Our Day Will Come

I cant stop writing like tapping your foot or slamming your head hard against wood.
They wouldnt say we’re “Very” poor , obesity can say for sure.

I crossed the line
I didn’t care to read the signs
disillusioned by all my rhymes
guilty of my sickly crimes.

Perhaps if I re spun the dial
waited for a little while
and through the crackling static said
go to the forth and baptize your head
with the spilled blood of the dead.

Would you rather see your taxes go
to a sick man
arise poor soul.
Or see your hard working honest gold.
Slide into a stoic MPs pocket.

Damn those civil servants too
the heartless policeman
the shitty nurse
the lawyer with a bulging purse.

I wouldn’t preach to being proud of the poor
oh for goodness sake will you shut the front door.
Your desperation has leaked all over my nice floor.

I feel guilty are words you’ve never said
My poems are all stained in red.

Surely the day will one day come
we’ll bleed our veins
for our little ones.

Oh you’ll be sorry
through the muffled silence
I think that is what he said
when your children are crying I’ll turn away my head.
And cruelly smile.
Perhaps if I re spun the dial.

No One Owns Art !!

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(Before I start.I would really like it if you commented and put forward your opinions on this topic)

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. No one owns art. I feel like the only accessible art form in 2020 is music and film. To most the books are left to collect dust on a high shelf’s out of reach to many and great paintings are ruined by the coffee stains of the class divide. Literature like classical music and fox hunting seems to be a possession of the higher classes. Believe it or not I don’t hate the church. The elite built me aside from school and my parents I was raised by the church. The psalms of the bible and the verses of the hymns helped me create poetry and write prose. The summer clubs helped tutor and nurture me. However I wasn’t on the same level as them. My mother dusted the pews and scrubbed the toilets whist the conservative Christians preached the pure word of God towering above us on their high podium.

At school I was always degraded siting in a third set English class I was bitter , but I made friends I will never forget despite walking along the narrow tightrope that was the poverty line. Clutching a pen for balance , one slip and I would of tumbled to my doom. Perhaps I already have. in fact I know I have. What I write is in vain , they will spit on my grave.

Survival of the fittest is interwoven into our society despite anyone taking into account the middle classes head start at the game. Yet to say this puts a black mark against your name. Artwork is too expensive to buy for many , words to extravagant to understand. , and if your a woman who tires to challenge this you may as well thump your fists against a brick wall until they are bloody and bruised , but perhaps I’m biased. No one owns art. That’s all their is to say.

Scotland’s Shame

Scotland’s Shame 
There are children jumping in front of trains , and grown men throwing bricks through window panes.
An old woman drowning out her sorrow by voting for the devils of tomorrow.

There are qualified girls lining up for food , and young boys disguising their face with a hood.
Polite ladies burning up my book , whilst their dearest darlings get up to no good. Kicking the life out of a man until his lips turn to blue.

For I have seen your likes before , I have already chapped this door and ran away I never stay. In the dark I stiffly lay.

For they are you and they are me. Scotland’s shame to the highest degree.
Sentence me with immortality.

You are people in textbooks no more , which teenagers think are just a bore.

For we have slept here before.

Then I Grew

I wake screaming in the night

God’s grip around me hard and tight.

As blackie watches from the windowsill

Oh I wish, I pray I could see him still.

But I am blind and I am bitter

I sit and wait for the harsh winter.

 

If only he could see me now

His frown a downturned smile

of victory

oh not oh not for me

 

For here I sit and slowly decay.

I cough and splutter in the rain

grow restless at the passing days.

 

As a child, I thought you were the only one.

Oh pretty blackbird

but as I grew

I looked and knew that there were many of you.

 

Yet still I glance through the windowpane

Stained with dirt and grit and fingerprints of many.

I think of you

oh pretty blackbird

The true love I only knew

but then I grew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Is Happiness So Hard To Find In Art?

She said It was depressing, but then life always was a bitter lesson. 

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Why is happiness so hard to find in art? Was a question that plagued my mind today. Maybe its because we’re all miserable cows or perhaps its because most adults don’t relate to tales about happy, content little bunny rabbits.

As a child, I was as joyful as most but as I grew I became more withdrawn and well.  Depressed. Neurosis plagued me from a young age. Whenever we played piggy in the middle I was always the piggy who could never catch any of my friends. In team sports, I was always last to be picked. At playtime, my peers always had better biscuits and would never share with me. Bitter resentment grew in me towards life. I wanted an answer. I wanted the truth. Books were a source of escapism for me. As cliche as it sounds, I was the book worm of the class. Yet I wouldn’t say this made me the smartest. I still struggled with figures and somehow my reports never got a place on that wall, nor did I get into the final of the scots verse team despite having a passion for burns from a young age. I can still recite Epistle To Hugh parker word for word a poem that was forgotten and pushed into the shadows by most.

