your adventure

Your old rucksack is by the door

bravely facing the ghosts that we were too scared for.

All I need is the air that I breathe

and yet my throat is tight and I am left to search

for the missing thing

that only time can bring.

Let’s hope someday we can cry again.

but for now, all of us feel empty;

sitting in our solidarity,

each of us feeling alone with you in this old bedroom.

Your laughter echoes between the walls,

the presence that was inherently you filling every silent space.

You are in every book on every shelf,

reminding us of who you were,

who you could have been,

and all your grand notions of self.

Your adventures are too beautiful to get lost in time,

so we will tell your story for you,

not with words,

but with the love we hold for you

contained within in our very thoughts.

You were like spilt ink

across my pages,

filling the space for my words up

with words of your own-

the questions you never asked

that I still feel obliged to answer.

One day, tears won’t fall.

Laughter will once again spill out of the lines of an orderly life.

We will split the seams

of expectation,

sleeping with our thoughts,

dancing with our plans,

holding a courtship of favour that

(for once)

won’t end in disappointment.

-g.m

for N, A and R
 _____________________________________________
some context:

normally i'm very private about my work and the process behind it until i'm sure it's finished and it's been approved by my lovely little beta reader, but i have been very stuck with this poem for about sixth months. it's about something very real for me and i think i just got a little too emotionally invested which made it hard to work through the writing process objectively. so i reached out to some friends (via social networking, obviously. i dont have any real friends) and they helped me to just edit out the kinks in this piece, which is why this poem (and my sanity) is dedicated to them. i'm quite proud with how this turned out in the end and i think this is because i know that i took a leap of faith and shared my work with people before it was ready, and yet they still welcomed it.

i feel more than a little blessed.

much love

x

on life, living, and Bob Dylan in the morning.

this morning I think I really lived.
I really live every day
but this morning I could feel myself being alive.
i felt endless.
we captured a small second of infinity,
and all it took was a little moment.
we woke up together,
twisted limbs and tired eyes
the room smoky and cluttered with wine glasses
and the sweet smell of the night before.
you clicked open spotify
on our old desktop
and I eased the creaky window open,
drawing the blinds slowly to let the crisp January air into our tiny cluttered room.
we settled back down under the tangled duvet,
sharing warmth through the gentle brushes of bare arms.
you tapped at your laptop keys as Bob Dylan sang from the battered computer speakers,
and I sat and breathed
appreciating this quiet moment with you, the air and Bob Dylan for company.
and so I remembered how being really alive feels,
and I savoured it,
because whilst I live every day,
I don't feel it very often.


-g.m

bucket list

i want to write a coming-of-age book
and people will love it so much
that they'll hail it a cult classic

dye my hair pink

buy nice plates
and wash them carefully so they don't get chipped
so i'll be able to tell my kids that these plates are older than they are

i think i want to go travelling
and get bikini tan lines
but first i want to have a bikini-worthy body

i'd like to learn to play the harmonica  properly
and then play it in front of people
maybe i'll go busking

i'm going to learn to like sushi
camomile tea
and nina nesbitt's music

stop biting my nails

get kissed under mistletoe

do the rickshaw run across india
and change my life for the better

i want to sing in front of millions of people

meet my hero
(n.b- must decide who my hero is)

write a film and see it on the big screen

find a man like joseph-gordon levitt who i can listen to the smiths with every morning

i want to make my grandma proud of me
and convince my parents that they did a good job

but maybe if i just grow up with grace
and make my mistakes
i won't have to do all this stuff to be happy before i die.

-g.m

modern love

they met over the internet:
friend of a friend of a friend
who says funny things on tumblr.
now, they're busy sending loved-up selfies
of happily flushed faces
to everyone on snapchat.
he texts her youtube links
of romantic songs
and she compiles endless spotify playlists
called "us".
he sends her cutesy questions on ask.fm
and she stopped writing angsty one direction fanfics
to give her more time to blog about their
eternal love.
everyone on twitter agrees
that they make a lovely couple,
but the fact of the matter is
that they spend more time
on facebook
posting pictures of themselves kissing
than talking to each other.


-g.m

the people who write words

#1
the little poet

the little poet
wanted to run away
and join the circus
but he was too young
and his parents loved him too much.

so the little poet grew up
and went to university
and never joined the circus.
he didn't understand
that the things he did with words
were as breathtaking
as sword swallowers and fire eaters.

#2
the writer

they said to the writer that words
were his substance
and everybody loved them,
so the writer came to believe that words
were all he was good for.
then came a day when the writer
could write no more.
he had shared his dreams and his hopes and his words
so that others
could glory in them,
and then the writer died with no words left.
no one told the writer that he was
actually a really bloody nice guy.

#3
family

-mum, i wrote something today
-ok
-do you want to read it?
-...go and write some more. show me when my headache's gone.


-gm
_________________________________________
some context:

i wrote three short poem things all centred around the same idea so i thought i'd share them in a little malgamation of poems.
have fun.

much love

x