in memory (an open letter to america)

a rough, teary  response to the events that unfolded in Orlando yesterday but also a plea for justice deserved by countless individuals before this tragedy. it’s by no means perfect but i just wanted to put something out there and it felt wrong to let their lives be nothing more than a statistic on the news. rest in peace to all those let down by a lack of gun regulation and may you finally be safe away from this place.

. . . 

Your people died as rowboats
caught in the eye of a godless storm but I imagine theirs
were the only kaleidoscope lightning bolts present,
cataclysmic green or blue-
anything but the monotone of statistic, excuse.
There is no consolation for
tongues that’ll never taste salt from neither
tear nor ocean once more,
shipwrecked hearts that’ll only ever be remembered as victims,
as scarred, as a record we never wanted to break.
One hate-filled man may pull the trigger but
his country handed him a loaded gun and
asked him not to shoot.
I too feel the cyclical recoil 4,000 miles away,
gratefully safe but still
hear bodies collapse like a skyline
we’ve rebuilt too many times
to be shocked anymore .
Worse things no longer happen at sea but
in the barrel of this land,
where you seem unable to distinguish
ashes from gunpowder as a rule-
both interchangeable with fuel in a
war with humanity we never asked to fight.
This history will repeat itself as long as
you give it the outdated “right”,
while you blame other people for your legislative faults
and despite all this we’ll still ask
how many more innocent knees
have to buckle like a nations failed policies.
As if any of this was “news”.
As if anything will change
and our world will stop choking on the gun residue.

The Foyle Poem- 10:47 pm

Hello,

I hope you are well and having a wonderful 2016.

Something I haven’t really shared with you is I was lucky enough to be commended in the Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2015- unless you know me personally in which case… I just need 5 more minutes?

On 8th October 2015, I traveled up to London to an award ceremony in the Southbank Centre where I met a bunch of wonderful poets and received a handful of prizes including a membership to the Poetry Society *squeals*. We stayed in London for the rest of the day to see the National Poetry Day live event which was incredible. I got to see poets such as Patience Agbabi and Imtiaz Dharker perform as well as receive a talk by the amazing installation artist Robert Montgomery. It was an amazing opportunity.

Anyway, I thought I would share the poem I entered with you. I started writing this at 10:47 pm one night (woah crazy) and kept writing (and rewriting) until 3 am while listening to the rain on my window. It is quite stream of conscious-y and in all honesty, I am not a huge fan but oh well 😉

Enjoy.

. . .

There’s nothing comforting

about this storm;

I’ve learnt not to care much

for these warped raindrop

kind of nights when spring breeze

competes with itself to the

point of crescendo.

The howling wind is

a faulty lullaby now,

all creaking gates and no rhythm.

Sunken bones succumb

to the cement of a mattress-

I shift slightly,

cover my ears as if I were an infant

with eyes like cracked windows,

ajar doors,

screeching car alarms.

They will leave nothing about

me a “secret”.

It’s 10:47 pm

and by no means late.

Still an aching sense of absence quakes

profusely inside of my chest;

I can never seem to shake this feeling

that something is missing.

I am too often still awake when

3 am pervades across my room

like familiar perfume,

clinging to my skin.

I wear tiredness like an oversized jumper-

it wasn’t meant for me but

I guess somewhere between

the first few moments in darkness

and midnight thunderstorms,

I’ve convinced myself that

it’s the only thing that fits.

.

the poem i’ll never finish

Hey,

I hope you’ve all had a wonderful Christmas/holiday season/year in general. Happy (almost) 2016 and have a lovely week. 

Thank you for the support I’ve recieved over the past year; I am unbelievably grateful.

This isn’t everything I have to put into this poem but I don’t feel brave enough to finish writing it. 

Enjoy.

. . . 
the truth is

there’s nothing poetic 

about the way that 

i crave winter and 

the way his fingertips

trace my spine;

the seductively subtle 

reminder that 

i am still able to 

feel something.

i should hate 

the way that 

barren landscapes 

make me feel

slightly less 

like an empty chapel

and yet,

there’s comfort 

to be found in 

the way that the 

world feels 

winter’s touch 

alongside me.

perhaps,

for a short while,

 i can blame the 

cold i often feel 

on the 

change of season?

regardless,

it’s an undeniable shame 

that cracked skin 

still resembles

stained glass shards

in which i 

can no longer

recognise my 

own reflection.

perhaps it cannot be helped.

