mypoetrynotebook

[mypoetrynotebook]

I Don’t Know How To Write Love Poems

I wanted to write you something

But I don’t know how to write love poems.

The words don’t quite sound right,

The metaphors feel cheesy,

And it all feels so over done that for the life of me

I don’t know how to write love poems.

Maybe it’s the fact I thought I’d never have someone to write a love poem about,

Or my difficulty to put my feelings into words,

But really what words can be used to describe

How I genuinely feel overwhelmed with love by you.

By when you hold me close to you,

Or play with my hair,

Or let me talk endlessly about something you’ve never seen.

How could I possibly explain why every time I see something purple I smile

Because I know it’s your favourite colour

So much so you dyed your hair to match

And I get to enjoy playing with the purple strands, feeling the softness on my fingers.

Or how that smile you say you hate is so fucking contagious,

And when I look at the photos of you or us

I break into a wide smile every time.

Or how brilliant I find your mind,

Regardless of what you have to say.

Or how inspiring I find your bravery,

Even when you don’t know you’re being brave.

Or how hard you make me laugh,

Because God you make me cry laughing even without trying.

You make me feel more cared for than I thought I ever could be

So even though I don’t know how to write love poems

I hope you’ll accept this one anyway

Because you deserve to have a love poem written about you.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Do Not Ask Me About Osamu Dazai

Do not ask me about Osamu Dazai!

Not because I don’t know anything about him.

On the contrary, while I don’t claim to be an expert

I’m far from it

I do certainly know more than what you’d expect about a Japanese author who died in 1948

At least for a 19 year old Brit in the 21st century.

I read “No Longer Human” and a bit about his life

And from then I was hooked and on a mission to know, well,

Everything.

The autism kicked in

And one thing led to another

And now I’ve had friends tell me I’m better than google when it comes to the subject

While also telling me over and over “you have uni tomorrow, oh my god go to sleep!”

But once the info dumping starts it cannot be helped

The information rushes from my brain

Bursting out my mouth

As though I’m desperately throwing it all up.

But hey, once it’s over, you might know a bit more about the Japanese aristocracy than you used to.

Do not ask me about Dazai Osamu’s life.

I have his autobiography on kindle

And all books relating to him from my university library pinned on my laptop,

Despite the fact I’m not even fucking studying him for class.

Not to mention most of his books are semi-autobiographical anyway!

So unless you want to hear how he was born into an aristocratic family and lived through the death the Japanese aristocracy

How despite being a raging misogynist,

He was extremely left wing and his conflicting identities of aristocrat and communist caused a lot of his depression

How he was mainly raised by his aunt who taught him Buddhism despite his works mainly referencing Christianity

How he was a drug and alcohol addict,

How he threatened to kill himself if his idol didn’t meet him

And said idol became his mentor

How he lost his dad at a very young age and had complex feelings about him when he was alive

Do not ask me about Osamu Dazai’s death.

That is unless you want to be thoroughly creeped out by how excited I get when I talk about it.

I’m not proud but when you learn that he died via lovers suicide with his mistress

Not long after finishing his most famous work

Said work being seen as his suicide note,

You’d understand.

Only 6 days before his 39th birthday

And wasn’t found until said birthday,

Finished his suicide note with a message of how everything passes

And a conversation between two characters talking about him after he died,

A book titled “good bye” already being started to be written but never finished

A message left about his mentor calling him evil

Even though they’d been so close,

I quickly became a detective!

Frantic and wishing to know exactly what was going on in his mind.

A mission impossible for me to finish until I meet the man in hell.

My interest is morbid, I know

And I’m probably scaring you with the juxtaposition of my smiling face and depressing words.

Which is why I’m telling you now,

Do not ask me about Dazai Osamu’s books.

Specifically not about “No Longer Human”

My own copy’s front cover has started to fall off

From the amount of times I’ve opened it.

While it’s not the only one of his I’ve read

It’s my favourite book and his most famous work.

It’s a book I ran out of sticky tabs while annotating.