In high school, it seemed my anxiety came to a peak. Out of the hundreds of young adults, I struggled to find friends. Yet this wasn’t a place you wanted to be associated with books at lunchtimes, or at least not in my school. At break times I would line up in the dinner card que only for the single reason not to look like a loner. I cared too much about what people thought, but don’t we all?

However back to the question at hand. Why is art so depressing. Or why are artists so depressing. Why did Plath put her head in an oven, why did Van Gough paint beautiful flowers and then chop off his ear and then later blow out his brains? Why are we all so mental? Is it because life is mental, do we deep down need a reason as to why we exist? Why did Stalin and Hitler kill millions? Why did Andrew Carnegie exploit his workers despite growing up poor, why did burns preach about freedom then desire to be a slave driver? Why? Why? Why? We Ask. I wish I could give you an answer. Pain, money, hate, emptiness, mental illness. Death.

I think my opinion is that we need art to give us a reason to live. We see ourselves through others. It gives us meaning. Perhaps it’s not that art is depressing, maybe it’s just too close to the truth.

Five Fave Feelings Tag !!

A couple of days ago I was kindly nominated to do the ten feelings tag. However Im lazy a shit and couldn’t think of ten so heres five of my favourite feelings!!

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1. My first favourite feeling is walking on the beach. In the scorching heat were getting in scotland theres nothing better than walking beside the calming water or chilling on the sand.

2. My second Fave feeling is spending time with loved ones. Wither its playing a game of cards with your mum or having a BBQ with your boyfriend. Nothing makes me more happier !!

3. For my third favourite feeling it has to be online shopping (or normal shopping which we’re sadly not aloud to do at the moment. ) There’s no better feeling than getting a Pretty Little Thing Package arrive at your door with lots of goodies inside. As vain as it might be Im a shopaholic.

4. Music. This has to be my forth choice I love to boogy!

5. My fifth choice has to be indulgences. Tucking into  punnet of ice cream , smoking a wee bit weed while the sun goes down , having a cider on the beach. We all love a pit of pleasure in moderation.

 

My Favourite Films

I never used to watch films that much , but now I relish the storylines. It’s all I can do most days is sit and watch films or tv or YouTube. I like the escapism of it, perhaps even more than I like books. Watching films is easier for me to digest. So here is a list of the films that made me :

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1. Mary Poppins. For some reason this film stands out to me. I remember watching it as a child I must of been around six or seven and just being taken away into a different world with the most haunting music and setting.

2.Titanic. I was obsessed with this film when I was about twelve. I remember making the event one of my personal projects in school. I loved the characters of this heart felt love story. The tragedy of Titanic resonated with me somehow.

3. Les miserables. I discovered this film as a teen and I’ve always believed in revolution and what happens in it. The storyline is also very good and complex and gets your mind working. I also love a good musical.

4. Jane Eyre. I love the film almost as much as I love the book. As you can tell I love a captivating love story. And Janes passionate affair with rochester has your eyes stuck to the television.

 

A Post On Failure

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If I am being brutally honest with myself I would call myself a failure. I dropped out of school aged 16 which in some peoples eyes makes you only useful for collecting bins or scrubbing toilets. My grammar isn’t up to scratch my writing misspelt and disorganised. Would I preach to the gods that this is the best way to live your life. No I wouldn’t. Poverty is brutal and takes its tole on you. If you want to spend your life on the couch watching Come Dine With Me and Primark hauls and hanging around the bus station all day filling your lungs with god knows what to numb your reality out then by all means follow in my foot steps.

If you want to drive around in a BMW and go shopping for fruit in Waitrose. Then maybe stay in school. However I suppose our experiences make us who we are. I for example am probably a chav who roams the streets in a hoodie and leggings. I am the definition of slipping through the net. Although I’ve made good friends and art from the depths of hell which would never have happend if I didn’t make the choices I did…. I suppose.

Perhaps In some ways failure is good for us It makes us more humble. It gives us a different perspective. You look at a homeless person on the street and instead of judging them your like Jesus Christ Im one away from being them !! And hastily hand them your months benefits (Jks)

Just go easy on yourself If you find yourself at the job centre your among thousands of people in the same boat. Dont live alone with your fear of failure.

Ten Things Ive learned In my 19 Years

 

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1.sometimes people are wrong. Wither its your parents or proffesionals sometimes it better just not to listen.

2.Stay In School No matter how hard it gets. When people say you’l regret it you honestly will. Dont give in to opression. As the quote goes education is our greatest weapon.

3 Avoid psyciatric hospitals at all costs. You know when you hear about writers being depressed its kinda a sterotype.Honestly being admited to hospital  will make your health so much worse as no one wants to be degraded and treated like shit the way they do in hospital.