A Sad Poem (about nothing in particular) 

Hello friends,

Hope you’re all well. Another attempt at haiku structure hmm… think I counted the syllables correctly but wouldn’t be surprised if I made mistakes.

Enjoy.

. . .

How strange it is to

feel both heavy and weightless;

to not just be the
restricted lungs and

panic of the Drowning but

also the numbness
of the Drowned; to be

so very aware of your

own existence and yet still
forget to breathe on

much-too-frequent occasions-

yes, how strange it is.

19/10/2015 

Hello,

Here’s a quick poem I finished today, inspired by Winchester Cathedral and life stuff. Just been doing a lot of self evaluation recently . Not feeling my best at the moment but ya know. Life. Poemy things shall commence now. Have a great week 😊

Enjoy.

. . .

You stand, 

my constant,

the bitter sweet remnants of what it once meant to be a child;

so wildly unafraid of collapse.

How I admire you.

The “ghosts” that groan

throughout the hollow of your 

stomach are simply not

ghosts at all-

just the distant echo 

of ancient kings.

Instead of haunted, 

you are inhabited by

centuries of wisdom.

Show me how to remain so stable.

Sometimes I wish I could replace 

my bone with your stoic rib cage,

all stone and grafted beams.

Like this, 

I imagine I’d be less inclined to

cry in front of you.

Less familiar with the 

sting of tears and shame of 

falling apart in public.

Still, 

all my steps lead back to this.

Teach me how you’ve 

convinced them to love 

cracked knuckles,

weathered eyes,

each scratch you’ve collected on 

aging flesh because nothing

I do seems to work.

How I envy you,

with every facet on display 

for our viewing-

so painfully honest.

unsolicited advice on growing up (that almost certainly will not help)

Hi guys.

I hope you’re well.

I’ve got a rather long poem today about stuff that has just been playing on my mind recently- not really sure how I feel about it but I think I prefer this piece as spoken word, reckon it suits that style more but let me know what you think. Just feels a bit lengthy to me as a standard written poem… Hmm..

Enjoy.

. . .

To the young girl at the bus stop: 

get used to it.

You will spend a lot of your time 

waiting whether it’s for 

buses or boys or everything to fall into place.

In the end,

none of it will matter so remember

not to measure your worth 

by the weight of your mistakes-

it will take you too long to realise 

that you are greater than the sum of their parts.

Not everything will be okay but

never underestimate your ability 

to crash, burn and then start again.

Allow your heart to become the

wreckage it was destined to be

because it’ll do so without your 

permission anyway.

So learn how to dance through the debris,

breathe amongst the ash,

survive all the fallout.

Master the art of “getting on with it”

because it will often feel like you are 

just a drop in the ocean.

Do not let this stop you from loving 

or being loved;

you are never as insignificant as you feel.

Try to live unapologetically but

never be afraid to say you’re sorry.

You shouldn’t be surprised if the 

words linger in your mouth like 

a first kiss

or tumble from your lips like cheap alcohol-

stay away from cheap alcohol.

But do let yourself be intoxicated on occasion,

whether that’s by a bottle, 

a boy,

a girl

and never regret whatever hangover you’re left with.

Recognise that your parents are trying their best,

they do not know everything-

neither do you.

You are not selfish for walking away

when the ground beneath you starts to crack;

look after yourself as best you can.

Understand that the mirror

won’t always be your best friend.

On the days that you dislike what you see,

I’ll let you know what to do when

I figure it out myself.

29th July 2015

Hello!

I hope you’re all doing well. I’ve got another short poem for you. I don’t really know how I feel about it but I thought is get your opinion! 

Have and good day.

Enjoy.

. . .

The marble skies weighed less that day.

Greys perfectly interlocked like fingers 

and the hands of the clock in the street

tell me it’s time to go home.

I find myself thinking of you

and your hands

and all the plans we are yet to make;

I cannot help but smile

whilst every step takes me 

further away from the smell of rain. 

But for now,

this is enough

until we meet again.