Free Writing

 It’s a nice idea-
The idea that someone can be
Set free
With words.
In a life where writing is structured,
Planned, pre-empted,
It’s liberating to use the
English language to get more than
a grade.
 
It’s a form of meditation;
A spiritual journey to parts of yourself
You didn’t know were there and
That stare up at you on paper,
Willing you to not only
Acknowledge but
Accept.
 
The flow can be disrupted,
Through lack of thought.
Or over-thought.
Or pretty much anything if one allows it.
It’s all about the choice you make
-much like meditation-
as to whether the flow of your mind
is drawn to a halt,
intercepted.
 
Strength of character determines
The outcome
As per usual.
If I had a pound for every
Fifty-word document entitled
My Feelings
Or notepad filled with the
Desperate scrawl of a girl who just needs to
Let go
I would spend it on a
Lifetime supply of paper and pens because
Why would I stop such a
Healthy coping mechanism?
Count yourself lucky I’m not
Counting calories or scars
But instead the number of
Ink stains on my hand.
 
Free yourself.
Because you can rip out pages,
Set them alight and
Watch them burn to nothing.
They are forever safe in the embers
But untouchable.
What’s more cathartic
Than that?

thoughts.

This poem’s inspiration came from a workshop exercise at uni (as it always seems to at the moment), but was supposed to just be a stream of consciousness. I found myself adding the lineation and punctuation out of instinct and, with the exception of the final stanza, I had a poem. There needed to be a conclusion, as, while I enjoy the classically laid back style of free verse, I am also a big believer in poetry having a direction, depending on the subject matter.

I become increasingly self-aware when I am commanded to write; the only thing my mind holds on to is how subjective the whole thing is and what it means to me. This being said, it has always served as a logical way of bringing thoughts out of my brain, where they could otherwise tangle and snag on other potentially worse thoughts. My ‘thoughts about thoughts’, if you will, are always the most complicated ones though, so transforming them into ‘writing about thoughts’, more than anything, saves me from insanity.

Capturing Happiness.

 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.