she used to crave symmetry
but recently she's been gorging on chaos
it fills her up but unfulfilling is the gap
opened by her loss

the more she pours into it
the more the cliff crumbles
into waves of need unfruitful

chaos leaves only debris
watch it swallowed
like your sorrow
by the relentless sea

I see signals in other women's heartache
She doesn't want to be this miserable
portrayed by a thump thump and a catcall
"Your reputation proceeds you"
The one they branded on you
to swallow till you fall
reduced to a statue of lust
cracks in all the things I want to trust
so seduced by my stress
perplexed by the mess
of what's been said
he's a **** but,
in his head
he's infected by sincere ideas  
to strategize the fear he feels and creates
standing up to monsters you fed that ******
then fled to be branded again
With unwilling touch
curses and hexes
hummed under his breath
still i'm vexed by whispers that keep me awake
reminding me, how easy I break
I won't feel the shift
I won't see him repent
Until everyone knows the meaning of
CONSENT

This is her obligatory story
There are shards in every women I see
Because none of us are liberated
Until all of us are free

We've been silenced
Sentenced
And not taken seriously
She
Her attitude her attire
Her reputation
Her beauty
The weight of moment
Shifting through me
I move through time like my agenda isn't living
Because you gave thst a different meaning

Every walk

A fable you follow to re-define
you're just a drifting journey
Shifting as time reminds
The speed you want to observe
It's easy to swerve, rewind
and reminisce in the bliss
Stung with the force of a fist
Too naïve to privileges
Vows we've stained with sacrilege
Promises pained with a phantom kiss
Whispers of locked lands, levitation and foraging
Moonlight sour with forgiveness
investigations to find our minds myths

Trapped in an internal orchestra meditation
That binds us to the trees
Like you're tied to the sound of the sea
A separate generation
Entwined on the same path to be free
Triumph in a ship that sets course to breathe
Leaving better ways to make history

Crucial cemeteries of virtual memories
An abominable sorrow
The cockles of cuckoos fools food tomorrow
Hestia's restless with reckoning
Following fables less
Suppressed by the mess of her head
Following nonsense yet to be said
Follow the scent of juniper to bed
Burnt out fireplaces
Save your graces
for fables that subdue you to death

Home is an old red rucksack that my mother took round Chile
filled with my baggiest trackies for months
where home is trains and tubes and my headphones on coaches
Home is the rain when it batters the outside of a humble caravan
Home is a little wood burner, and a long green coat that was gifted unintentionally
and worn by many

Home is waiting for the triangle bus
Home is a cup of coffee in the right shaped mug
Home is a cigarette, shared with my sister in a pub
Home is our brother owning the pool table, modest and silent
Home is now the sea, but not in summer
mid-November waves, rough and lonely

Home is the river, the flow and the feeling
the fish and the constellations of a shared celling
Home is mums’ casserole and fresh bread still warm but under proved
Home is a shed, strangled with ivy
Home is tea and malt milk biscuits
Home is magic stars pasta beans and cheese and Netflix
Home is my duvet
Home is crumbs creeping into a lumpy mattress

Home is the day, lazy and underwhelming
Home is grandmas own tomatoes
Home is a laugh from an inside joke
Home is her long red hair, her stumbles and soup
Home is hazel eyes singing, by light from candles in old gin bottles

Home is a spoons breakfast with zero sleep
Home is a sink full of washing up
Home is cobwebs and a faded hoodie stained with paint and the smell of hash
Home is sharpened knife that can nicely slice when I am cooking to the bass my mini rig creates

Home is in the woods a maze of plot twists
mapped in childhoods haze of coordinates
Home holds smiles from guests and strangers who become family
Home is vats of marmalade, in sticky jars that collect dust they sit for so long
Home is the chorus of a Finley Quay song
Home is the journey I am on

Home is the field
the mud when its ripe beneath my toes
the grass worn with love
Home is a guitar (sandy with stickers)
I am home in her lyrics that swirl through the air
captivate by this Home we created
and our feet know the pattens of the beat
Home is the taste of freshly smashed melon
Home is a cluster of tents around a fire
and a tarp of scribbles

Home is the purr of Roo
Her velvet fur and trills of love
Home is an overgrown garden I used to tend to
Home is holly leaves transformed into wishes
Home is memories of butterfly kisses
Home is a hug when words aren't needed
Home is where I'm not alone

Home is him, the smell of his car and comfort of his arms
Home is his orange overalls
Home is a rhetorical question when I’m looking at his face

Poetry, a synchronised outburst of the mind