My Eyes (In Yours)

Would that I could see my words
On her tongue
Or my habits
In the turn of their cheek
That in the song of sound she spoke
I could hear my own melodies.

But all I see is her in me
In the way I hold my head
Or sway to the music of the world.

Would that I could mean so much
To someone worth the world to me.


My GCSEs and what they meant to me

On results day, only six letters mattered;
I managed to get ten.
Do they even matter?
(What about my other grades?)
(But I passed all the rest!)
(Aren’t you guys proud of me?)
(but i did my best…)

All I heard was I didn’t try hard enough
That I should have done more than I did
So if my best just wasn’t good enough
Then i’d do what I wanted instead.

Writing about writing when you’re struggling to write.

My little black book
Sits in my back pocket,
Collecting the words
That slip off my tongue.
With a little black pen
That touches my temple,
It filters a record
Of all that I see.

So I strain through the truth
In my little black book
Try to present it
So you’ll understand.

But my words are stained glass.

A fragmented picture.

They don’t quite make sense.

When you can’t see the lines.