I don’t really write poetry. When I have tried, it has never been personal – it always had a plot and a character voicing it.
However, thanks to a spoken word poetry session I attended at uni, I have not only written a poem, but a personal poem. It was birthed from some free writing I did recently, and I have actually found myself performing it a couple of times at Open Mic events.
I’m still not 100% on what the title is, so I’ll show a couple of options.
On a side note – many thanks to everyone who is still following me. I am aware I haven’t been posting regularly at all, so it’s great to see people are still following my blog, I really appreciate it 🙂
My Craft / Long Sleeves are a Bitch in Summer
There’s a bug trapped inside my veins.
Peverse and ruthless.
Pushing against the thin veil masking
It creeps and crawls, tickling my flesh,
pressed against my pulse. I yearn to
so this bug, this foul tic, can
There’s still the energy,
it seeps out of my pores,
stretching me tight,
the shadow of the bug still alive –
at least something is.
They say the body is a work of art
and whilst my canvas may be blank for now,
isn’t it so, we wait
for the artist to find motivation –
even inspiration –
a mild flirtation
with a muse they can’t ignore.
Not until they spill colour once more.
I paint my skin with beads of a blush.
They rise to the surface,
thriving in air that suffocates me.
They chase the tic away,
across my battlefield,
passing fight by fight on their way.
How many times does the bug return?
Bittersweet and grovelling,
only to be welcomed.
Just count the tally-marks on my wrists.
Oh my God I’m tired,
and yet the bug still scatters,
along my arms,
up my throat,
stuck in the fog I call a mind. It
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe I can’t breathe I can’t –