My Hands

Though small and delicate, sensitive and fragile, my hands held your's and carried you. Through trials and tribulations, through pain and through happiness, through your strength and weakness. And when you were weak they provided you with strength and support. But you crushed them. You held on so tight you cut off my blood supply and drained the colour from them.
   
     You placed a ring on my finger, so beautiful and special. It left an indent, forever engraved. Even when I removed it, I felt it. Even when you made it lose it's meaning, it clung onto my hand, searching for a new one or desperately trying to bring back the old
   
     I used to hate the way you ran your fingernails underneath mine, until your mother explained the childlike connection; then I stopped asking you to stop; I stopped pulling my hand from yours, as the overwhelming feeling of endearment replaced the irritation.
   
     When you left, I started painting my nails bright colours; colours that clashed with one another; colours which alternated from nail to nail. I tattooed my index finger with a brash, bold statement - it made me feel empowered, somewhat, to do something I wanted to do despite it being impractical.
   
     I wouldn't be honest if I said I no longer missed holding your hand. Although, perhaps it's fairer to say: I miss you holding mine.

I Have a Dream

After taking respite in the comfort of my home and with family, I have managed to get back into the working mind frame and sat and approached the next part of my end of year independent project for university. I decided, as my independent project, to construct a critical essay on the works of Bob Dylan, entitled 'Politics and Poetry'. Needless to say, a lot of background research has been required of me each time I sit and attempt to analyse any of his protest songs.
   
     Today I started to look at 'Only a Pawn in Their Game', a song Dylan wrote about  the assassination of civil rights activist Medgar Evers. I discovered that he performed this song on the 1963 March on Washington, where later Martin Luther King delivered his 'I have a dream' speech. This urged me to sit and watch the speech in it's entirety, which I'd never done before. No matter how many times I hear this it never ceases to send goose pimples all over my body and tears to my eyes. An inspirational man, epically inspirational words.

When Words Won't Do

'C'

 If I wrote you a poem

what would you say?

You’d know how I think,

see things my way

You’ve not changed

just moved onto the next

The same little prat

who initials his texts.

What do you know, really

- about me?

Your psychoanalysis tires

and frustrates me, and your moral highground.

That’s what you do

So fuck you and fuck her too.