x-Mercy-Dimwit-x

I've written six and a half stanzas of pure drivel. They don't bushel in quivering golden heads like corn in spring or a hundred tiny swimmers with shivering legs. They're meant to tell you you've done okay well, in truth they're to tell you happy birthday but moreover I wrote them to say that actually you're pretty swell. I didn't use similes to show your effect, I could have said you were like a travelling quartet who visit once a month and make the air thinner and knit up our insides ready for winter I did attempt to show what you had taught that I could be more than others said I ought to be, that by your own aspirations I su

pure unadulterated empathy: a cosmic whiplash a break backing crash of sexy blue whale waves rocking knocking at your neighbours doorstep asking for a way home to a God who cares about chipped nails and unlimited texts. sex like a cancer, like a radio show the multinational equivalent to the bbc news and an oyster with the childhood blues the longing to be better eats you up till the pulling inside you becomes enough and then the sadness leaves you and you don't know what to do it's not that my feelings are new the leaves still ochre the babies still cry the snails you tred on still ache and die maybe they're glad to go maybe

I remember emailing you as a scared little girl I feel like a woman now a scared authoritative woman birthed from the very colouring pens which raised me my hands are silver birch and elderberries a pun from my year 2 class teacher who smelled like soft bird feathers and had a face equating to an envelope and kind, leathery hands my legs are stocks and shares my parents crafted bought and sold on many European markets where I learnt to order the bill in native tongue; feet like hymns sung on spiritually dusty mornings alone in the French countryside tanning my legs to the bells below the hills my torso is that of broken over zealous

so heres a ditty for free another cliched poem to stop me feeling empty you'll love me if I'm perfidious enough the next few weeks are gonna be tough the next few years are gonna get better really though. Are they. the summers will only get wetter the leaves will raise like unleavened dough i'll cry tears on books cried over centuries ago but hearts are connected and minds are a blaze together we'll take hands and run through the maze the daisy's are pure and the girls have soft hands the boys are all tall and the trans chicks are grand the feminism is boisterous and the children in love tell me that Arcadia isn't enough learn to lov

there's a genteel hum like a washing machine, wish wheel a previously-thought-impenetrable-impossible reel of real time live action happiness. like all the edges on the pictures from the cameras have all been rounded, the sweat stink bubblegum; the smiles on everyone's faces are 100% pure i'll tell you the door to knock on's not even a door staying open 24/7 it's even got a cheerful Indian man at the counter whose experienced prejudice sure because life is suffering but he know longer finds London stifling and his family's doing fine he's got the money to buy mid-range wine and the kids are growing up fast enough to tell the time (fr

Maybe i should talk about your hipbones your skeleton like glass but i'd rather discuss how you taught me to cuss or the way your little fingers stretch in the light or the way you're head throws back when you laugh or the way you still have that drawn on white scarf you talk like a poet and you walk like a queen your eyes are full of places you haven't been and shakespeare, and beeswax, and shiny things. There's a girl in the river swimming in her socks theres a woman in the doorway listening to rock there's a cat by the road who loves the endless night theres a funny one inside and she's a looker alright. like a spacious old a

and my friend she says "I'm proud of you for coming out." just like it's the status quo like i'm a lesbian now Hell I still want to kiss guys sometimes doesn't mean I'm telling lies when I say I like girls you think I know what's going on? You think I know how I feel? Just yesterday I was planning my wedding meal and I even thought about the vows well now that's all come tumbling down and my guy friend he comes up and says "doesn't it bother you that you'll never have sex?" They want me to say yes. If you're bi then you can't decide, you want to sleep around or you're in denial, if you're a lesbian then oh boy we're proud now

They always show it on the tv screen "this is our last night together, this then nothing." and you know they'll end up meeting again and loving each other unrealistically beautifully much. You know, we never think, Well what if it was me? What if we were in love, and it was you moving to Santa Fe. And the other guy has eyes like the sea and he talks like an English literature degree and don't get me started on his witty repartee. And he's many other flouncy metaphors: Point is, he's the good guy. And you and I, we'll never be a thing. But ignoring all reason, not even the stars, ignoring the reflections and memories of the past despi

 maybe it's too late to fight just lose yourself in the night go on I double dare you die. You don't really want to. I am trying to write about God, and how big he is, but the Sad has reached my fingers and that makes it difficult to type. I am trying to write about God, but the boy keeps coming into my head, and keeping me from going to bed, and talking to me sweet-like for two hours. He's a sugar pod, he's cotton from it's roots I know what he is. I think I just want to love him, but I can't, because I am trying to write about God. A while ago, I wrote: "God is everything. I put him in the center of my life and now everything