There are shadows that don’t match their shape,
Promises that were only ever made.
Not kept.
Waves come crawling back to the shore,
On their hands and knees and full of remorse,
They can’t go back.
Not any more.
One day, people will wake up and open their eyes,
Hollowness will fill up and chemistry will override,
And life will go on.
Maybe we’ll stop doing things whilst not really knowing why,
Stop sitting in the dark and spark a fire.
Maybe we’ll set light to our hearts and learn how to truly love.
Maybe…
And I’ll look out for you because, for a reason I don’t even know,
the perfect, hazy memory of you fills my soul.
And I need you.
I need you so bad.
I think of all the nights I’ll cry
because I don’t have the answer,
or the reason why.
And that destroys me.
I dream of shadows that don’t match their shape,
Promises that are only made,
Never kept.
And I need you.
I need you so bad.
I honestly think that I have saltwater for blood, the rhythm of the tides for a heartbeat and the dance of the waves in my soul. There is never a moment when I am not wishing I was at sea.
I have an obsession – with the ocean.
I want to share this piece that I wrote as part of my application to a spoken word programme in London. I haven’t heard if I got in yet, but I’ll be sure to let you all know. Anyway, I believe it captures exactly how I feel about the ocean.
Ode To The Ocean
You fill my empty solitude with salt and spray and sea, The never-ending water and footprints on the beach, Your rise and fall and ups and downs, You’ve showed me all my dreams, And thanks to you, I know exactly who I want to be.
The sense of freedom and of flying, The immortal fantasy of never, ever dying, Just gliding through the waves forever and eternity, Ecstatically content and exactly where I want to be.
The mystery of your rugged beauty chained to age-old rhythm, An ever-changing surface with no predictable pattern, And far below that, in your depths, are things we’ll never see, Wild waters that are both forever trapped and forever free.
You sure know how to transform yourself into a masterpiece, Stunning sunsets, vivid colours melting into your blues and greens, Epic storms that summon the winds from all edges of the seas, Black skies, lightning strikes, moonlit clouds sitting on the breeze.
Your waves they tumble and they crash, Then they rise again from the ash Like life’s one, constant motion, Like a phoenix from the flames – the motion can’t be broken.
The wind in my sails and the waves beneath me come from you, This feeling inside me tells me what I need to do, And it tells me just where I need to be. With you, where I belong, out at sea.
Here’s an audio of me performing it – https://youtu.be/hwBGzQWqt3s
We’re moving into our new truck very soon (super excited about that) and I’ve been decorating my bed. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to having my own room and I’m putting a lot of effort into making it look aesthetic. It’s really just a reflection of me and who I am, but my main theme is the ocean. I’ve printed out tons of photos, quotes, lyrics and poetry about sailing, waves, tides, beaches and the sea – as well as making my own ocean neon sign! I haven’t got a photo of it finished, but here’s one of it half done.
It now has a big swirly wave underneath 🌊
Another thing about the ocean is all the memories it holds for me. The best days of my life have been spent in its company. It’s given me a purpose. I’ve met some of my best friends thanks to it. Ocean = sailing = 😍😍😍
That was a kinda random post about the ocean + me. Hope you enjoyed!
In my recent post I talked about an urban music and spoken word poetry performance I am going to be a part of very soon. Well, I’m here with an update on that!
The performance is on Thursday and I am SO excited.
I went to London for the rehearsals last week and it was AMAZINGGGGG!
I have two solos.
I am performing two very poignant, topical spoken word pieces written by yours truly.
At the rehearsal I spent a hardcore one and a half hours with a spoken word poet learning everything you need to know about performing.
I spent another hour running through the whole thing with the rest of the group who are sharing all different genres of music, but all with an urban twist – rap, acapella, reggae, etc.
I am basically the complete polar opposite of the word urban #countrygirrrrl so I went to the rehearsals in my wellies. Picture below!
Stay tuned for photos of the actual performance coming soon! Oh, and wish me luck, my friends! *dances* *practices like crazyyyyy*
Sooooo, I haven’t shared any of my poetry in ages and so today I’ve decided to share a sort of prose-y piece that could be classed as a very long poem or a very short story written in stanzas (sorry, I’m indecisive) that I’m particularly proud of. As always, all feedback appreciated. I love to hear from fellow poets, writers or even just people who enjoy to listen and read. Oh, and while I remember, you have until the 27th of Feb to enter Gracie M and I’s writing contest. Click HERE to read all about it!
