Changing Seasons

Changing Seasons

In a city where every day is a miserable
December evening she makes me feel like July.
She does to me what summer does to trees
dresses my branches in life and colour, and
holds my proud roots firmly into the ground.

She’s the hot chocolate to my crisp autumn
morning, our fingers entwined inside my pocket
feel like handwarmers and when I drink from
her lips I feel warm and fuzzy like a million
butterflies decided to throw a party inside of me.

She reminds me of spring because when she
laughs I hear birds harmonising to my favourite
song, because her morning hair smells just like
sunshine, because her eyes make me want to skinny-
dip in the ocean, and slow dance under the moon.

I’ve never been winter’s biggest fan, but now I
queue seventeen hours out in the cold because
she wants front row seats for the first snow of
the year and likes to take long walks in the rain.
Come thunder or lightening bolts, she is my shelter.

The Procrastination Games

This weekend, you completed the highest level on your favourite augmented reality game, The Procrastination Games. Starting at the crack of dawn on Saturday morning, you stumbled down, the steep staircase that descends straight into the kitchen, one eye open, the other trying desperately to go back to bed.

You checked the level of water in the kettle and flicked on the switch. You stood, impatiently waiting, for the sound of a thousand tiny bubbles simultaneously reach their boiling point, day dreaming about the warmth of that first wonderful sip of tea.

Steaming mug in hand, you unlocked the back door, opening it just so, that enough cut-your-throat-cold-air got through to cut through the smoke from your hand rolled cigarette. Sitting on the bottom step of the mountainous staircase, blowing out clouds of smoke in between sips of tea, you planned out your day.

You had good intentions. You longed for the fulfilling feeling of achieving productivity, on a day specifically assigned to be productive, but first, you thought, I must visit my good F.R.I.E.N.D.S, Monica, Rachael, Phoebe, Chandler, Joey and Ross. One hour, maybe two tops and then you would to get to that list of things that you should have been doing, a week or three ago.

One hour merged into two hours, episodes turned into a whole season, Ross and Rachael got together and broke up and got back together again and broke up again, and day turned into night. You didn’t sleep well that night with the disappointment in yourself crawling under your skin, just below the surface.

Sunday morning, when you were propositioned a Christmas shopping day out, as much as you hate shopping, especially during the holidays, you reluctantly agreed. You love Christmas, you like getting ready for Christmas and wrapping presents and all that comes with it, but your idea of hell, looks a lot like aimlessly wondering in and out of shops, for hours on end, compulsorily sharing your personal space with hundreds of people and their pet germs.

However, knowing that Christmas is fast approaching and that you are rapidly running out of time, you went. It was an unsuccessful first attempt as any time that you tried to put yourself through the emotional torture that shopping is to you, and something caught your eye, all you could think was, do you know who would like this for Christmas? Me.

Three new nail varnishes and a couple of stocking fillers for your bother later, you gave up. Fuck it, you still have plenty of time, and speaking of time, it started to feel a lot like time for Chinese food and F.R.I.E.N.D.S re runs and hopes for a more productive week.

Loving You Is

Loving you is

Loving you is sweaty palms
and sudden stutters,
it’s endless hours
and infinite laughter,
it’s intoxicating kisses
and morning regrets.
Loving you is uncertain
like British weather,
and exciting like
Christmas morning.
Loving you is unhealthy
like Ross and Racheal,
but addictive like nicotine,
its wanting what you can’t have
until you final have it.
Loving you is a car crash.

Writing Prompt: Personify a Feeling or Emotion

Side note: This week in poetry class we were given this writing prompt: Pick a feeling or emotion that you know well and imagine it was a real life person. Which gender would it take? What would it say and do, how would it behave? Write for 10 minutes. For me, it just had to be my old friend anxiety, and I imagined her as a super bitch. Queen Karen, if you will.

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If anxiety was a person

She would kick me out of bed every morning and run the hot
water tap in the empty kitchen sink while I take my shower.

She would stand behind me in the mirror, her manicured
grim reaper like fingers pointing out every flaw that I own.

She would scoff loudly when I do bother to eat breakfast
and tells me that it’s too late, my ass look fats in any jeans.

She would stop me from seeing my family and friends,
and would tell me that the bruises are all my fault.

That Poetry High

That Poetry High

Yesterday I smoked poetry, I
rolled metaphors into a blunt
and got high on the first stanza.

Then I got the munchies
so I ate poetry, and wrote
a verse with its crumbs.

I drank every drop of poetry
until the only thing left in
the bottle was a cheap cliche.

Like a long walk on the beach
under a blood orange sunset and
skinny dipping in open poetry.

We fucked for hours, like two
similies in love and I snuck
out when she fell asleep.

I need my own bed to recover
from this, from the spinning
kaleidoscopes of poetry.