Newborn

Newborn, skull like chalk, chipped away;  
Chiselled by an unrelenting, iron fist. 
 
Retreat back inside your mother, child. 
She will keep you safe. 
 
She will take her warm hands and mould you like clay. 
She will tell you that you can be soft. 
 
Over the sound of her lullabies, child,  
They will drill out the multiples of three. 
 
Hack away at your brain,  
Leaving nothing but circuits. 
 
Grade your ability to memorise and retain,  
Until you’re left running on autopilot. 
 
Down the factory line, 
Stripped, cloned, lobotomised. 
 
They will carve you out of stone, with your own barcode, 
Ready to be bought and sold, 
Bought and sold, 
Bought and sold. 

Desensitisation

As a generation, we’ve become desensitised to everything.

Our identity is changing as a result.
I believe that everyone, at one point, has felt ‘inhuman’,
For me I struggled with feeling anything for others, I was numb and apathetic to the world and needed antidepressants in order to feel ‘normal’ again.
For a while I forgot that people around me were not just characters in my story, that they were human, that they had feelings and lives and families to go home to.
I was still capable of showing care, but somehow it didn’t feel genuine.
I even forgot that I was human, I felt like a machine working on auto-pilot.
Somehow I believe the education system was partly responsible for this, making us all feel like we were robots on a factory line.
That’s why I think our generation goes to such extremes, dousing ourselves in drink and drugs, just to feel something. To feel anything. To feel anything is better than to feel nothing at all.

Past Life

There’s a part of my soul that claws and gnaws at me,

Something trapped inside telling me I need to break free.

It aches for a time I have never known,

I feel like I am a stranger in my own bones.

I feel heavy, empty,

Searching for a missing space inside of me.

My restless soul tells me that I don’t belong, 

and my heart shreds with sadness and nostalgia so strong.

I am stuck in a life that is not my own,

I don’t feel like I can call this world my home.

Pillow Talk.

I used to have this fear that I would hear you utter someone elses name in your sleep.
The possibility that you might love another; the graveyards of old girlfriends haunting your dreams.

You always wake me in the night with your ramblings.

Last night I awoke to you stroking my cheek. You said “I love you, Sam,”
I said “I love you too, baby,”
Then you rolled over and went back to sleep.

That’s how I know it’s real.

An automatic phrase at the tip of your tongue,
Nothing to hide or conceal.
No thought behind it, no rehearsed words,
Something that escapes you even in sleep.

You may be asleep, but your love is always awake.
I’ve come to realise that love is a state of being,
Your words reminded me.

They are the best words to wake up to,
Even if you have no recollection of it,
I will dream of those words for the rest of my life.

Women of The Night.

If I am sexualised by being,
I may as well charge money for it.
Earn every pretty penny,
Undressing for a man I’ve just met.

We play the part,
Pretend we adore you,
When you’re drunk and you’re lonely,
At four in the morning.

We are submissive,
You can control us,
You own us, you own us…

You think that you own us.

You think you’ve enslaved us.
A zoo for your entertainment,
To grope and to gawk at,
A prisoner in your imagination.

But women are clever and we twist things, you see.
Earn a living from the sexualisation of society.

You call us sluts and you call us whores,
When we’re crawling towards you down on all fours.

You try to degrade us.
Act like you’re blameless,
When you throw your money,
We’ll laugh in your faces.

We’ll count it all out,
You only have yourselves to thank.
And then we’ll be laughing,
All the way to the bank.

Ma chérie

via Daily Prompt: Loop

1968


A knot in my stomach formed, reminded me of the cherry stalks she would tie in knots with her tongue.
I’d found myself in her room, so eerie and quiet without her in it. There were polaroids all over the walls, some of them curling with age. Polaroids of Paris, picnics and cherry blossoms in summertime.  That’s how I’ll remember her.

I could still see her laughing so vividly, giggling between lines of poorly spoken French. Her nose used to wrinkle when she laughed.
I remember her, blushing when I called her “ma chérie.”

But most of all, I remember the sound of her music box. A pretty little tune that I felt like I’d heard before, long ago in a life I’d already lived.
When I lifted the lid, it had already been wound. The familiar tune replayed over and over on a loop, like a never ending thread. Pirouetting was the delicate ballerina inside.

When I concentrated I could make the dancer change direction with my mind. Clockwise, anti-clockwise, clockwise, anti-clockwise. If only I could manipulate time. If only I could make the clocks spin backwards, just so I could see her once more.

The tune seemed to last an eternity, until the room fell silent once again.
I could feel her ghost haunting me.
Ma cherie, ma cherie, ma cherie.