Writing this poem was a bit of an exploratory journey for me. It took into a world of metaphors and philosophy. It taught me to travel beyond the surface. I hope it takes you guys on the same journey. Loads of love to ya all as always!
Light by Gracie Chick
Light.
On or off? I caress the switch with my fingertips, my mind racing, my head feeling like it’s about to explode, my thoughts and insecurities chasing each other in a fast-paced, never-ending, time-bomb ticking circle. On and on and on. All night. I can’t sleep.
Light.
“Please keep burning, please don’t go out. You are my only hope…” I murmur into the candle flame, my fingers hovered over its warmth. “….for I am so afraid of what the darkness holds.” I can’t sleep for I am too scared. And cold.
Light.
The only light I know is the one that shines from my iphone screen. The only beauty I know is the one that proclaims and aims for perfection, perfect body, perfect, perfect, perfect. #perfect. I must be perfect.
Light.
The only light I know is the one that keeps me warm at night and drives the dark away. The only beauty I know is the dance within its flames.
Light.
I switch you on. You hurt my eyes. You do nothing to soothe my pain.
Light.
I rely on you. You are my saviour in the darkest times.
Light.
What are you? I learned all about you in science class and then again in RE. Two very different definitions. The light of the sun or the light of Christ? Do you go deeper than that? Do you fill the cracks of the earth? Pierce the surface? Reach the most remote parts? Could you penetrate my life?
Light.
You are the only thing that keeps me going. I am grateful for your presence. I don’t know what it is about you, but I’ve sworn never to question you. So you are here and I am happy.
Light.
Could you touch me? Touch the darkest parts of my soul, the parts where the darkness flooded in and I tried to stop it, but it it filled the empty voids quicker than the speed of light, oozing in to suffocate my screams. So now I stay silent, drowning in sickly, sweet black, black treacle.
Light.
You are my halo. You are my security. You are the only thing keeping me afloat. Without you, I would burn into the ashes of hope, sink below any sort of horizon, redemption.
Light.
I’ve thought about it and I think maybe the grey is worse than the dark. The dark can be lit up with sunbeams, if you try hard enough, but the it’s the grey you really get lost in.
Light.
I’ve thought about it and maybe the reason why you and I go so well together is because both of our lives are battles. Mine a constant fight to stay above the surface, to float by with ease, staring at the sun in the sky, not looking down, ignoring my feet thrashing in the water, keeping myself afloat, keeping myself alive. Your’s is a simple fight, yet one that can never fully be won, you have one enemy and one enemy only….is the light afraid of the dark?
Light.
Greyness. It’s like paint, isn’t it? You hold a brush between your fingertips, trailing it alternately through white. Black. White. Black. White. You watch as the colours merge, your life becoming a blur between them.
‘Photo Dumps’ seem to be ‘a thing’ in the blogosphere right now. Thing is, I’m not much of a photographer. I am a writer, however, a very keen one and one searching for feedback on her work! So today’s post is going to be a ‘Writing Dump’ because someone likes to be rebellious original. It will consist of poetry, short stories and snippets of novels both finished and not.
First though, here I am with another spoken word poem, this time accompanied by creative film-making by me, starring me! Todays poem/film is called Peace For A Poet and it is about a poet on a journey to find peace in our crazy, messed-up world. Along her way she highlights all the injustices she encounters, but in the end….well, you’ll just have to watch it to find out!
I really hope you enjoyed that! As always, feedback is appreciated!
Now, onto #1 of ‘The Dump’. Oh yeah!
“I see you crying, crying like you can’t take no more. I know you’re hiding, but I don’t know what you’re hiding for.
You’re like a diamond shining underneath a billion rocks.
And no one knows the truth except me, and you, of course.
Or do you? I guess there aren’t many mirrors in the pile of rocks that crush you,
Nothing to reflect your brilliant sparkle and bounce it back to you.
Just dull grey rock, maybe you think you’re the same, just with one small difference:
you’re at the bottom of the pile, under everyone else.
Let me tell you, you’re way above them,honey, you just need to realise it.”
I like this because of its sass. It’s from a prose-y short story called Revolution.
