I can’t capture happiness.
 Words just don’t paint the right 
 Song or 
 Sing the right
 Picture. 
 Colours sound so vibrant 
 Yet they catch in my throat, 
 Get stuck in my teeth. 
 I promise I’m not unhappy.
  
 I guess I’m just better at sorrow than
 Sickly sweet bullshit.
 Don’t make me sick.
 Words are not flowers, They’re bullets, They puncture.
 A needle without thread doesn’t mend it just
 Pierces.
  
 Words can’t express just how
 happy you are?
 Yeah, 
 But when you are mad you just can’t shut your mouth.
  
 I prefer it, you know.
 Because when they are stuck to the page 
 They can’t hurt me.
 Spit them through thin lips at
 Volume one hundred and 
 maybe then 
 I wont be the one with the needle
 But the one with the holes in her skin. 

Thoughts.

I felt it was only appropriate to begin this slightly daunting new thing by showing what is probably my favourite original poem. I wrote this for my university course, intending it to be a lyric poem about writer’s block. Only after I had read it aloud in a creative writing workshop did my lecturer suggest I submit it as a spoken word piece (and by suggest, he assumed I was and I readily agreed, not really sure what I was signing myself up for). What followed was a million attempts in front of a camera that not only got me a first (1:1), but served as a kind of therapy; I went from growing a disliking to my voice and facial expressions, to stubbornly deciding I didn’t really care. As a result, somewhere on my phone are multiple videos of me interrupting myself mid-sentence to swear dramatically. To think that I went to university having no idea I even liked writing poetry, let alone having the confidence to submit a reading and put it on a blog. Character development? I think so.