I should start off this post by saying sorry for not posting . In reality I’m not sorry , sometimes things become too much. So much you loose yourself and have to build yourself back up ,which I am currently in the process of doing . I haven’t been in a good way or been myself in these last couple of months. I’ve been struggling and I know writing is supposed to help me but with revision and exams I just haven’t felt up to it or anything in that matter ,hence why I’ve took a long break . If you saw my last blog post ,It was the trigger that made me understand that things weren’t right. It was all down to the pressure brought km by exam stress but now I’ve finished my A levels and thrown 2 years of notes into the waste paper bin. Which has freed the Albatros or at least the weight of expectation from around my neck.
I’m on the mend gluing myself back together , taking a well earned rest and starting to re-discover things I enjoy doing . I just thought I’d write this short blog post just to let you know I’m back and am going to start blogging again. I now have a lot of free time and am going to put my time back into writing
as well as self care.I know just have to take a breath and know what I’ve done in my exams is all I could have done,I cannot change the outcome and understand that things happen for a reason .
So thank you all for being patient with me and I’ll see you in my next blog .
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 .
I’ve learnt through writing my poetry my inner insecurities pop up several times, which I may add I’ve been very open about. Or the poems follow the same themes of love or boys or breast and then there’s the random nature poem thrown in here and there.
- I’ve noticed I’m very insecure about my breasts due to their size ; after an appiphany I’ve finally realised that the size of then doesn’t matter. I feel as if society has brain-washed me into thinking that anything under a D cup is un-feminine. We live in a patriarchal , image conscious society where we are constantly bombarded with images of tall, skinny ,big breasted women pasted in magazines, billboards, advertisements and on social media. Which is a constant video game of fakery each person creating an avatar or idealised image of themselves where a like is considered social currency and the more likes you get the more popular you are considered.
- In this idealised world we are taught to tear eachother down because our own insecurities are nagging, even the most beautiful women will have their own insecutities. When we don’t bitch we are somehow betraying the stereotypical view of women but we all should stand together not break eachother down.
- I’m sure you’ll have seen the image where it gives a list of cup sizes and it says something like: A: Almost boobs , B:Barley Boob’s , C: Can’t Complain, D: Dang , DD: Double Dang, F:Fake , G:Get a reduction, H: Help me I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. I think I found this on something called man Bible I’m not too sure , but let me ask you this. Are you really a man ((Or woman so I don’t get the menninsits onto me )) if you decide to judge women on the size of their breasts do you really deserve that title?
- Who the Fuck do you actually think you are telling me what size I should have ? Have I ever asked you to grow an extra inch on your penis? (( I know men also come under societal pressure to have a huuge 9incher but I honesty don’t think men come under as much scrutiny as women ,but what would I know. I’m obviously on my period according to you because you find it intimidating that I am expressing an opinion))
- I’ve had a few names thrown at me such as “Titless.”, “Fried egg boobs.” which added to pressure has helped with gnawing insecurity. Today I’m going to throw that away and say “Fuck You!” because I have been given this body and there is nothing I can do to change it ((Well apart from a push up bra and a boob job which I’ll never get because I don’t want plastic in my body but if you yourself want one Go for it , whatever makes you comfortable)) my genes have given me 32A’S and I will embrace them . For starters they don’t make my back ache or stop me wearing clothes.
- I think all women no matter what shape or size they are want to change something, for starters I’m 5ft 2 and want to be taller, my friend is 6ft 3 and wants to be my height. Curvy girls want to be skinny and vice versa. We all want to have the perfect body , but what is perfect? Everyone’s body is different, special and unique, nobody can take that uniqueness away which is what makes you perfect because no one will have the same body that you have.
- I’ve also noticed that I tend to point out ..drumroll..Wait for it …Queue the music..I’m a Virgin obviously begging for the Big D to finally give me the oxygen I’ve been begging for my while life..haha..No.
- Virginity is a race but a race where there are no prizes there is stigma attached for becoming first and last. I’m nearly eighteen and when confessed “I’m a virgin.” The reply usually is “Wait ..What ..You..I thought you’d have lost it by now.” or my personal favourite “Oh you’re waiting ..That’s so cute , bless.”
