fresh, clean, and utterly distracted

a poem for a human with magic inside them.

you are the eighth wonder of the world;
a paragon of humanity and beauty.
I can just imagine you, 
on the day the world ends, 
kissing the raindrops and laughing in the face of the stars.
you are made of such magnificence.
The atoms of you have seen such fantastic things.
I bet you spent a life time in Atlantis, skimming stones and swimming with sharks.
I think as well you must have been a star for a long long long time: 
it is the only way you could shine so well now.
In former lives you traversed space and time and sea and sky. 
you have seen the universe and yet,
here you are now.
I am so glad.

your soul is akin to a tiny galaxy growing and changing under your skin. 
you must remember that there are stars going super novae
and planets being knocked off their axis when you despair...
oh, but when you smile...that's when the magic inside you comes out to play.
sparks of light dance across your spirit, 
healing the holes and the barely-remembered ache of tears.
 infinities are born of your fingertips and whatever you touch turns to gold.

you are doing so beautifully, child. 
you are a product of eternity, and you bear the weight of a thousand lives with such grace, although I know they must be heavy.
so pause.
breathe.
allow the worlds inside you time to grow. 
silence your demons. smile, laugh, stay alive.

the eighth wonder, darling. you really are.

-g.m

____________________________________________________________________
some context:
this is for a human being i only know over the internet. this is their christmas present
i hope they have the most glorious time during the festive season, god knows they deserve it.

much love

x

I'm drunk, but you're still beautiful.

I looked at you in a new way today.
Yes, you in the mirror.
I saw you and I didn't mind. I thought maybe
it would be okay to spend forever with you,
because I don't mind being in your skin anymore.
I don't mind the freckles on the small of your back
or the way stretch marks lattice your thighs.
I have grown to love that little nose and your wonky eyebrows.
I am beginning to find beauty in your shape,
the curve of your hip, and the sway of your waist,
your round knees and worn hands.
There have been days
when I have found you insufferable
and I have wished more than anything
to be someone altogether new;
brighter, funnier, with a whiter smile and happier eyes.
But now I am re-learning the topography of your body with a more open mind,
seeing, perhaps, what other people see.
I can see the sparkle in your eyes and how amazing you look when you are passionate about something.
I love the way your hands animate everything you say and how you cover your mouth when you smile, as if you know that your grin is a weapon at your disposal.
I have learned that no one else needs to love you for you to love yourself. Loving yourself is acceptable,
as is finding glory in how lovely the lines on your hands are.
I may have had too much to drink,
but in the morning I will be sober and you will be the same.
You'll still be beautiful,
and I will still be able to see you in the mirror.

-g.m

___________________________________________________
some context:

loving yourself is important. you don't have to, of course. if your body causes you distress or dysphoria, then it can be incredibly difficult to feel good in your skin.
i just want you to know that you are ALLOWED to love yourself.
it's a journey we all have to take on and it doesn't happen over night, but the body is a work of art. whether you are tall or short or fat or thin or have broad shoulders and little hips or whatEVER, you are endlessly and infinitely beautiful.

much love

x

Don't Think So Much

You are minimal-
the sum of every experience.
Your life has made you who you are.
The first time you kissed her
made you brave, and
the second time made you strong.
Leaving everything to chance
has helped you see
real infinity.
Document each day
in the lines of your face;
make your own little mark on your patch of earth.
Lay still;
quiet.
Breathe.
Breathe in the colourful air
and the fresh showers of rain.
See light in the little things once more. Empathise.
Start anew every day.
Tears won't fall. Laughter will spill out of the lines of an ordinary life.
You will split the seams
of expectation.
Sleep with your thoughts, dance with your dreams;
hold a courtship of favour that won't end in disappointment.
Feel endlessness stretch around your skin
and trust (in yourself, in those wiser)
that you are where you're meant to be.
Take responsibility;
be a force for change.
be genuine, and choose
to live life happily.


-g.m

(dedicated to Ma, Dave and Roger)
_________________________________________________
some context:

I wrote this whilst on the phone to my mother. I've had a really rough time recently and she is very good at saying all the right things. Every day I'm being inspired by new things that I used to find hard to see; love from friends, early morning sunrises and the simplicity of knowing that you are in control of your life. I am being newly inspired by living simply and loving and doing.