My grandma asked me once if it was for school and I corrected her saying

“No, this is entirely for fun.”

Dazai may have been a shitty person

But he was far from a shitty writer.

My growing collection of all works that have been translated into English,

Bought black and white

Now colourful and written on,

Just proves my love for them.

So unless you have blocked off 3 hours of your day I repeat,

Do not ask me about Osamu Dazai.

Please note, the above warning also applies to the game ace attorney, my dungeons and dragons characters, the movie/musical Heathers, and anime.

You have been warned.

[mypoetrynotebook]

The Mystery Grandchild

I am what my nana describes as “the mystery grandchild”.

The grandchild no one on her branch of the family knows about, aside from my dad

An inevitable consequence of living several hours away from each other

With the once in a blue moon visit

And the yearly 5 minute phone call to fill in the gaps.

With every character defining moment missed

And every word left unsaid

My life becomes a puzzle with large chunks missing.

I keep the pieces of me close to my chest

Think over each one with careful consideration before placing it before you

Keeping my punk music and smudged eyeliner tucked into my pocket

Scrubbing violently at my eyes before we meet.

I present to you my enjoyment of musicals,

But refrain from my interest in true crime.

And I smile as I tell you how I love to write

But don’t dare mention the messages of my work

And the passion for politics and the deep emotions that fuel it.

I give you enough puzzle pieces to fill the border of my puzzle

But never enough to give it any true meaning

I love you nana,

But you will never get to truly love me.

You claim I am a mystery, and oh how right you were!

You don’t even know my real name.

From sexuality to gender,

To monogamy Vs polyamory,

I’m queer in ways they haven’t even invented yet!

A walking pride flag

Colourful and loud and proud

Both to those I trust and to passers by on the street who see my pins.

Pins that you, along with my labels, will never get to see.

Instead I keep them locked away, hidden and out of sight

On the top shelf too high for you to reach

I protect it from you and your scorn.

I rationalise it, I hear so little from you as it is

You not knowing doesn’t make much of a difference

So I’ll keep cringing at a name that now sounds alien

And smirk to myself as you ask if I have a boyfriend

I’d rather do that than become nothing but family gossip.

And the small “oh” you let out at the brief mention of lgbt rights

And yours, and other family members complaints when my aunt came out as a trans woman

Solidified that choice.

You want to know me before you go

But I’m sorry, I do not trust you with who I am

Little effort has been made on either side

And it’s something I don’t fault you for.

But when people ask me how I could consider cutting someone off so easily

I have to ask

is it really cutting someone off

When you never truly knew each other in the first place?

[mypoetrynotebook]

The Mother

(Terfs and non intersectional feminists DNI) (because frankly if you’re a terf or only practice white feminism you’re not a feminist, argue with a wall about it)

—

The men line up in single file,

Congregate and wait

To meet her in all her glory.

A being tailor made just for them,

At least that’s what those in charge say.

Men in robes, order “one after another

No pushing. You’ll all get a turn to speak.

To ask what you please and to say what you will

She was made just for you

So enjoy her as you wish!”

The man at the head of the line stops when he sees her.

They always do.

She sits kneeling before each of them,

Head lowered.

Her long ocean hair trails down her back

Moth wings folded as to not appear threatening

And many arms to assist them in any way she can.

Still, the men know not to touch.

They know not even to try for she is a thing to only be admired from afar.

That is the only boundary put in place.

She doesn’t know how long she has been here

But she answers each question with a bright smile anyway

He asks “how do I get this girl to like me?”

She replies “be yourself.”

He whines “I’ll die alone”

She replies “you’re still young.”

He asks “do you think I’m a good person”

And she tells him “yes of course.”

And he compliments her and says “you give great advice!”

Most advice is real

Some is what they want to hear.

She’s an expert now.

She isn’t stupid. She knows their desires are Freudian

They call her mother, while picturing her naked

And on her back

But she is here to make them happy

So she pushes back the bile

Pretends her knees don’t ache

And forcefully smiles at each and every one.

But what the men don’t know

Their eyes so focused on themselves,

Is that her skin has begun to crack and rip,

Making golden gaps.