4.Its ok not to be ok-  Sometimes you have to give yourself a break. No ones perfect and you probably are doing your best. Minus the breakdown.

5.Remember who the real enemy is – You may have had a bad experience in life that turns you bitter. You may look for someone to blame your family , your friends , yourself. You have to remember that its not these peoples fault. Its just the fascist society we live in. If anything its moneys fault because the world revolves around it.

6.Go easy on the chocolate – As nice as it is. You will gain weight.

7.Smoking isnt always bad – All you see over the packets of ciggerettes are warnings not to do it. Honestly though I think smoking has helped me. It helps mask panic attacks , gets me to go outside more which elievates depression , helps me mentain my weight and can be used as inspiration. Most of my ideas for poems and prose pieces have happend over a fag. To be honest I wish Ide started it sooner.

8.Its hard being a young woman – I know. Its hard being a woman. Its hard being second best. If your poor and a woman its hard being like 10th best. Try and do things that empower you and help convince you your not just scum of the earth. Read books by female authors watch films with female actresses , listen to music sung by females. Go to clubs with other woman. Just know that we all feel the same.

9.ts Natural to worry about the future – Will I ever get a job? Will I be a bad mother? Will my partner leave me ? Its natural

10.Dont let other people bring you down – This kinda ties into my first suggestion. Dont listen to nasty people. Dont listen when your called a bum , dont let it get to you when people at the Job centre look down their snots at you. You are great, you are you!!!

Keep Warm Chapter 1

Ann lay with the sheets pulled up to her noes so that it covered her cheeks which were numbed from the cold. The darkness hung around her the silhouettes of what little objects she possessed lit up by a stream of pure light that slunk through a gap in the lace blinds that covered her window. She reached out running her slim fingers over the shaped holes in the yellowed material. A musty smell cast off them filling her lungs and making her splutter her throat burning. When she was little she’d had, the same sounding cough a great whooping one, one that made her father awaken from his sleep in the dead of night and run through to her bedroom to see if she was alright. Coughs weren’t the same when you were a child, it could have been scarlet fever or polio it sent her father into a state. If she ever had one he would run himself down accusing himself of not feeding them well enough, when in reality it was never the fault of an individual. Now her cough came from the city smog, the pollution off the factories that stuck to your skin and hair or the damp that grew from the walls where she was housed.
She rolled over, turning her back to the light and staring into the pitch black. She could feel the cold nip at her legs as she lay in only her thin vest, the thick blanket over her shoulders the only thing covering the vulnerability of her bare flesh. Not that long ago she had lay in this bed with another body whose strong arms had wrapped around her chest and whispered bliss into her ear with his warm sweet breath. She had caved in, in those moments safe in a gentleman’s arms. Just outside had lay the cruelty, poverty, decay and the selfish desperation of her fellow humans. Survivors only at the expense of another. No. She wasn’t good. No number of acts could make her pure. As no human was. We are simply animals run on fear and instinct, poisoned and diluted by intellect. No one individual was evil. Only a society could be that. A facade of the masses that hid the cruellest acts of torture, oppression, and evil in plain sight.

That night had been a one-night stand with a high ranked man in the forces. Not a working man from the pit or the site. He was not one who would be drinking in a pub around her bit. He wasn’t their “kind”. He had fair skin and hair along with clean manicured figure nails, and polished boots. A white-collar boy. He’d lured her to him. Slid up to her at the bar and made her laugh easily. Had her in the palm of his hand from the first sentence. It made her feel special that he’d picked her. She was nothing. He’d paid for her drinks and joined her at her table filling her with lager shandes after a Friday shift. They’d chatted and laughed for hours about the cold weather, his work and politics. She wasn’t very aware of politics. She’d heard rumours of the suffrage movement going on in the cities although had not seen much in the newspapers they tended to ignore it, didn’t like to give it the attention even if it be negative treated it as a disease they feared would spread. Here in a small industrial town most woman lived in the dark over the topic. She knew her older brother voted liberal the party in power at present. And whenever he talked about it he would swear a lot. This man was a member of the conservative party and said for a fact there was to be a war. She’d dismissed it as guff. They’d never be a war. Not now with all the new technology, bombs and artillery they had nowadays. They weren’t that stupid. They’d kill us all. At eleven the pub was closing up and they had been thrown out by the barman with the other late-night stragglers. A group of men from the pits, a lone chubby man, and a thin ragged alchy. Outside the rain had been pissing it down and they’d made a spur decision to seek shelter at the bookies. He’d placed a bet on one of the horses in her name chucking on ten pound the equivalent of three months’ wages. “It will win” he’d announced. He’d a confidence and asserted way to him she’d marvelled at. He held himself up straight. There seemed to her no doubt that plagued his mind. Not like them here where they doubted themselves constantly wither they could put food on the table or heat their frail bones, constantly straining to not sink to the bottom.