Burning

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I wonder if you can feel the way I’ve given up on you?
You were like my second skin: surely you felt me shed you?
Surely you sense the way I prickle when you’re near:
You are a flame that will blister, crack and sear.

There was a time when you were my drug.
Not like caffeine and easy to substitute; not that kind of drug,
But the kind that makes you curl up in need,
Veins flow with fire, incoherent rage an unstoppable bleed.

You have charred me for the last time.
Go and dowse someone else’s bonfire in petrol.
Being near you is like choking on lyme.

 

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Poem of the week: Protest, Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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To sin by silence, when we should protest,
Makes cowards out of men. The human race
Has climbed on protest. Had no voice been raised
Against injustice, ignorance, and lust,
The inquisition yet would serve the law,
And guillotines decide our least disputes.
The few who dare, must speak and speak again
To right the wrongs of many. Speech, thank God,
No vested power in this great day and land
Can gag or throttle. Press and voice may cry
Loud disapproval of existing ills;
May criticise oppression and condemn
The lawlessness of wealth-protecting laws
That let the children and childbearers toil
To purchase ease for idle millionaires.

Therefore I do protest against the boast
Of independence in this mighty land.
Call no chain strong, which holds one rusted link.
Call no land free, that holds one fettered slave.
Until the manacled slim wrists of babes
Are loosed to toss in childish sport and glee,
Until the mother bears no burden, save
The precious one beneath her heart, until
God’s soil is rescued from the clutch of greed
And given back to labor, let no man
Call this the land of freedom.

Protest

 

Brownies

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A shoreline covered with a skin of rock resembling the surface of brownies.
If I trip and fall, will my pale skin be mistaken for custard, or cream, and served up as a delicacy?
If I slip and stumble, landing in rockpools up to my knees,
Will I be mistaken for bramble jelly or strawberry jam, and served up on scones for afternoon tea?

Story Time! – Goaded

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Hello 😊

As well as this blog for all things poetry, I also have a blog where I post all the stories I’ve written. If you’d like to take a look, head over to Telling Tales.

I’ll be posting a link a week to a story if you’re interested – I’ll warn in advance if it’s nsfw but please check the tags on the story before you read!

This week: Goaded

 

 

Blemish

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I want to lose myself in you.
Pretend that the world is a kinder place.
Feel your skin beneath my fingers and your breath upon my face.
Close my eyes momentarily, and make believe
That I know your every curve and crease,
Every blemish of imperfection.
Every single doubt would cease.
To submit to your touch
Would be more than enough
To soothe, and ease this hurt from my mind.
No other could I ever find
Quite like you.

Blemish