I'd like to thank so many people for this new happy mindset, but I suppose most prominent among these people are my Mother, for being my Ma (no matter how difficult that job proves to be) Dave Green, for always being up for a chat and being the most supportive human being I've ever met, and Roger Wyatt (along with everyone else from Harbour) for welcoming me into their community with no questions asked, and for always being friendly, supportive and understanding.
Thank you to all my new friends from uni for so quickly coming to feel like family and all my old friends from Cambridge for not forgetting about me. Please just keep on doing what you're doing. Thank you to everyone who I've been in contact with for the past ten months. Even negative input has changed who I am and helped me to be in the position I am in now. My life might not be perfect, but I am much happier with every coming day. I am being careful to try and cut out as many negative influences as possible, and I am doing so much better than I was even just a few weeks ago.

blah. sentimentality!

happy poems! they exist!

much love

x

someone to be excellent to

"I love you."

A pause, to catch my breath.

For feelings to settle, for words well-meant to sink in.

"Can I kiss you?"

Words falling hot and sticky from warm lips.

"I don't know, can you?"

Laughter. A gentle punch on the shoulder.

And then the kissing;
softly tender.

a nudge of noses,

a bump of teeth,

chapped lips briefly brushing.

A smile.

A feather light breath on sunburned skin.

Traipsing home

with grubby knees,

torn dungarees,

a bucket of tadpoles

and a love

that lifted heavy hearts and tired eyes.

Another pause; this time to ruminate on the idea of being young,

here and now,

and so simply in love.

We are all just searching for someone to be excellent to.

-g.m
____________________________________________________
some context:

the idea is that this poem works as one poem but also as two different ones. The poem in normal type is about a first kiss, and the poem in italics is about a young love, and the last line in the centre is supposed to tie them both together.

let me know what you think about the format; i tried it in a few different ways!

i tried to write a happy poem and i suppose this is almost there.
i don't know. it's warm and i'm tired.

much love

x

on our London love

Your things look so fine

taking up the space next to mine

in this purgatory we've made ours.

We co-habit quite contently,

(mostly)

lining the shelves with our possessions;

photo frames gathering lived-in apathy and dust,

the box sets of classic hardback books that we’ll never have time to read.

Against the skirting board leans your guitar with no strings

and your skateboard with the broken back wheel.

Your films and my records the only things we touch,

MGMT and oh baby that Electric Feel.
A city-scape of empty wine bottles on the windowsill
with the pitiful sunlight glinting through
washes our room in shades of green;
our Atlantis
(lost to the world, and even to us)

We thought once that it might be romantic.

Our little slice of limbo.

Tiny transient flat;

London,

lonely.

One night you got drunk and used my lipstick

to write our names on the wall;

your scrawling, greedy hands

reminding me that this place belonged to us.

(as if I could forget)

Now the romance is dead and we still live on,

no blinds on the windows or sheets on the bed,

doors held open with yellowed copies of books re-read too many times.
We learn and re-learn the topography of each other,
trying to rediscover our wanderlust, to no avail. Now, we’d rather find ourselves

in the bottom of vodka bottles

than in each other.

And yet, I wouldn't want to drink myself into oblivion with anyone but you,

or anywhere but here.


-g.m

____________________________________________________________
some context:

I've never shared a flat in London with anybody but I wrote a poem about it anyway.

much love

x

Human

You and I
have been apart so long
that it feels strange to once again be in your company.
You stare,
and it feels like a strangers gaze.
The arpeggios of your voice seem unfamiliar,
the dimple on one side of your cheek stolen from some other life.
Your hand brushes mine over the table top
and we blush,
laugh,
fumble around the contact with sweaty palms
until you grip my fingertips firmly,
smiling as your words
trip
past your tongue and through your chapped lips.

