Mr. Shakespeare.
England’s heart beats for you and our St. George
April twenty-three painted red and white
stories of dragons falling to his sword
and your words immortalised in the night.
The sun rises and we are still breathing
ancient castles, vast woods, and national pride
shaping the might of Albion’s dreaming
twisting and turning along with the tide.
I am a child of this lovely island
with her future out there on the horizon.
Found myself on
level heaven
under the welcome sign
sweets in my eyes
heart racing
one second
test me on
sadistic truths
tortured shot
outing my pain
drums in my brain
am I really here?
yesterday’s fear, gone.
Tonight I came home from work and realised I’d forgotten to buy tea (this is a disaster for us British folk) and Air Supply “All Out of Love” started playing in my head (I’m random like that). So tonight I wrote a poem that can be sung (badly) along to the tune of the aforementioned song.
Feet on the cold floor with my head by the door
thinking of you all day
I know your lost too but who knows what to do
bewildered in urban grey.
I wish you’d come home and forever stay
if I could I would let you grow
It would take me some time, and plenty of wine
but I know how from that show, from that show.
I’m out of you tea, I’m so cold without you
Where are you right now, escaping without me
I’m out of you tea, I can’t live without you
I’ll go to the shop and exchange some money.
I found you at the shop and carried you here
placed you among the fruit and nuts
my hand goes to you, get ready for the brew
the door is about to shut
I can smell your leaves at the end of the cup
as I pour the water on
your smell drifts over, like the cliffs of Dover
the lovely place you are from, you are from
I’m out of you tea, I’m so cold without you
Where are you right now, escaping without me
I’m out of you tea, I can’t live without you
I’ll go to the shop and exchange some money.
Placed neatly in the wooden box
the lid is grazed by graceful fingers
over the long years you took some knocks
and now your voice echoes, lingers.
Creating a dance of letters
the words fell from my pointy pen
nights trying to make you better
but the sun was setting, my friend.
We should have sung at our first chance
thrown those words out into the sky
but shaping had us in a trance
and now your words will never fly.
You are the reason I am me
Therapy from reality
helped me conquer the how to be
helped unlock the insanity.
Your voice may have faded away
Your words dissolved into nothing
and this empty blank page will stay
but your memory will keep on living.
Charlie Ann Alford 
You must be logged in to post a comment.