She pulls the pieces of herself back together

Sticking them with safety pins

She exists for them

She mustn’t break

She mustn’t snap

She is there for them and who is she beyond that?

So each day goes past

He asks “was I abusive?”

And she ignores everything that says yes

He whines “i wish I could be with you”

And she does her best to care

He asks “who out of these three girls should I date?”

And she wonders if he even likes any of them

And he compliments her and says “you give great advice!”

Days, weeks, months pass.

Always the same men

Always the same problems

No following her advice

No regard for her time.

Fatigue works it’s way through her bones,

Rage bubbles up through the cracked skin

Why are they even here when they don’t listen?

Why do they not care how I feel

When all I’ve done is care for them?

Why do they still look at me that way while asking about other women

and calling me mum?

The skin peels and rips and tears

Dark blue frantically thrown away

This time replaced with gold

And dark, fiery hair

And stronger bones to stand on

And moth wings spread wide.

The men line in single file,

Congregate and wait to meet her

In all her glory.

But she is no longer for them.

When the first man approaches, she refuses to kneel.

He asks “how do i decide which girl to ask out?!”

She tells him “stop viewing every woman you meet as a potential date.”

He says “my last girlfriend was toxic”

And she says “no, you were clingy, possessive and used her to try and make yourself feel better”

He asks “how could you say that?!”

She tells him “I’m tired of being the mother you want to fuck.”

He tells her she’s a bitch

She laughs.

That’s the best compliment a man has ever given her.

[mypoetrynotebook]

A Man Was Shot In New York City

Brief disclaimer before this poem so I can limit the amount of pitchforks my way, obviously I don’t condone murder. That said, when you’ve got one man responsible multiple people’s deaths and it’s between his and theirs….trolly problem bby. Second, this poem is ultimately about the handling of the CEO’s death vs the many working class people who also get shot every year. Also, I’m from the UK, not the US. I did research for this poem but if anything stated is incorrect, I apologise

Lastly, Trump supporters and Elon Musk stans or any other n@zi’s (cuz that’s what y’all are) will be blocked so don’t bother interacting

Now that that’s out the way, let’s get on with it

—

A man was shot in New York City!

What do you mean ‘so?’

Don’t you care?

No no, this one is different than the other 503 people who were also shot this year

I swear it!

Well for starters, he had a family.

A wife and two boys.

Yeah that’s it, that’s what makes him different

From those other people who get shot,

Because I bet they’re all lower class,

Gang loving hooligans anyway.

Or maybe they had a criminal record,

Or were unkind once.

Certainly non of them were married or had children.

Regardless, now that wife has to drive her boys to school alone!

Don’t you know on Monday they have to be prepared to practice

For when their school gets shot up?

Their dad needed to be there to give them advice about that!

A man was shot in New York City!

No, you don’t understand.

This man was a business owner.

See what I mean, very different.

Yes, yes I know a lot of people “own businesses.”

Small businesses, independent businesses,

Blah blah blah,

Those are different!

His business was more valuable to capitalism.

No, no, you’re taking words out my mouth!

I just mean he helped a lot of people.

Don’t listen to the woman with stage 4 cancer who got her meds rejected every month!

Or the many others whose loved ones died because of him rejecting healthcare!

What? No sorry I’ve not heard of the trolly problem.

Look, we’re getting off topic.

The point is a man was shot in New York City!

Look, I’m all for revolution

But honestly what good revolution

Includes a man dying in broad daylight?

No not that one.

Not that one either.

No shut up about that one, we changed it for our white text books.

Can’t have the oppressed getting ideas.

And with a reward of 0.1% of his net worth

I can finally pay for grans hip replacement!

I still can’t afford a heart bypass though.

Well, assuming they actually give that reward at all I mean.

But regardless it doesn’t matter

Because a man was shot in New York City!

And you should care because

Now millionaires are scared for their lives.

It’s meant to just be the lower class who has to worry about that!

It’s different because they have families

No

It’s different because they have businesses

No

It’s different because the government cares

No.