I think I forgot your imperfections in the time whilst you were away chasing your dreams.
I forgot the little chip in your front tooth
and that your eyes sit just a little too close together.
In my head I pictured you differently
without the gap in your eyelashes and the crack in your voice when you talk about home.
I omitted the things I loved the most like the freckles that go all the way down your neck and across your collarbone
and your laugh which changes every time.
I forgot that I loved you for just how human you were


-g.m
____________________________________________________________
some context:

a happy thing.
just for you.
you're welcome, I guess.

much love

x

love child

quiet voice loud love
bracelets knotted noose-like
thin wrists. long nails. paint chipped (still sweet)
subjective beauty
romantic rebel
coward
courage
coffee from disposable cups
sonnets scrawled on the backs of serviettes
from suburban cafes
little conformist gloriously generic
turmoil in day dreams
pseudo love
angst
smiles
is she sad?
hotboxed bathrooms infatuated fixation
sex
soft
daddy's little girl jack daniels late at night
sleep
full brain,
migraine.
wrists, tissue,
stories of killers and blood down the drain
justification for pain.
no matter
missed
by many
by few
love child
over now


-g.m




_________________________________________________
some context:

i dont normally like to write or publish angst-ridden poems but this one is quite important to me. it's about those of us who feel unloved and the oxymorons of sad lives.
yes.
ok.
have it.

much love

x

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

an ode to you

you make me

not me

for a while, and that is enough.

I am absorbed in your world,

where nothing is right,

and yet nothing is wrong.

a world where people love

for a night

the danger of your eyes 

and your smile which

stretches 

slowly

across your lips.

but then the night is over;

you switch off.

in the morning

the light filters quietly in

through cheap curtains and tired eyelids

and we struggle for comfort

on the worn out springs 

of your single bed.

you sit up slowly,

run hands through my hair.

Morning, beautiful

When did we get back 

I have no idea

Maybe 3

Maybe

and for a day,

I love you more than they did,

for a night.

-g.m

"Dear world, you look tired today."

No one knows the danger of you,

the enticing glow of your excited eyes and solemn lips.
we struggle for sleep on the cold sheets of lonely beds.
Eye contact is
awkwardly always avoided,
in favour of staring into coffee or bright laptop screens.
Talk about nothing is everywhere;
we feel we must make noise, or be forgotten.

That summer we read a lot of coming-of-age books,
kidnapping inspiration for our angsty poems,
dragging it by the heels into hotboxed bedrooms.
Bed beckons,
over and over again I wish to be tangled in sheets
where I once tangled with you,
a sorry sack of feelings with beautiful eyes.
Does the world need another angsty teenage love poem?
I have a million words but your name is my favourite.
(My words are like a window,
through which I can see all that you feel.)

I have no desire to fix or be fixed;
life is something happening
outside the doors and curtained windows.
The world passes us by,
out of reach of the realms of our blanket fort.
You liked to pull me out of bed to the window
on starry nights
and point out the constellations-
darling i miss your conversation.
You are the rhythm and rhyme to every day.

Pride painted across pained faces;
something has been detracted,
and you are not whole as you once were.
Eyes meeting across crowded rooms,
my pulse pounding through my palms,
knowing I have no words.
Your apathy will be the end of me.
I say nothing if not invited;
My thoughts aren't as wonderful as yours.
You lean close,
whisper...
"Are the moon and the sun friends or do they fight for the sky?"
"One day,
let's just buy train tickets and hope they take us to the end of the world."
 "I hope it's warm there."

-g.m


______________________________________________________
some context:

this is a poem made up of little fragments that my friend and i have been adding to a journal for months. these fragments are anything from few words long to whole stanzas, but i was getting sick of them not amounting to anything, and so i put them together in a long, slightly rambling piece of very very very free verse.
and that is why it possibly makes very little sense.
oh well.
it is still a thing made of words, so you can have it.

much love

x

Youth

A Poem Made of Words I Didn’t Write.

I’m an addict with a pen,

Find me spineless and pretend;

It’s five past three,

I can hardly see

And I’m on the verge of passing out.

I’d be an anchor

But I’m scared you’d drown,

We’re watching the television with no sound.

You’re just a pair of frozen hands to hold,

Not your typical stoned 18 year old.

