Posted in Dead, Emotions, Exam stress, help

Help. 

I don’t know how to start this,I suppose I’ll start by saying I feel numb. I thought after coming back from Berlin I’d be fine and these thoughts wouldn’t come back. I came back from Berlin feeling ok about things ,particularly my exams I thought, ok it isn’t the end of the world if I don’t get the grades I want or I don’t get into a Russel group . I really don’t know what the matter is on the outside I am always known as the happy,jolly, kind person but inside I feel like I’m rotting and I’ve lost my spark I once had. 

I don’t know whether if it’s the exams or my mindset as a whole is going downhill. I’ve never said a thing to anyone about it because I don’t want to be judged and I suppose that’s why I’m writing on here , to clear my head and gain some clarity.

I’m in that awful panicky stage I have a got a good nights sleep since the beginning of March and my teacher had a talk with me saying I was the hardest working student he’d ever known and if I didn’t do so well he’d help me with university as it wouldn’t be out of not trying. 

Now I’m in the state of over sleeping ,now I don’t know whether it’s because of my time patters being messed about but I’m having 8-11hrs sleep on a daily basis. I’ve gotten myself into a vicious cycle where if I don’t revise it bugs me and I constantly have to do more. 

I’ve had nosebleeds in three days solid , woken up dizzy and had a knot in my stomach and this morning I’ve felt really awful, I can’t really explain the feeling but it’s been a mental thing and I don’t really know what’s going on.

I mean I’ve been out and now I feel alright but slightly guilty , but if anyone can help please do .

Posted in Atonement, blogging, Britishness, Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Fall, Heartbreak, Literature, Remembrance, Soldier, War, Writing

March To The Cenotaph

Today I attended a remembrance service, my grandad fought in the second world war and died in August this year. My Grandad wrote poetry inspired by his experience during the war , here is  one of them.

Who are these men? These quiet men ,       Who march with their heads held high,             With the band a-playing and Standards flying,                                                                           They march so proudly by.

They march to pay their quiet respect,            To the comrades they saw die,                             Midst shot and shell at the gates of Hell,           With their utmost they did try,  To save the world for anarchy their sole and single aim     But so many stayed in foreign lands, forever to remain.

These are the men who fought in tanks ,           And are of many ranks,                                           For an Eighty-eight could see no stripe or crown,                                                                           As it brought death and horror down.

So these quite man, who march today,              And think of days gone by,                                    Will think of friends long passed away ,            And say a sad Good-bye.

Don Faulkner

48th R.I.R

Posted in Advice, Comedy, Creative Writing, Dead, Drunk, Emotions, English Literature, Free Verse, Growing up, Humor, Humour, Hungover, illness, Love, Memories, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Sarcasm, Spoken word, Stories, Student, Theatre, Writing

 Hungover on poetry

Hungover on poetry,

It’s wrapped around my eyes.

I’ve drank it buckets.

Now I see the Light.

Head pounding,

Eyes hurting,

Throat sore with speech,

My eyebags are dark.

Like images of words,

that I now see.

Was the poetry spiked?

 Did I lap up too many,

too quickly?

Yes.

Over too soon.

Did I trip over?

The words.

Did they  make a fool out of me?

Yes..

But I can’t remember a thing.

Words , oh words . Oh God please stop!

There’s  vomit  on the doorstep,

My shoes ,

My hair,

The clean bed sheets,

And the toilet seat.

I shouldn’t have mixed mixed  Carol Anne Duffy, with my own special brew.

Or let others give me shots of

Poems.

I should have closed my mouth

To stop the migraine.

The litre of water last night wasn’t enough.

To cure the poetry hang over.

Breakfast might make it better.

Still more words .

On the box.

Sickness is growing and I can’t stop the din.

The words are louder, 

Caving in.

Dead on my bed, 

I can’t find the cure.

Drink some more poetry.

That might stop the sore.

Posted in Autumn, Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Fall, Humour, Love, Monologue, Seasons, Self image, Sex, Stories, Weather, Writing

The Mistress of Autumn

The Mistress of Autumn,

You know she’s there.

Squirrel wrapped coat.

Long Raven hair.

“Men ,Oh men .”

She knows where you are.

Her fierce berry kiss..

Leaves a lasting scar.

 Poisonous breath, 

whispers lies in your ear.

Men! Be warned!

Do Not come near!

She will steal your soul and snap it in two.

The mistress of Autumn will tarnish you.

“Virgin.”, she says as she pulls you in.

“Daddy doesn’t allow this.”, she says with a grin.

You roll around in a bed of leaves. 

She sucks you dry.

“Oh Carry on please.”

She tempts, she teases, her arms like snakes . 

Once fucked, your body limp,

 like a rake.

