Poetry is my therapy

The wall is white - our frozen exhausted breath. We wrap in animal fur.The endless bitterness Digs deep into our bones Glassy sheets of bright ice.  Our mood is flat, but with a purpose - On to the South Pole.  Everything we drag is the weight of our supplies  Ten fold to the snowdrift.  Blue lips and crystallised eyelashes.  Dagger-sharp piercing of blinding eye pain.  We walk, for no place to hide or seek We pale the inevitable at Death’s Door; A pillow of rest, The howl screams as we sleep.  New birth shadows our day We draw a judgement on a line - Every step is our last.  Hold tight! We forge a fearless tunnel; Steel to The Lord. A bitter taste of madness.  Communication is useless.  Race to the horizon.  The mosaic chapter of the adventures of 1911.  An unforgivable landscape Of the endless sea base.  Dream; first ticket of the four Only the courageous seek.  Beautiful pixies light the sky. Pencil to the notebook  A never-ending sto

A stream of consciousness  Within a bus divided by colour  An ethical mosiac of segregation The chains on the day of birth  a dirty shelter,hands beg for rice and water  We point to the window of hatred for their race  The Marshall fires the 100m sprint  One majority will win the track at the olympics  The rule of a horror film is dark in judgement  The hip hop rap of the dreadlocks  The dogs are fierce Guns and sirens  Doors are locked for the black are hunted  Red splattered blood drawn on the floor  A bitter injustice  They loot and riot in anger Protest as they march  Dear end to the photographs of the human punishment for the right of freedom

Sunday is a day I should dress formally.  The rest of the week is casual.  This white collar round my neck, With the book of forgiveness.  Confused farmers work on allotments. The caravan of the middle-class  are shopping.  With the cut of a razor, The forgotten dead flowers on a gravestone. We all eat pancakes on Shrove Tuesday. The sound of gunfire in Downtown New York; The clubs are buzzing -  The disco floor of sexy feet and knickers.  The broken glass, chips and kebabs At the taxi rank.  All is forgotten as we sit at the cocktail bar At the swimming pool.  Sweet lovers in a park on a Sunday afternoon.  The bell rings for Mass.  Where will you be when the Vicar says his sermon?

Oh set me free from this internal insanity! SOS - rescue me from this lighthouse of pornography! As the school lockers slam, Chitter-chatter in the girls’ toilets, The corridors of pitter-patter.  A bag of books weighs me down; I chew my gum.  A playground of chavs - All the same, so perfect; But I’m Morticia -I never eat much; I’m lost, nervous and silent.  Where’s my Prince to rescue me? He was so cute and charming.  As I look at my pregnancy test In the bathroom.  What will I tell my Mum? A single Mum.  I’m a young girl with a 3-in-1 buggy; Society of the UK. The Poundland Wonderbra With Primark, Matalan and Tesco accessories - I shop in Aldi. All with your iPhones;  The Copycat Generation.

The day the bubble burst A breeze awoke the trees like magic.  Clouds danced - a summer madness. All but a whisper, midnight in a bathroom Lights flicker. A glass crashes to the floor. Footsteps of a stranger... I shout, “Is anyone there?” As if there would be an answer.  I creep down the stairs, naked.  And flick the light on  A man in a balaclava with a 12-inch blade in his hand.  I stare into his eyes as he pushes me to the floor.  Rape, rape, rape.  No words said; just get it over with.  It feels like forever.  He leaves; I curl up into a ball and cry. I want my mother.  I pick up the phone and call the police.  I feel dirty, as I scrub and wash  To get rid of the memory.  My life will never be the same again.  Forever scared of men, How will I sleep at night? The sentence is mine For being a woman.