A Small Collection of Poems I Found in my Google Drive

I miss you every day

In every way

there is to miss someone

I miss you

I’m losing pieces of myself

Like fucking bobby pins

It’s strange,

I sit next to you in the park

And feel the English summer breeze’s slight chill

Brush against my pimpled skin.

I look at you,

The same way you might look at an old photograph.

You can’t remember when it was taken,

Or where,

And you wish you wrote it on the back like your nan used to,

When she was your age.

His face is one of someone you used to know,

Their name isn’t important anymore,

But you remember the way they laughed,

The way they held their head when they were sad,

And how they’d always say goodbye twice.

Almost as if it was for luck

My glass was always half full,

Until you decided you were thirsty.

I didn’t realise I wasn’t on your mind anymore,

I didn’t realise I wasn’t the one you think of before bed,

Or showering.

I’m not sad,

Not quite,

It’s a strange sort of sad,

Like wet clothes,

It’s uncomfortable but not unbearable,

It’s there and you can feel it weighing you down,

But it won’t make you tired enough to have to take a break.

It’s hard to decide if I should go home and change or just walk around a little longer,

And just dry off.

Maybe this is it,

Maybe this is just what letting go feels like,

Maybe it’s meant to feel like removing splinters,

Maybe it’s meant to feel like removing a part of you,

Maybe it’s meant to feel like when you get your tonsils taken out,

Maybe it’s meant to be painful

Maybe mum was always right;

Maybe “If it stings; it means it’s working.”

The lights in my room are off,

The summer night throws a blue glow

Across my bedroom floor,

I’m lying in bed,

Doing not much really,

My thoughts feel like hand grenades,

My hands are shaking too much to pull the pin,

The pin is so small like a sewing needle,

Like the sewing needles, I used to sew into my hand in design class

Like hurting yourself was something to pride yourself on

A philosophy that has landed me with so many long sleeves

Long sleeves in the summer feel like picking up a hot mug with no handle.

No handle is what I have on my thoughts right about now,

Right about now it’s twenty past ten and I have work tomorrow

And I’m so tired and I’m so tired and I’m so



Blank Page

I cry so hard into my pillow,

That the wheezing kinda sounds like ocean waves,

Or graveyards wind.

The ghosts that used to haunt my hallways

Haven’t walked down here in so long,

But their footsteps,

Like smoke floating in air,

Leave no prints.

No trace.

And it is so silent.

You know,

Some great white sharks enjoy an average successful kill rate of 80%,

They watch the silhouettes of seals on the surface above,

Like a shadow puppet show.

You know,

They can swim at speeds up to 35 miles per hour,

without making a sound.

Goes to show,

Stealth is a silent killer,

A sudden surprise of nothing,

Revealing a blank page in the middle of a book,

You’re the creativity block canvas.

The pain doesn’t really feel like


It feels like flat line,

It feels like blank page in the middle of a book,

It feels like someone has dimmed the light and then ripped the switch out of the wall,

The orange glow tells me caution.

But caution is a word I haven’t been shown in so long.

I’ve cut it out of my vocabulary,

Another newspaper clipping

For a scrap book

That doesn’t exist, but it should,

And if it did I’d call it;

“Words I never want to hear again”.

Flick through and you could find

A reason for every one of my bad decisions,

I’m not sure if love would be in there,

But if it was,

I’ll add a footnote as to

To remind myself that you need to hear this one sometimes.

That you need to hear the distant ringing of church bells on a grey Sunday morning,

That you need to hear your grandfather’s voice,

And moonlit conversations late at night.

Even when it hurts.

Even when it’s flat line,

Even when it’s a blank page in the middle of a book.

The Art of Falling In Love

You’ll notice little things like

How refreshing a cold glass of water is or,

How they make bedsheets feel safe again,

You’re with this person,

And everything has a soft filter

Like a smudge on my glasses I can’t wipe off,

Learn that bitterness is loneliness dressed in a disguise,

Learn that some people mean the things they tell you,

You smile and it feels like the warmth felt under the wings of moths,

When they dance around a flame.

I didn’t ever get it when people said

They didn’t know “where my body ended and theirs began!” –

But I understand it now,

Now because our legs are folded together

Liked rugby player tube socks,

Like soccer mom napkin packets.

It’s hard to feel what’s me

And what’s not me.

Elephants on Parade

I fell for you like the way a child falls into stinging nettles,


It’s painful,

And the memory never fades.


How do you know

The right person isn’t the right person

If they just got their timing wrong?


Only in our dreams

Will we see

All the happy endings

We could have



I still look at street lights

On dark nights

In my hometown

And remember how bad

I felt

How amazing it was though

To feel wanted

And I remember your laugh

Louder than the worst thunderstorms.


I wonder if you ever think of me

Like I think of you

And what you’re thinking of

And if it’s me.


As the train pulls into the station

I should be happy to be home

But all I can think

Is how far away

My hands are from your waist.


I wish

So much

I was back in your dashboard lit car

Orange light washing over our faces

As we steal glances

And only letting go of each other’s hands

To change gear.


I didn’t fall for you

I plummeted

Face first into you.


I didn’t see you coming

Like a baby bird

Doesn’t see the window

Before it’s neck is broken.


I know I still have feelings

Because my palms get sweaty

Thinking about how

You entered a room.


I wish shame hadn’t tarnished

Every shining moment we had together.


You are a secret

That only gets told

In the early hours of the morning

Over a cigarette

Sweetened with alcohol

Just as our kisses were.