A man was shot in New York City.

You should care,

Because he had enough money for you to care.

And the rest can die like dogs.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Dear My Partners Father

(My partner gave me permission to share this poem dw)

—

Dear my partners father,

Your child held my hand tonight.

Their skin was soft in my hand and the tingles of their thumb against my knuckles still remains

And I felt so much love in that simple touch.

A kind of genuine love I’ve felt from so few people

And they feel the same in turn.

And I think about how interesting it is

That a man who cannot comprehend such a love

Could have anything to say about ours.

Feeling the right to judge two men who hold hands,

Or two women who kiss,

Or someone who wants to be known by a different name and to love themselves.

Sir, you do not know much about me.

My partner and I made sure of that.

But I know a lot about you.

Your child told me as I held them,

Tears in their eyes.

It’s ironic to me that a man who doesn’t know how to love his own child,

How to be loyal to his own wife,

How to even respect himself,

Could have anything to say about my god damn relationship.

While I keep my pride pins hidden from you

For the safety of my partner,

Let it be known I wear them proudly.

Sir, you can call me disgusting all you like,

Coming from you I take that as a compliment

Because with your hairline, patchy tan and head so far up your own ass

I take pride in making you uncomfortable

Sort of like a gift to myself in exchange for having to tolerate your presence.

One day you may know that your child holds my hand,

And sends me messages saying they love me,

And that they’re my biggest creative inspiration,

And ask to cuddle me on the nights we share a bed,

Or you may not.

I’ll be happy with either option.

My partner’s comfortability will always come first.

But no matter what, I want you to know that I’ll be good to them,

Treat them better than you ever treat them or your wife,

And no matter what you might say about it,

I’m gonna keep holding their hand.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Untitled

When my lungs breathe their final breath,

When my eyes close for good,

When my blood no longer flows,

Sprinkle my ashes in our garden.

From the ground my disintegrated blood will plant a poppy,

And reborn I will watch over you.

The crematorium fire may remove the flesh of my heart,

But it will do nothing to deter my devotion.

And when your time comes, my love,

As it does for all,

Your petals will grow next to mine,

Just as beautiful as you were as the day we first met,

And our roots will intertwine together,

And in the soil, our souls will reunite forever.

[mypoetrynotebook]

One Person Race

You run a one person race,

Only one on the track.

The crowd and I watch you jump over hurdles,

Sweat sticking to your skin,

Pebbles in your shoes.

You proudly proclaim that you’ll win first place.

And you will.

But the thing about running a race

While the only one on the track

Is that the first place winner

Is the loser too.

[mypoetrynotebook]

Meet the writer

Hey, welcome to my blog! This is a side blog for me to basically have a place to keep and share all my poetry outside of open mic nights

My main blog is @northlight14 so if you see any work on there that is repeated here, I promise it’s the same person, not me stealing

I’m a British, queer, neurodivergent leftist and this is heavily reflected in my work. Don’t like it? Leave🤷

I’m 20 years old and my writing is still developing as I do. I take constructive criticism

I’m aiming to get at least one poem posted every month

Thank you for being here and giving my writing a chance❤️

[mypoetrynotebook]

Don’t Hold Onto Roses

I loved you the same way a child loves a rose.

Too distracted by the beauty of the red petals to see any danger.

I remember how people warned me

"Don't hold onto roses,

Beware of it's thorns!"

Those jagged spikes you saw so natural.

Yet still I held onto you,

Admiring those pretty petals.

Sharp edges broke my skin,

Crimson pouring down my hands and arms.

But the thing about pain is you become numb to it after a while.

The stinging becomes your default feeling,

The scars are not yet formed,

And the red dripping down arm only makes me more like you.

After too long I was pulled away.

I don't know if it was my own decision or someone else's.

I just know my hand felt empty without you,

Without your petals distracting me from the pain.

The scabs and scars are visible now

Some healed,

Some not,

Some newly opened.

And now I'm the one who stands and says

"Don't hold onto roses.

Beware of their thorns."