#2
Okay, here are a few snippets from my incompleted NaNo project, The Melody Of Life:
He looked upset. “I wish I could be here to help her”
“Why can’t you?” I asked, raising my voice as anger and confusion threatened to appear, seemingly out of nowhere.
He didn’t answer, just hung his head, all trace of a smile gone.
“I said, why can’t you?” I shouted.
“Dante?” I spun around at the sound of my Mother’s wobbling voice.
“Coming, Mum.” I popped my head around the living room door.
“She misses you, you know.” I whispered, but when I looked around my Father was gone.
It was weeks before he appeared again, perhaps even a month. I was upstairs in my room, imagining as usual. I heard something at the window. Looking across, I couldn’t see anything. Just as I was turning back to stare at the blank canvas of my wall, a shadow crossed the glass. I sighed and decided to check it out. Flinging the window open, I looked out across the rooftops and, sure enough, there he was. He was sat with his back to me, gazing out at the town, swinging his legs over the edge of the garage roof.
“Hey!” I exclaimed, leaping out of the window to join him. He looked at me as I sat down next to him, no surprise in his eyes.
“Where have you been? You abandoned me!” I laughed, glad to have him back. He didn’t laugh with me.
“You don’t need me anymore.” he said. That stopped my laughter short.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “What do you mean, Dad?”
“I’m not your Dad.” he told me. That made me wince. “Look, you need to leave me behind and find your real Dad.” The power of his words really hit me hard, right where it hurts too.
I thought about explaining how I couldn’t, about how it would hurt me even more, about how I was safe here, with him, but somehow my argument sounded feeble now.
“You may not need me, but you do need this.” I watched as he pulled a scrap of dusty orange paper from his jeans pocket and handed it to me.
I traced Sahra’s handwriting across its surface. “Where did you get this?” I breathed.
“Call her.” he said, and with that he jumped from the roof.
“Dad!” I cried, looking over the edge, but he was gone. Probably forever.
Just to say, this is his imaginary Dad, his real one left when he was young.
“How did you know I was on the roof today? How did you see me?” I asked
She laughed a little. “That would be because I was on the roof too.”
I was astonished. “You were? You were on my roof?”
“No! My roof, silly.”
“Oh.” It was obvious now I thought about it.
“It’s a great spot for thinking, no?” she stared dreamily out of the window.
“Yeah, you also get a pretty damn good phone signal up there too.” I joked.
She laughed softly.
An attempt at humour. 😉
We walked for a long time in silence. Finally, I spoke. “Sahra?”
“Mmmm.”
“Thank you.”
“What for?”
“Today.”
“Oh. That’s okay.”
“You know what you did, right?”
“I guess so.”
“You took me into the real world and you’ve made it hard for me to leave.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“When your life does have bits missing, it’s easy to slip into a place which isn’t entirely real. Before I met you I had cut myself off, wrapped myself up in my imagination, hidden from the truth. I created a place that’s perfect, too perfect, a fantasy.”
“And I drew you out of it?”
“Exactly. You’ve changed me in the few days we’ve spent together. You’ve shown me how amazing reality can be and now I don’t want to go back to my old ways.”
Sahra stepped in front of me. “Dante, you don’t have to.”
I clenched my fists. “You know what it’s like, Sahra. You know it’s hard for me.”
“Yes, Dante.” she whispered softly. “But it’s not impossible. I’ll help you, Jenita will help you, so will Paige and everyone.”
“There’s something else I need to tell you.”
Ooh, the drama!
“Please.” I asked empty space. I felt my way blindly through my thoughts. “I’m not five. You have to tell me what’s happened.”
I heard a sigh, it was strangely muffled. “Look. Get your head out of that pillow and I’ll explain everything.”
I lifted my head and blinked in the light.
Neeeeext!
I punched in her number, just to see what it looked like on the screen. It was attractive. I laughed quietly to myself, I never found the prospect of numbers or figures exciting. Maths was not something I revelled in.
Hehe.
I have to tell you the truth after all this time. I’m not much of a writer, you know that, but I’ll try to explain the best I can. Please don’t expect any eloquence because that’s one thing I can’t provide.
I am and always will be your friend, but I have to tell you this (you may hate me for it afterwards and never want to speak to me again, but I’ll accept that as my fate). I lied to you all along. It felt terrible to deceive you, but I promise I was only trying to help.