- The fact of the matter is I’m not intentionally trying to wait or intentionally trying to lose it either. When me and my ex used to go out I’d say “I want to wait at least a year before we have sex.” we never really got to that point ((obviously)), this made me think if I put a timescale on it does that mean I wasn’t comfortable in the relationship or that I wasn’t ready to lose it ? In the eye’s some beholders that would be enough to make me a “Prude.” ((a person who is or claims to be easily shocked by matters relating to sex or nudity.)) the fact of the matter is I would rather get to know the person.Why has society taught women that virginity is so sacred?
- This I can’t answer. I’m going to put my hands up and say sex used to embarrass me. I can only speak on behalf of myself but I can vividly remember being eleven and being forced by my school to watch a DVD where we we’re taught about the sperm race,then we had to watch two cartoon people having sex. When we we’re twelve it moved to putting condoms on dildos and lube sampling…Nice. I particularly remember watching Schindler’s list in year nine, blushing mercilessly at the sex scene which I got teased for.
- Like I’ve said before virginity is a race with no winners, the only winner is judgement. If a woman has had sex with a lot of men or is percieved to have a lot of sex she is labelled a ‘Slut’ (( 1. A patriarchal social construct which hold women to stricter standards than men are held to. 2. A woman with the sexist morals of a man)). How can anyone tell how much sex a woman has had ? It seems in today’s society relationships, the ones that go wrong leave a stain on a woman and tarnish her reputation. Relationships, sex or labels don’t define a person their actions and words do. Arguably the term slut isn’t a type of girl but an attitude held by society to express panic at the idea of women who dare to enjoy sex , how much and who with.
- Now the thing with Sex is I learnt a lot about the penis. For example the penis gets erect when blood rushed into the penile tissue, it then stiffens and points outwards and upwards when erect.Then there was the wonderful diagram which I didn’t really care to read into because hello, I don’t have the penis. We never learnt about the Vagina, which isn’t actually called the Vagina but the clitoris which on average is 3.5-5 inches long and 2.5 inches wide. Equivalent to the width of a tomato sauce bottle , or a jam jar and the length of a pen or a spoon.It contains 8,000 nerve endings and you don’t wee through it either .
- Then there’s the slang for vagina which include: Love Cave, Minge, beaver, box and cunt. I found in one of my English lessons that the word Vagina comes from the Latin for Sword Sheath meaning that the only purpose for a vagina is to hold a ‘sword.’ or have things inserted into it and pulled in and out. Whereas the word cunt which we have been socialised into believing it’s awful means small room which is arguably less offensive. Whereas the slang for Penis (Or at least some if it because we’d be here for days)) Love muscle, Member, Third legg and pocket rocket. Arguably women’s genitalia are termed to be derogatory and violent and suggest that the only purpose is for a man’s person is put inside.
I’m sorry this has been different from my previous blogs but it made me think and I hope it has made you too, I’d love to read your opinions and comments.
Can Night remember, My cold vintage memories, Leave silent hour.
Eager youths, mature men,
As brothers or father and son,
We shared , we tried,
We dared, they died,
Not a tear was shed,
But we cried,
As they lay in their graves,
We shall remember forever.
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.
Like a yawning bird,
Spreading its wings through a cloudless sky,
A child reaching for its mother,
Waking up the nesting birds,
Your golden haze silhouetting blackened trees,
Whose bones are bare.
You stretch through the branches,
touching your awaiting audience spreading a rosy glow to their cheeks.
A beaming smile to their faces.
Day is finally here.
A beacon of hope .
Of new beginnings.
Hungover on poetry,
It’s wrapped around my eyes.
I’ve drank it buckets.
Now I see the Light.
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,
Over too soon.
Did I trip over?
Did they make a fool out of me?
But I can’t remember a thing.
Words , oh words . Oh God please stop!
There’s vomit on the doorstep,
My shoes ,
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
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,
Dead on my bed,
I can’t find the cure.
Drink some more poetry.
That might stop the sore.
I’m not giving you a heart or a beautifully penned poem.
Wrapped in a brown parcel;
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.
Clinging to you.
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.