When you laughed

I wish I’d taken notes

I’d love to hear that song



I can’t read music any more

But if somebody showed me your symphony,

I’d recognise it at first glance.


I will never know

The opportunities he took from me

And the ones

She could have given me.

Rush Hour

So now it’s just me you and the watercolour girl,

The old man says as I slip into the room.

The girl has a 1980s personality,

And style to match.

She was alien, to say the least.

But in the best way.

And I watched her like she was a movie playing down my camera lens,

As five movie theatre security guards watch me through CCTV,

I pirate my own copy of you,

One I can hold,

One I can have just for me.

Your sparkle coloured eyes had me at first glance

I loved nothing more than your itchy oversized jumpers

In hazing mornings after all the drugs wear off

My darling I know it’s here you just have to look.



She has dry-ice eyes,

And they follow all who enter from across the room.

You’ll sit across from her and wait until she speaks,

Words fly from her mouth like moths,

They’re attracted to your fairy light soul.

“Now here’s where it gets tricky” she says – she’s a broken bottle person,

Her jagged edges catch the electric ceiling light’s glow,

And in that you can see the reflection of your own fear.

“You’re not well.”

This sentence is cast iron,

And you’re the cast.

Your grief for the sanity you didn’t take enough care of weighs you down,

Like the way a child weighs down their helium balloon.

It was of Scooby Doo,

And all your bedroom walls were as pink as spring,

You sit on the floor with a Happy Meal and a friend,

Whose face is now lost to you,

Whose name has turned to embers

In the bonfire you have become.

“Why do you think so much about the past when it is the only thing you cannot control?”

The answer is obvious to all of us.

And I lift my stare from the feet that brought me here,

I realise there’s someone standing behind her,

Or it might just be her shadow,

Either way we acknowledge each other with a simple nod.

And then she gets up,

Her footsteps across the linoleum floor are the ringing of church bells,

This isn’t a wedding,

But it is a ceremony.

She hands me a shovel

And we crash through carpet and floor boards,

Swallow dust and dirt and sweat,

We don’t stop until we find her.

Curled up in her casket,

The little girl from my childhood shivers,

If only she could.

I can remember her face now.

I can remember why I forgot it.

I can remember it is unmistakably


Please Don’t

When you called me,

I got a feeling similar to when you step outside and it’s colder than you expected.

My lungs were robbed of their breath,

Forearms plastered in goosebumps,

I suddenly regretted what I was wearing,

No vest or coat just a top and a wool cardigan,

The holes in it were designed for wear in warmer weather,

And yet here I am shivering.

That’s why I let it go to voicemail.

And then deleted the voicemail.

My dear,

Your voice is the sound of ocean waves

Right before I start to drown.

The Two Step

I sometimes think about how bees dance to communicate,

Their tiny limbs splayed out in an intense Tango,

A fierce Foxtrot painted across the heads of flowers,

Doing The Robot on a pear tree leaf in the rain.

I like to think that if my moves were as refined I’d have told you I loved you years ago.

I’d have popped and locked my way into your heart,

Burst open your arms with my Waltz,

Told you how beautiful your eyes looked,

On that river bank,

At midnight.

The moonlight made them look like handblown glass,

Your voice turned into a whisper.

It seems that I have two left feet,

Tout que je pourrais avoir dit

Is french for;

‘All that I could’ve said.’

If only I knew how to dance.

Early Grave

Tell me your twilight nickname

The light,

The spark of silver shimmer brushed against the purple complexion.

Tell me the name people call you

When all the lights are off,

When no one is really listening.

I want to know what you call yourself when no one is really listening.

Take hold of my smile,

If you have to.

You have to keep it fresh,

Put it in a vase,

Or a Tupperware container

Like your mum always used to pack your primary school lunches into,

Keep it cool,

Let no one see the stains on your mind’s bedsheets,

Build a tent out of your broken wishes,

I’ll stay up late with you telling ghost stories about how I lost my mind,

We can perform Macbeth with shadow puppets,

Darling this is only the beginning.

I can’t help but feel as if I could wish something into life,

If I closed my eyes and held my head tilted,

Half a degrees to the right

I could wish you hair strands back onto my pillow,

Your smell back onto my hoodie,

The feel of your body shape folded,



Papier-mâchéd into mine.

An origami nest of wishes,

Twigs of truth tangled

Under white feather lies.

The keeper of the lost graveyard’s key,

We who let no one in because they’d just be pushed out.

We whose mattresses are only a single ones,

A narrow path,

Under a starless sky,

Down which our dreams walk alone,

Towards an early grave.

Someone Else

Gravel pokes into our backs,

And the midnight winds rush by,

Uncomfortable under an occasionally cloudy night sky.

The warm orange light

From your car’s eyes frames our bodies

On the ground.

Like a broken picture frame,

Our edges are as jagged as broken teeth,

Sharp as razor blades,

But we used to fit together perfectly;


The trees have no leaves,

No shelter but instead they hold their wooden arms in the air,

Offering us a clear view.

Sometimes it’s spoilt by a stray cloud,

Sometimes we can’t see what’s going on.

Sometimes that’s a good thing.

Sometimes blood can be as thick as syrup,

But it will never taste as sweet.

There’s something like romance,

But it’s not airborne;

It hangs off our eyelids,

It’s held in the crook of your elbow,

Between our blanket and the gravel.

Every time I meet you,

It’s the first time I’ve ever seen

Someone else.