The story unfolds;

You should take my life, you should take my soul.

Where we go, nobody knows,

With guns hidden under our petticoats.

Step into your skin?

I’d rather jump in your bones,

New clothes

Bloody nose

Retching on the floor alone.

My trial-by-fire was filed,

(I’m a crazy suicidal head-case)

Totally wrecked and polemic in the way we talk.

I bet a lot of me was lost,

T’s uncrossed and I’s undotted,

But your hands still catch

The light

The right way

And our hearts still beat the same.

You’ve got a lot to say,

For the one who pushed me away.

Our brains are sick but that’s okay.

Can’t they bury us at sea,

Far away where the world can’t reach?

Vocal Sabbatical

Delayed

By churning out the same-

Why do you talk so loud?

I’ve got a feeling that the marijuana’s rotting your brain.

-g.m

______________________________________________________

some context:

this is a piece of found poetry that i did for a uni assignment. it is made up of lyrics from a lot of my favourite songs (all of which are credited below) so none of these words are mine. i just put them in a new order and stuff.

much love

x

Credits:

Addict With a Pen – Twenty One Pilots

Holding On To You – Twenty One Pilots

Fake You Out – Twenty One Pilots

Stay With Me – You Me At Six

Menswear – The 1975

TALK – The 1975

Heart Out – The 1975

Girls – The 1975

Chocolate – The 1975

The 1975 – The 1975

M.O.N.E.Y – The 1975

Nobody, Not Even The Rain – La Dispute

Such Small Hands – La Dispute

Viking Burial – Gerard and the Watchmen

teenage truths

your voice is too loud;
echoing through the suburbs,
past perfect airbrushed families
having summer barbecues
in the warm evening.
you laugh
smile
brush your hair from your face
and light your cigarette
ignoring the bitterness
of adolescence even as it fills you up.

we bypassed rebellion,
until our 18th birthdays
when we dusted off heavy coats
of teenage angst
hated you/hated me
hated the perfection
we were brought up in.
so when you shout through the suburbs
I know it isn't accidental
or excitement from all the covert cider and nicotine.
it's you breaking through
the bonds of family
to begin to grow
into you.


-g.m

pebbles

you took me to a pebble beach three days running
once to see the sunrise through to the sunset
once for fish and chips
and once to look at the stars and the pebbles.
the sunrise was nice, the sunset was average,
the red and yellow squashing the orange,
and the deep blue stealing the sky so very fast.
the fish and chips were the best i've ever tasted
but i think it helps that i ate your chips
and you ate mine
sharing is caring?
the stars were breathtaking,
"the celestial dance troupe presents
the stars of the heavens"
as they took centre stage
it felt like they danced for me.
but the pebbles were my favourite.
because they were so simple,
starting from huge mountains as old as time
or grains of sand that had found their way
all over the earth
to be this pebble,
in this moment.
and what a beautiful moment it was.

-g.m

notions of self

you are the quiet and the loud

the self finder self hater self maker

the shine of sun on water, the drop of rain in puddles.

you’re that song we hate, song we love, that song we haven’t heard yet

the melody in everybody else’s head.

you are the words and the paper and the pen

the rhythm and the rhyme of every day.

you are the start of the race, sprinting all the way to the finish line.

the “once upon a time” and “happily ever after”.

you are infinite,

but only in your own eyes.

you see all that is beautiful.

you see yourself,

so maybe you are beautiful.


-g.m

writers

Here’s my social commentary;
it’s not funny if it’s me,
but it’s funny if it’s you.
Pass your judgement,
make it true.
Take me to the rivers,
show me the stars,
the fate, the faults, the dead, the wars.
The city is in my heart,
but your country is in my veins,
my wrists look like a battlefield,
please take away these stains,
marks of the pain.

We’re just silly children,
with our truth and entitled words.
What do we know of loss?
Happiness is elusive,
but our sadness is not conclusive;
we take the fast lane,
no dream, no gain,
“don’t hate the player, hate the game.”
Never hesitate to wear your shame,
our past goes up in flames.

Now all you have are the clothes on your back,
a pen in your hand,
and a head full of words.


-g.m