I’ve spoken a bit about the fact that I write poetry and I’m really into creative writing, but I really want to share some of my stuff. To be honest, I’m not in the best mind-set for writing a witty, sassy blog post right now, so I think that I’ll just hit you with some deep poems.
A bit of background. At the moment, I am working on 3 collections of poetry. The first is entitled “Equality and Other Jokes” and the poems in it are based on the struggles which a teenage girl faces in a western society. The second is entitled “Liberation” which is inspired by the plight and battles which black people have had to fight over the course of history, and the third is entitled “Lovestruck”, which I’m pretty sure speaks for itself. (In case you didn’t guess, I usually write about things which I have either experienced first hand, as a straight black teenage female, or things which I have seen or heard about through friends, other people or the news.)
I’ll just share one piece from the first and second collection; the first poem is entitled Unbreakable and is based on how the neglect of parents can lead to girls looking for love in the wrong place. The second is called Seventeen which was inspired by the book To Kill A Mockingbird, (if you don’t understand it, then Google search Tom Robinson) but I think they both speak for themselves. Enjoy.
Unbreakable (From ‘Equality and Other Jokes’)
Bedroom. Make-up littering every visible surface. Leaking onto the floor. Dark stains on the carpet.
Wardrobe opens. Piles of material spill onto the floor. Trodden on.
Dressing table. Lamp switched on. Perfecting imperfections in the glassy, glossy mirror.
Jeans, top, tan – spray on everything. Sticky enough to wrap a sandwich in.
Under the bed. Pairs and pairs of shoes clutter and cluster in large groups. Colours hidden away.
Leaving. Before 10. Mum’s on the sofa. Glance over. Eyes glaze over. Turns back to the telly.
Arrive. Shouting for friends. Walking through. Turning on more than the light in the coat room.
Drinking. People passed out on the floor. Spliffs being passed around like a church collection plate.
Eyes meet. Dance closer. Glazed over. Move slower. Feeling tipsy.
Upstairs. Fumbling around. Lips on lips. Clothes on clothes. Skin on skin. Don’t know him.
After. Stumbling in the dark. Drunkenly pulling jeans back on. Tears threatening to appear.
Home. After 3. Can’t walk straight. Mum sees. Says nothing. Switches the TV off and goes upstairs.
Bedroom. Back to the start. Peels off layers of cling film. Climbs under sheets. Tries to forget.
Seventeen (From ‘Liberation’)
holes of torn apart flesh from which his life force ebbs away and
the scars will never heal they will only grow bigger
and the image of the circular patterns will haunt the minds of the children
forever. in their minds they will connect the dots and create
a beautiful picture from something so ugly and marred and the
only image they will ever have of him is one which they have idealised and
romanticised and justified. because they don’t want to admit that he
could have possibly been wronged because there is always
a justification because they are always right and people like him are never
something is wrong but nobody wants to say
anything because they don’t want to be the one whom everyone turns
against and that would be a disaster if they end up like that man who is
lying faceless, face up in a grave. of course they wouldn’t want him face down because
then everyone would see the bare canvas of his tautly stretched back and they would realise
that the story given couldn’t make sense and they would finally put two and
two together and make
melanin leaks from his wounds.
So, quite a contrast to my usual posts. Pretty intense, but I’m feeling a bit deep right now. I hope you liked them, and yes totally comment, please, comments are very much appreciated! Because my fictional pieces are notably longer, maybe I’ll just post extracts of them now and again. But let me know what you guys think…
Thank you for reading them though!