You know, if you ask nicely I might even give you some more snippets, but for now…..*closes book*…..the end.
#3
The Angel Of Peace
I arise,
Shrouding shawl wrapped around my compassionate shoulders,
Ascending from the wrath of 195 nation’s past.
From the eye of the storm reflected in their vision,
From the glint on the blade of a metallic winking sword,
And from the release of a gun.
From two hands interlocked, stained with the blood of enemies and comrades combined,
I arise, the angel of peace.
Just another lil’ poem on the not so lil’ subject of peace.
As part of my home school curriculum, I am doing a project called Words That Burn. It was launched by Amnesty International and is aimed at teaching young people about human rights, whilst encouraging them in their creative writing, mainly poetry. Learning at its best, in my view.
So, today I wanted to share a poem that we had to analyse in my project. It’s a really powerful and beautiful piece by spoken word artist Dean Atta, on the topic of identity. After that, we had to write our own poem, about our identity.
However, before we go into all of that exciting stuff, I have an important announcement to make! 🙂 You can now go vote for the nominees in Megan’s Part 1 of the Best Of 2017 Blogging Awards! I am literally jumping up and down right now because I WAS NOMINATED IN TWO CATEGORIES! Wow, I never expected that. Anyway, go vote! And good luck! *proceeds to dance around the room*
Okay, so coming back to the poem. I present, I Come From by Dean Atta.
I come from shepherd’s pie and Sunday roast Jerk chicken and stuffed vine leaves I come from travelling through my taste buds but loving where I live
I come from a home that some would call broken I come from D.I.Y. that never got done I come from waiting by the phone for him to call
I come from waving the white flag to loneliness I come from the rainbow flag and the union jack I come from a British passport and an ever-ready suitcase
I come from jet fuel and fresh coconut water I come from crossing oceans to find myself I come from deep issues and shallow solutions
I come from a limited vocabulary but an unrestricted imagination I come from a decent education and a marvellous mother I come from being given permission to dream but choosing to wake up instead
I come from wherever I lay my head I come from unanswered questions and unread books Unnoticed effort and undelivered apologies and thanks
I come from who I trust and who I have left I come from last year and last year and I don’t notice how I’ve changed I come from looking in the mirror and looking online to find myself
I come from stories, myths, legends and folk tales I come from lullabies and pop songs, Hip Hop and poetry I come from griots, grandmothers and her-story tellers
I come from published words and strangers’ smiles I come from my own pen but I see people torn apart like paper Each a story or poem that never made it into a book.
I just love love love some of the lines in this, they’re so poignant. “waving the white flag to loneliness” “crossing oceans to find myself” “being given permission to dream, but choosing to wake up instead” I could go on and on and on. Seriously.
Now comes the challenging part. I had to write a poem like his: an I come from….. poem. So I sat down and made a list of the things that have shaped my identity and then crafted them into this poem.
I Come From by Gracie Chick
I come from words springing from emptiness,
I come from the pages of a book,
I come from misty mornings in my mind and conversations long into the night,
I come from the flames of a candle and the glowing embers of a campfire
I come from struggles and determination and an overwhelming desire for true friendship.
I come from missing the sunrise and waiting all day for it to set.
I come from craving beauty in a world I want to change,
I come from tears and discontentment,
I come from dreaming big
I come from two amazing hearts that never lose faith.
I come from wanting more than black and white
I come from music that no one else hears and stories that no one else sees,
or writes.
I come from a river of ink and a land of where the honey is too sticky and sweet and the milk soured long ago.
Hope that made sense to you guys! Now, the big question is……
Where do you come from???
Please answer in the comments, debating is more than welcome!
And now, time for the second big announcement. Some of you might remember reading my discussion post on makeup a few weeks ago. If so, you’ll probably recall that I included a section detailing the thoughts of many different teens throughout the blogosphere. The result was amazing and everyone really got into the discussion element of it. So, I was thinking I’d make this a regular thing. If you’re interested in contributing your opinions to these future discussion posts, please drop me an email at graciechick29@gmail.com
Then, whenever I need your thoughts, I’ll send out an email (probably monthly) and you can reply with your contributions. This is aimed mainly at teens, but if you’re older or younger and would still like to participate, feel free. Also, if you sign up, you don’t have to participate very time. If you’re ever too busy or just don’t want to contribute that’s totally fine. Hoping to see lots of interest in this!
