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Creative Writing

You’re cutting me out. I can feel it.
I can feel the strings that hang limply
being severed by the change
in the way you address me.

I can hear my inner self
screaming out mundanity
such as the simplicity of
“How do you do?” or
“Fancy a coffee?”
Your answers are now obvious.

My friend, my lover, my companion, my soul partner
– all of those things I am no longer to you.
How do I let go of those visions?
How do I let go of everything except the here and now?

My gut churns and wrenches;
the tears have deserted my eyes,
I’m shrivelling into a ball of longing
as you seek to distance yourself from me
and continue as if I wasn’t there.

I’m invisible.

It’s best for you not to see me like this.
Your ignorance is bliss
while mine is everything that now exists around me
that one day I’ll regret that I missed.

Like a flower in blossom during the spring,
a season trying desperately to blanket light.
As each petal stretches and yawns toward the sun,
its core, the stigma, is exposed,
awaiting the glory of which it has anticipated
for many cold
and lonely months.

And as it stares out, dormant yet accomplished
in its mission, ready to embrace and absorb,
the darkness of a sole plucks at its protection,
piece by piece;
you love me not,
you love me not.

And the stigma, baffled and depleted:
“What a mockery you have made of me, young sole,
how I opened up to you and you gloat like
a drought, when I was at my most thirsty.

“How could it be that you would take this
opportunity, of my exposure,
of relishing in my naked flesh,
and turn it into your own sense of
self-satisfying, egotist achievement.”

But you see, there lies strength in the seed,
it ensures that each symbol of cover grows back,
one by one, more determined than before.
And as the year passes, the spring does return,
and the protection again yawns and
stretches,

allowing a blanket of light
to cure them of the passed drought.

Can you remember that day?
As I remember, I shut out the light
and pictures emerge like a photo montage,
a vivid sepia toned melody of memories.
The sun glares its spikes, a smile it beams,
and beats like the heart of ours.
Wind blows our hair, it sweeps our face clean of the salt
in waves that mirror the breaths of the sea.
Our bodies unite through the tenderness of our lips,
and we smile as we share ourselves.
Sat around a camp fire, a forest,
an all encompassing forest of our love
shoots from beneath the ground around us,
it surrounds us and off the branches
green leaves spout into heart shapes.
Blankets bring us closer, impossible to think
against the bond of which we’ve cradled –
I wish I could go to where we could be.
Your presence is missing and I search far and wide,
beneath the moonlight,
the chill bites and I wander around
calling out a name I don’t know,
a stranger has again become the night.
I wrap the blanket around my head
so that only my face is showing
as the rest drapes down over my shoulders and neck,
I face the sea and shout a long note,
an elaborate release of empty noise.

Yeah. You know the one. That little craving that spurs itself on inside the stomach, acquainted though uninvited. It purrs and claws at your guts while you feign a smile toward the unknown. Yeah. You know the one. That sickly churning, washing machine mechanism of you’re not quite sure; of bewildering light below the sunset at the end of that symbolic American dual carriageway. The destination to your answers. Yeah. You know the one. That mystical wizardry, pointy hat embellished with half crescents visibly bobbing up and down through the thick smog of mystery, caverned within the confines of a cosy, wooded camp fire. Yeah. You know the one. The lick of stranger whilst blindfolded having never met before, and boy, what an introduction. Walking the plank in to the depths of uninhibited salty pleasures, unbeknown to you what lies beneath the crystal clear covers. Yeah. You know the one. You know it as much as I do. You know that you know not of it.

Why must you judge me so, dear mirror?
Where be your confidence?

You’ll get it.
You’ll smash it.
They said.
I said.

When something you need is in your grip
but like a spanner in a greased hand
it slips.

And words fail to manifest
amongst the face to face,
smartly dressed.

Clutching for dear life, the paper
to end this stagnant strife,
will this mansion of which I step
become as binding as a dear wife?

Give me this break.
I will not forsake this chance
to fulfil my dreams.

Please. Universe.
Let achievement be the start
of the next verse.

The riches of which you took
are not restricted
to the phone, the bag, the money, the book.
You went and stole some light from her head,
your careless and ruthless needs
lapped principles of humanity instead.
As she sits here in shock
and weeps over life’s sorrows,
are you there gloating
over the prizes you more than borrowed?
Sat in your red-peaked Adidas cap,
acting all cool,
laughing with your mates
while she can’t help but recall
the screwed up face
of a child, a fool.
All faith is not lost;
she picked herself up from the concrete moss,
and she came across
a dreadlocked man and his lady
who lent a hug and phone
as they calmed her crazy.
So to you,
a hundred thousand thank you’s.
Now to console a near broken woman,
whose lacking confidence
and low self-esteem
has once again been summoned.
A statistic in this dying nation,
she clings on to hope
that this incessant stagnation
can be cured by the steady ground
in which unconditional love is found.
For now, she rests her weary head,
her sore stomach healing,
the thought of forgiveness
at its least appealing.

Mother has here her male friends,
they work in the green
to her laborious needs they tend.
One sister has made her orders,
another escape among chemical romance,
and money, hard to come by,
walks off in the distance.
While the other sis goes to share
artisan ideas and graphic up some paper
on her day of work,
I sit, my dog scratching behind me,
with music playing so loud it heals
the hidden hurts.
This, an ordinary Saturday, is
beautifully aligned in normality.
These are the times of our early
thirties.
The easiest years of my life,
today, we will play in the mundane,
although it doesn’t feel like it,
I am certainly at my most sane.