The Ceiling

Another poem for you all after you seemed to like the last one. There are a couple of reasons for posting it now. One, I’m having a rubbish week and I can’t seem to finish any of the five drafted posts I’ve got on the go, so I’m falling back on something I wrote before. Two, said rubbish week is exactly what I’m talking about in this poem. Mental health is hard enough to talk about, but the times it really needs to be out there are these times, when it’s actually got you in its grip, even though that’s the time it’s hardest to write about it.

Hopefully it’ll be back to ranting and pontificating as usual soon – until then, I hope you all like it.

The Ceiling

October

No, it’s OK, I can read my calendar, honest. As promised elsewhere, here is a poem I wrote ages ago and wanted to share with you lot. It’s mainly based on one particular night a few years ago, then got oh-so-romantically renamed when I got together with someone one November evening, and then got unceremoniously changed back because it was a silly idea to change it in the first place. Sometimes I wonder if there’s such a difference between October and November nights – I think it’s the change in the kind of cold that you feel when you’re out at night, and how much you feel you need your coat. For me, October is the time to play chicken, and see how long I can hold out with just a jumper. It’s easier when there’s someone to hug. Anyway, enough rambling. I hope you enjoy the poem – I’m dead nervous about posting it up and it’s taken ages to muster the stones to do it, so please be extra nice!


October

Footprints

Footprints

I just came across this absolute gem, and felt it needed sharing to the ends of the earth and back :) Utterly beautiful, and completely sums up a lot of things for me right now. I’ll be writing some stuff of my own at some point soon, though probably a bit drier than this! Until then…

J.T. Carlton

For her, falling in love
Was just what it sounded like,
A clumsy mishap;
She stepped in a fresh,
Warm pile and tried
To scrape it off
The bottoms of her shoes,
But that’s always
Easier said than done.
Now, she tracks it along
Wherever she goes,
Leaving little footprints
On sidewalks and
In her friend’s apartments.
Sorry,” she says,
“I’ll clean that up.”
But it’s too late.
They all swap glances,
And no one says a thing,
But everyone knows
You don’t just
Wash love off the floor
With lemon water.

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