“Have we quite finished?” She asks ,voice of sin.

“No, no carry on.” you say again 

Despite your sore foreskin.

The Mistress of Autumn has you under her spell.

 The Mistress of Autumn won’t treat you well.

The Mistress of Autumn entangles your arms.

“Oh God, Oh no”

You won’t leave unharmed.

Tossing and turning;

 You can’t leave.

The Mistress of Autumn knows she’s a tease.

“Virgin, a lie.” she remarks with glee.

“I thought as much.”  you reply confidently.
Whipped, stripped lying in chains.

The Mistress of Autumn knows you’re to blame.

She digs her nails into your cheek.

“I defeated you, man..I made you weak.”

She saunters off, with a gleeful smile.

” I make you vulnerable, you make me wild.”

~SS

Posted in Autumn, blogging, Creative Writing, Dead, Fall, Poetry, Seasons, Weather, Writing

Dear Autumn

Light up my life,

Teach me to breathe.

Night is a blanket.

I need you to see.

Unmask the Darkness.

Cover the cold,

 Through rays of sunshine;

My eyes to behold.

Scatter the leaves, 

Into distant lands,

Majestic colours  into childrens hands.

Through  decay, keep things bright.

The night is drawing,

Out goes light.

Autumn you’re failing..

Hugging the cold.

 Daylight more precious than gold.

Autumn be Summer.

The woman of madness.

of loose morals.

of mischief.

Blooming her flowery buds.

Autumn ,

Be bright,

Be vibrant,

Be there.

Protecting your children with tender care.

Instead you rot ,

Turn brighteness to decay.

You back stabbing beast.

No one wants you to stay.

 Winter , the Ice Queen will get in your way 

The power of icicles jabbing your heart.

The frosty breath killing your soul.

Leaving a trail of death as she walks through the land.

Autumn she’ll kill you if you don’t flee.

Go..Go away now!

Go be free.

~SS

Posted in Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, English Literature, Love, Love letters, Marriage, Monologue, Poetry, Regret, Relationship, Stories, Writing

Valentine

I’m not giving you a heart or a beautifully penned poem.

Wrapped in a brown parcel;

  an onion.

Like the moon shedding light onto your darkened world.

Multi layered, complex , hard to unravel the mysteries of a woman.

 You peel trying to undress her;

Feeling the curves of her smooth bottom, breasts, hips. Undressing love, until there is nothing but a twig.

Shatter her in half.

You will feel the sting burn your eyes. Tears. Trembling reflection.

The fiery kiss will leave you with an urge for more. An addiction;

 Leaving her breath , the taste of her love on your mouth for days.

Faithful, like we are.

As long as we both are.

Shrink  it to a wedding ring, if you want.

Leaving the perfumed scent on your fingers for eternity.

Everlasting.

Murderous.

Clinging to you.

 Your life.

Your knife.

~SS

Posted in Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, Poetry, Weather, Writing

Rain

An attention seeker. 

Tapping on my roof with little hammers.
Tapp, tapp, tapping. Louder , louder , louder.

Bouncing downwards dripping on my forehead;cleansing my face in autumnal tears as the clouds cry ;  causing  makeup to peel from my face.

You shower me like a baby. Icy droplets shocking my skin like an angry lightning bolt.

Oh heavens how you weep;   grieving for your dead child. Instead washing squirrels tenderly, giggling as you watch them flitter from branch to branch. Taking away your pain.

Giving the rosehips a new coat of polish preparing them for human reflection. Oh rain you cause the mud to grow trapping wellington boots, dragging them into a murky grave.

And yet you still keep bouncing.

~SS

Posted in blogging, Creative Writing, Dead, Emotions, Poetry, Stories, Stress, Student, Writing

The Dance of the Dead

I saw them plastered into the wall those heads, those mouths. White eyes reflecting the rays of the sun looking at us as we entered the school gates. Sticks ,stones , old battered text books thrown at their unblinking faces. Their mouths still open as if the plaster had silenced their repeated mumbles.

They were staring at us as if they were trying to give us some message about God, or the meaning of life , or something, something which I couldn’t place my finger on.

Then the darkness came, the sun dipping like a wave , shattering everything. Their eyes blinked, a spark enlightened. The heads along with morphed bodies filled into the playground like a line of soldiers marching.

Haunting music played ,the bodied danced intertwining legs, arms, bodies tongues; In a repeated seductive whisper.

The children watched frozen like ice. Their heads tearing away from bodies, their blood pooling into a river. Eyes popping out of sockets.

The music stopped playing ,the noise ended. The heads, the bodies floated only to be muffled by concrete and dust.Voices silenced, pupils vanished.

Leaving me . Alone.

~SS