What did you think of Dean Atta’s Poem? What about mine? Complete this sentence: I come from…
Are you going to sign up to give your opinions in my future discussion posts?
The poem is a little special to me, you see, because, after years of writing, I wrote about how things are in my country, how reality has nothing to do but to lie there with glazed eyes, because everyone is waiting, and just waiting some more, for a change. It’s like walking through honey, and change is bitter and hard work; most people here simply curse it. The few who risk a try get trapped in this spider web of lethargy. Time stills. No one moves. Everything stays the same and hypocrisy prevails.
These words are a perfect introduction to a stunning poem that I am about to share with you all. The author is Flaw Rainlight Here is how she describes herself:
Hey there! I’m Flaw Rainlight and often write under the name of T. E. Pyrus. I live in the company of five wonderful cats and writing is a passion. I also learn and love classical dance and music.
When I first tried my hand at writing, I was about six years old, exploring Dr. Seuss and R. L. Stevenson. That was probably soon after realized my love and awe of books, the way they preserve dreams and lives of people, real and imaginary, for decades and centuries.
I remember thinking at one point, when I was bothered by the lack of fun things to read on a short vacation with my parents, that if I couldn’t find things to read, why couldn’t try writing them?
And thus, my imagination, fueled first by boredom, and later by curiosity, passion and a desire to challenge myself further, spilled into little rhymes and incomplete stories. (I’m still mortified that my mother keeps a firm hold on those notebook pages of childish rambling.)
Eventually, encouraged and supported lovingly by friends, family and absolute strangers, I decided to bring my work out into this scary outside world. I began to explore spoken word and set up this blog as a medium to reach out to people like you, who care about writing, and write about caring. After all, thinkers and writers unfurl from the burning fire within to love the world and everything in it, and to witness its evolution that many simply walk past without another glance.
Wow. She certainly I’d talented. Here is her wonderfully deep and meaningful piece:
‘SNAPSHOT’
Curiosity stares through tinted glasses at railway tracks that glint darker in the sun; the house crow that pecks on the ties in between looks only slightly greyer than its shadow. The diesel smoke and incense mist lie faintly over red painted benches that infrequently decorate the station platform. Glass doored cabinets in miniature stalls hold jars of hard candy, myriad pan filling and sugared tamarind sweets to charm the mouth, brightly coloured foil packets of biscuits and sweetened milk cake lie sulking on the icebox, liberally filled with ice cream and badam milk, mishti doi and lassi, chilled soda in orange, brown, and green, sealed bottles of water for people to please. People and more people with stranger clothes and faces scurry and stumble, then scramble and hurry up the overbridge and down to platform number four with sari and suitcase, toddler with a missing shoe. Cartons of fresh iced fish to be sold a thousand miles away settle comfortably on the floor of the parcel compartment, painted blue, like all the thirty and one passenger coaches tailing the rusty red engine that punctuates the chaos with sleepy sighs and anxious whistles. Footsteps and wheels run briskly here, yet time runs ever slowly still in rhythm with the ceaseless chant – “cha~i coffee! co~ffee chai! cha~i coffee!…”
Demons haunted my sleep. “You have seen us and so you will die.” they hissed. I tried to wake up, but there was something about this slumber that was different. It felt like I was in a prison, trapped in the darkness and unable to free myself. I struggled for every minute of the seemingly endless sleep to wake up and find my way out.
Finally I broke through, gasping and sweating. My fingers closed around my cloak, it was covered in dried, crimson blood. I eased myself back down and stared up through at the canopy of leaves. Sunlight seeped through the gaps between the branches and touched my skin. It was so bright! I never knew how good the light was until that moment. I glanced around me.
I was laying on a sort of mossy bank and I could hear what sounded like a brook, bubbling somewhere nearby. I reached up to touch my head, it was pounding in a most peculiar and painful manner. My hand brushed a ragged cloth, again I could tell that it was crusted with blood.
“Faith.” my voice came out like a croak. “My name is Faith.” This made me laugh, despite myself. I don’t know why I was so deliriously happy. Perhaps it was because I knew I didn’t have Amnesia. I remembered the Ambassador and his strange behaviour in the moments before my accident. I even remembered the force of his hand pushing me hard to the floor.
