Collaboration between my mum and I. Hope you enjoy!
Collaborative piece between Misstaken and therealLydiMoo. *** You may find yourself surprised many have not realised its been lately theorised… *** ……Birds
When I wrote my first poem, I remember you laughed, told me writing’s a hobby, but never a craft. I continued to write, any time I was able. Now that hobby of mine, puts our food on the table.
I’ve not posted for a while, mainly because I’m rubbish. But I’m trying to get back into a regular rhythm. Anyway, here’s a poem.
I am a people pleaser. People pleasing is my game. If you knew the lengths I go to, then I doubt you’d do the same. If you think my people pleasing, affords me a life of ease, then I’ll laugh at your misjudgement, if it doth the people please.
Do I write to kill time? Do I write to praise art? Do I write with a keyboard? Do I write with my heart? Do I write to say things otherwise left unsaid? Do I write to clear debris that clutter my head? Do I write to feel right? Do I write to feel wrong? Is my writing a portrait, or is it a song? Do I write to earn money? Or do I write to play? Could I write for both reasons? Would that be okay? Do I write to slay dragons that live in my brain? If I write long enough, will I write myself sane? Do I write ‘cos I care? Do I write ‘cos I don’t? Do I write to write things that I know others won’t? Is writing compulsion? Is it my OCD? I don’t know but I’m writing, and writing is me.
Bury it deep, deep in the ground. I cannot tell you the peace that I’ve found. You told me: ‘stop digging, face up to your pain.’ I explained that I couldn’t, again and again. You then hid my shovel, so I couldn’t dig. The world was too much, my feelings too big. So I buried you deep, deep in the ground. Now I cannot tell you the peace that I’ve found.
Hiding Easter eggs can be fun, just don’t forget where you hid them…
You asked me to hide Easter eggs, so you could go and find. You’ve always been a child at heart, so I really didn’t mind. I hid some in the garden, and some behind the books. I tried to dream up places that thought you wouldn’t look. You found them in the bathroom, you found them on the stairs, you found some in your secret drawer (I didn’t hide them there). And then on Monday morning, you watched me rise with dread, and staring at my boxers, asked: ‘Did you hide some in the bed?’
When they saw that the girl made fire with her hands a crowd gathered. They challenged her to make more fire, fire that burned ever more brightly. And she did. The crowd watched and applauded.
In time the girl got tired and her hands hurt. She told the crowd she would rest. But the crowd got angry and said that they needed her fire, and that she should continue.
The girl didn’t want to upset anyone so she continued making fire. Soon she became exhausted and had to stop. The crowd hissed and booed, they called her selfish and lazy.
Then a man ran into the crowd shouting about another girl in the next village who could breathe fire. The crowd ran to follow the man, shouting back to the girl that they did not like her fire anyway and how stupid she was that she could not breathe fire.
The girl who made fire with her hands sat and wept. Her hands were badly burned, she was tired, confused and hurt.
’Next time,’ she thought, ‘I won’t show them my fire.’
Are you a writer, or do you just write? Some say ‘aspiring’. Well stop it - we’re hiring! Don’t make your own barriers to entry. There are hurdles aplenty, don’t be your own sentry.
I would never hurt myself, or think it better that I died. But sometimes when I stub my toe I feel it’s justified.
When I was growing up they told me ‘boys don’t cry’. So countless were the times I got something in my eye. When I started in the workplace they said that boys don’t stress. So I hid in the store cupboard when I felt I was a mess. Lately I’ve been thinking, I can’t deal with what’s inside. I hope they raise my son to know that it’s okay not to hide.