#society of poets
Wouldn’t hurt a fly
- #1: Tales from the wild
Starting a new series from tomorrow. Watch out!
#TalesFromTheWild
“Sixth line from the top”.
Go team single!
“Overthinker” from my poetry book ‘Chuckles, Snuggles and Struggles’ - Poetry for the hopeful.
If you’re overthinking this, stop! Head to this link and buy your copy of this mildly thrilling poetry book today!
‘Christmas Lights’ from Chuckles, Snuggles & Struggles - #poetryforthehopeful.
Full book out now. Buy it here - https://bit.ly/ChucklesSnugglesStruggles
A very Merry Christmas to all you lovely people! ✨
‘Funny Things’ from Chuckles, Snuggles and Struggles, a mildly thrilling poetry book.
‘Walk’ from Chuckles, Snuggles & Struggles - Poetry for the hopeful
i.
May calls me away from you,
at least for five days a week back to
the city where I’m working 9 ‘til 5.
You’re back under your mother’s thumb,
sleeping through the days, just trying to survive.
ii.
I’m not allowed through your doorway.
Lately I’ve been thinking that if this was a fairy story,
I could ride up on a white horse and set you free.
We could ride off into the sunset.
You could be with me.
iii.
But those stories weren’t written about the real world,
and never about two girls.
Still, I don’t believe May can be all tragic,
not when you fall into my arms every Friday evening and
these weekends are the closest things we have to magic.
If I am angry it is in a place I cannot feel it.
I hurl my hurt up onto the top shelf, somewhere I cannot reach,
let it gather dust, decay
until I forget about all that was said to me, done to me.
I can convince myself
anger is an emotion that does not
apply to me.
/
A friend stabs me in the back,
and a flare of rebellious fury sparks up within me. I
distance myself from it, the
detachment of a scientist,
dissect the act - cut it into little pieces
(as if my rage was not born from me,
my own flesh and blood, my child I slice open to cure the plague)
rationalise it away.
/
You can justify almost any cut
someone makes in you if you don’t want to believe in blood enough,
if you love the knife.
/
But anger is a human right, or at least an inevitability.
It is not a luxury everyone apart from myself can afford.
A rose by any other name
will still prick you with its thorns.
Call a spade a spade,
and use it to dig up
the fury you bury,
before it grows into weeds
that strangle you
even as you deny it.