Salty tears run down my cheeks. I trusted him. I thought he was good and kind and wanting to be my friend. I was so naive and now I had paid. I struggled to my knees and gritted my teeth against the searing, throbbing pain that plagued my head. “Ah!” I used the tiny incy bit of strength I had to heave myself to my feet and stumble off into the trees.
I had only walked a couple a steps when I began to feel extremely dizzy. I tried so hard to hold myself up, but it was no use.
I fell.
I don’t know how long I laid there, half conscious and moaning. It could have been minutes, even seconds, or it could have been hours. I only recollect two familiar arms folding themselves around my body and lifting me gently up.
Up, up, up.
High.
I was on top of the world.
All I could see was a deep, never-ending blackness, and I felt lost. “What if I’ve gone blind?” Stupid thoughts filled my barely conscious mind. Then I heard his voice and I didn’t care either way. “It’s ok.” he soothed, sitting me back down on the moss, I could feel its comforting springiness. I couldn’t see his eyes so I had no idea how he was feeling.
“I can’t see your eyes.” I whimpered. “Try opening your own.” he laughed. I did and was so overjoyed that I forgot to feel silly for not thinking of it before.
“Phoenix.” I spoke the word slowly, cocking my head to one side. An understanding passed between us. “The bird that rose from the darkness in a glorious burst of flames and lit up the world with its light.”
This was so different to the way I had imagined telling him the name I’d chosen, but it seemed like the perfect moment. “I’m sorry, Faith.” he whispered. “You will forgive me, won’t you?”
“Of course!” I cried. “But why did you do it?”
His answer distressed me even further. “Because you’re my friend.”
“Then why did you push me?” My head started pounding again.
“I didn’t want you to leave. I knew they’d come to take you away from me and I, being the selfish person I am, wanted you to stay. I’m sorry, Faith. It wasn’t your fault. I was just hurt, and angry that you had to be taken away from me so soon.” he hung his head “Now I’ve ruined every chance I ever had of changing. I can never change, the dark side has crept into my mind and is poisoning me. I understand if you don’t trust me any more.”
I began to laugh and he glared at me. “Phoenix-” “Call me Ambassador.” He was angry with himself, I think he was on the edge of absolute despair. I had to make him understand.
“But I was never going to go with them! I decided that long before you found me!”
“What!? Don’t be stupid, Faith. They’re your friends.” he smiled ruefully. “So are you.” I said softly, turning sadly away.
“Huh?”
“I said you’re my friend too!”
He hugged me then, tightly like he’d never let me go. “Are you sure?” he asked, doubtfully. “Yes!” I exclaimed. “Phoenix, no one has ever been a better friend to me. No one has ever shown me so much, inspired me more, trusted me with their very identity. Honestly, please believe me.”
He gave a slight nod of his head, too overcome with emotion to speak. I nodded back happily and then sank, exhausted, back onto the mossy bank to sleep.
Da da da! All has been revealed! I find character’s motives in stories quite fascinating, don’t you? What did you think of The Ambassador’s name? I decided to stick with the original one that I chose. I think it suits him. Do you like the sort of prose-y vibe that I snuck into this installment? I hoped it would compliment the drama of this part of the storyline. Please leave me all your thoughts, questions and ideas in the comments below! It’s much appreciated, guys.
Remember me as I was before things changed and took a lifelong pause. Remember the me that was so sure that life could be shaped the me that was pure. Remember me back when we did not think that in a blink things would be so different I did not know what this meant. Remember […]
I read this post and just had to share it. It is authored by the wonderful Elsie L.M.C, an inspiring blogger who genuinely cares about others. She wrote this poem about Alzheimer’s, a disease that affects so many of our older generation. It focuses on the fact that we so often judge people on who they are now, caught in an inescapable mess of muddled memories, sometimes unable to communicate or interact with others. But we forget about the person they used to be and still are, deep inside.
Me and my family cared for a 96-year-old gentleman for seven months and he had dementia, so I know what its like. It can be confusing, saddening and frustrating for everyone. But that just makes the moments when he smiled or laughed even more special and joyful. We need to raise awareness about Alzheimer’s, so I have shared Elsie’s post with you today. Please enjoy….
