I wish that I could draw
because I could show you my work and
you wouldn’t question what it meant.
A charcoal figurine with lavender eyes
would be admired for its form, its contrast.
Little feet and large swollen hands and
you wouldn’t even question my perspective.
It is art- things are meant to be distorted
and wrong and upturned.
You wouldn’t say; “Why are you sad?” or
“Where have these thoughts come from?”
because you’d know what is produced comes from
pent up creativity that has always been there,
or maybe just the lead of a pencil
and a moving hand.
Somewhere in the Lake District,
mountains comb cumulus clouds
into a frizzy mass.
Pigtail-like wisps use branches as tongs, releasing in gentle curls.
I vomit in the tiny,
too-hot toilet cubicle;
diagnose myself with synesthesia or
some anxiety disorder.
There is relief
in the trolley passing through
the attendant calling me ‘dear’ as he hands me a copy of ‘Cosmopolitan’.
I read an article about
nightclubs in Ibiza,
glance at glossy photographs
of silhouettes dancing
on sand left sodden
by backward waves.
Hi, I’m Sara 🙂
I write poems. I write rubbish folk songs whilst strumming my guitar. I do a bit of yoga. I would like to be healthy but I actually quite enjoy junk food. I am Irish but England has adopted me.
That’s enough about me. A poem would make a better introduction…
When beauty was currency
We weren’t friends because
she swore and sometimes
smoked on the school bus.
And my mother was aware of her,
had seen her by the local park,
sussed her out from the length
of her skirt.
“Her mother was wild too”,
“Went with half the boys in the village”.
“She must’ve been pretty”,
twirled my mousey hair around
a bony finger,
pinched a little fat on my thigh.
read the Brontes in my bedroom,
collected obscure CDs,
followed a career path,
never bought a mirror for