Images pt.2

A/N: I wrote a poem a while ago about images I had of me. I didn’t know what they meant. I wanted to write a new poem about images. I still don’t know what they mean.

Me, in the face of the
little girl on the train who sits in the middle,
cuts out the heads of footballers while the
whole world around mumbles down on her.

My reflection in the lights of the city,
the view of the street from above;
bad wine tastes perfect enough
but burns me whole.

Me, making pesto pasta in a beautiful kitchen,
for a beautiful friend, after a beautiful day,
which makes me wonder
if the concept of stress is fake news.

Me, walking down a foreign city,
falling in love with peace and self-care,
giving my heart away
to places and moments.

I am torn between
what is and what might be.


Sunday is my best friend
and loneliness doesn’t visit us anymore.
The sun barely shines on my body,
even though I wait for it
perched on the window sill.
But I don’t mind because I know
he is my friend and I am but a cliche.

My Sunday and I love each other.
I feel comfortable within her arms
and we look up at the sun who
is now flirting with us and
together we dream of summers,
smiles, flowers, and wild nights
on the beach where time waits
for us to be really really done.

My Sunday combs my hair and whispers
about revolutions, which calms my soul,
so she laughs and together we talk about
Monday and how we have to try and
love him better because he is a friend anyways.
The sun is going away, he’s not invited to dinner,
but he’ll be back for breakfast.

is nostalgia my friend

Memories throw me back

and I am in a train;
it’s the middle of summer and it’s hot,
it’s smelly but my friends are the coolest;

and I am on the beach;
the sand burns my feet but you are next to me
and we go for a swim and it’s a perfect day;

and I am looking at countless sunsets with you;
I paint the tiniest painting of two silhouettes in front of a sunset
and it’s shit but it’s us;

and I am in your car;
you let me sing because it makes me happy and I laugh
and you love me and I love you more than you’ll know
(more than anyone would know);

and I am in your room;
it’s red and blue and purple and green
and love is what we make with our bare hands and mouths;

and I am with my friends;
they pick me up when I collapse like a building in their arms;

and I am with my friends;
we used to figure it out by ourselves
and we still are.

It’s 6 am on a weekend. Why would you be awake? Did all your anxieties keep you from sleeping all night long? Not letting you snooze for more than a minute? Get out of bed then, you. Stop feeling bad about yourself.

Get up. Get your scarf out of the back of your wardrobe and wrap your delicate neck with it. Put on your warmest coat and boots and go out. I know how tempting it is to get out your phone and scroll through your social media for hours. But don’t do it. Get up.

Go for a walk. It’s February so the sun’s not out yet in the early hours of the morning. Walk through the dark and see the sky change colour. Go to the lake, sit on a bench and remember to breathe. How great is the fact that you’re here? Life’s pretty good, isn’t it?

The grass is green, the weather is cold and you don’t need any more adjectives. Sometimes they’re a waste of time.

Let your mind wander off. But don’t feel pressured to do it.
It’s fine if you think about the now. You are an observer and that’s fine. Sometimes even better. Don’t think about where you wish you were, because you and I both know that you love it here. I know sunny beaches, icy drinks and funky music is what you’d like to be doing, but admit it – you wouldn’t like that all day every day, would you? Don’t dream of spring. Winter is just as pretty. You don’t even like spring. So why do you keep looking towards the future and not looking at the now? Look how much is happening!

There’s nothing better than being warm. And there is nothing better to know that you are the one responsible for your warmth. Does that make sense? You should know. You love your coats, you love your jumpers and your tea.

There’s nothing better than taking care of yourself, is what I mean. The fact that you’ve cared enough to put on your gloves, a hat, your warmest jumper, a coat, some fuzzy socks and make yourself a cup of tea just makes me so happy.

Now, close your eyes and imagine the world has stopped moving. You never feel it anyways, do you? You never feel it spinning but once you’ve sat down and there is no one around you do. But it’s okay, time is not real. But you know that already, don’t you? Are you real? You must be? But how can you be sure? The only thing moving is the sun that’s showing behind the cloud. That’s all you need. And your cup of tea.

Don’t be afraid of clichés. Life is made out of clichés. It should be made of clichés. If everyone avoided them there’d be no clichés. And sometimes they’re just too good.

Think about that first kiss. Think about the second kiss. Do you remember your first kiss? Is it a blur now? Think about the first “I love you” and how you trembled and said it out loud with your eyes closed. Not because you didn’t mean it but because it was bigger than you.

Think about your naked body and how vulnerable it was the very first time someone else saw it. Did you mind?

Was your first time special and does that even matter?

Don’t think of boys if you don’t want. Think of your mother and the way she always knows what you need and think of her warmth. Think of your father and your conversations when he’s driving you somewhere and you kind of don’t want to get there. Think of your sister and how she loves you so purely, with no prejudice and no selfishness. Think of how you love her back and you should call her sometime and tell her that.

Is everything alright now or is thinking about things even more stressful?

You can’t make someone love you. Sometimes you can’t even make yourself love you. But no matter how you feel – take care of yourself. That’s what most important. Always. And being warm.

The three dead sparrows

I wanted to write a poem
about the three dead sparrows.
I would’ve compared them to
a sad face;
a sad trumpet;
a broken heart;
a lonely day.
But their death is more
than what you do to me;
and it’s more than a tool for me
to create a poem,
to tell a story,
or to show an image.
The three dead sparrows
will be left unremembered
and unrevenged.
My poem doesn’t do justice
to the way they stopped breathing,
losing their selves to the
Kingdom of Sleep
to the way they bled out by the canal,
and the world was still;
to the way their eyes closed
accepting their faith.
Dear sparrows,
I’m sorry.

I have some friends
that live inside of me.
They wreck me and
maybe they aren’t
real(ly) friends.

When they know
there’s no one there
they make me wail out
in pain.

They clog my throat
as if it were a pipe,
and they jump up and down my heart
as if it were
a trampoline
(and sometimes they pinch it
really hard).

Sometimes they run around
in my brain and scream
in laughter
or in horror.

I don’t know if they are my friends
at all.


A/N: I had different images of myself in my head and wanted to write them down. I don’t know what they all mean, I guess I’m sort of exploring loneliness as an aspect in poems, but I don’t know if this poem makes sense. I wanted to share it so here you go

Me, walking down a corridor,
almost dragging myself,
in an oversized pyjamas
and a bag of chopped cheddar in my hand.

Me, driving in circles around you
in an empty car park.
I’m laughing and the wind
is making me want to cry.

Me, walking down a different corridor,
almost skipping,
holding a bag of clementines,
which taste like you.

Me, walking down the empty street
at noon,
my massive scarf is suffocating me
but I love the feeling.

Me, walking down the road,
and each car is making me jump,
and each passing light is saying
“You’re not alone in here.”

I am torn between
fear and comfort.