bookshoplaura

Last night, I finally had the opportunity to attend Modwords. For those of you not familiar this is a Spoken Word event being put together by the very talented Anna Jordan. For lack of a better description it is an open mic but for poetry or anything resembling poetry. It's been running for a few months but it has had the misfortune of being hosted on nights where I am working late so last night was the first time I was fortuitous enough to be able to attend. I have never hidden my love of poetry. It's always been a form of literature that has spoken to me on another level. Expressing emotional states that ordinary language cannot do justice to. I once used to have some of my favourite poems typed and stuck to my bedroom walls, something that seems terribly juvenile now but at the time it seemed important that I could access these words whenever I desired and every time they struck a chord. It's fair to say I have been writing poetry since I was 15. Most of my e...

It feels like this until it doesn't There is no reasoning with the whirring of the mind like a clock ticking in the dark reminding you should be asleep but you are not . yet another thing you can't get right. No comparison that soothes my woes I read the news and know of many in worse circumstances but I am too consumed with my own to see beyond them. the shadow of the black dog still looms in empty spaces where my happiness falls. It's okay not to feel okay or so I've read on the internet so it must be true. There are times where I could not feel less okay and there lies the fear of something inside you being broken. Sometimes in the dark of the night, I doubt my own existence. I worry my anxious thoughts have tinged my skin. It feels like this until it doesn't. and then I keep my anxiety in my purse for special occasions and sleepless nights.

How can you be a writer without any words? a long list of adjectives and none adequately describe me. I offer slivers of myself online only showing a side of myself I deem sociably acceptable yet it seems a leap to call myself a writer in any way, shape or form. I am a mass of feelings, so plentiful they seep from my purse. wearing more than my heart on my sleeve and within I hide this fear of being fundamentally unlike-able. Some days that voice in my ear  is louder than all the noise outside and I feel myself drown in my own self doubt. imposter syndrome is very real and I sit patiently waiting to be found out, unveiled. So my boyfriend has gotten some notion into his head that I am some sort of budding poet and has been gently trying to nudge me into doing something with this so called talent while I fight him at every turn. I am nothing if not a realist. He calls this pessimism. Initially I began this blog as a creative writing exercise. I was ...

A girl without a book A girl without a book is lost, baseless, feels like something is missing and not these half thumbed paperbacks that litter every surface. Without a book I am empty, lifeless, teetering on the edge of worry; napping, chocolate eating. Me without a book is worrying, a happy Laura always reads, not sure if the lack of books is to blame or my own inattentive mind. A girl without a book is faceless, hard to know who I am without knowing what I read and why I do not. A girl without a book is a problem ready for solving, waiting to  be rescued by one dazzling, gripping read. A girl without a book is me. So it wouldn't be fair to say I am not reading at all. That never really happens, I even managed to keep reading when I lived in Switzerland that year and the selection of English language books was appalling. I have however come to a bit of a standstill where I have a stack of books sitting on my shelf but there's not one I...

Bravery I know a lot about being brave. I have talked about it for days and days. I have felt my heart thumping heavily in my chest, a feeling like I will be sick, my palms slippery with sweat. But bravery is not in feeling fear, it is acting despite it. walking forward when all you want to do is run. Facing up to yourself, walking into work with your head held high. Spewing forth words that belay my feelings and letting them be judged in the silence that sits in my throat.

New Year Days fall into daily frustration and I promised myself I wouldn't be the one scrawling New Year's resolutions onto napkins. This will be the year of me, this year ends and I am making so many plans to be different as though this was a novel idea. Let's be fitter and somehow richer, let's go out more, turn my life around and not just make dents in my couch as I wait to be discovered. This will be a New Year, you'd swear this wasn't my 32nd one of these as I am feeling as optimistic as a kitten, half blind to the truth. This year may well be the same as last, I might well blur into insignificance. if I don't change something, I can't expect different results, I will just slowly go insane. Or my changes might not be as slow, it's easier to just stay here, away from big scary world and frighten myself with the what ifs and prophecies of doom. Is this the year I will be a better version of myself? I certainl...

First sip With the first sip my mind slowly unfurls and I feel a knot inside me melting, heading into work with a bounce instead of a crawl to my walk. Warmth on my lips, my mind jolts from it's state of hibernation and I smile like it's a secret only I know. And then there are other mornings, where I wake cranky, a nagging pain in my head and a longing for something to take the edge off. Maybe I shouldn't have a coffee today, I ponder, ultimately deciding, today wont be the day. I am too sleepy, too cranky and I can feel its gentle lure already, before I utter the words, the sweetest sounds, one coffee to, please,

Fade to black When the lights fade to black and I am left only with the shadow of myself and a sense of disenchantment. One day ends and another begins as though I am a wheel that will not stop spinning. Not sure if my unhappiness is self told but only knowing it's as real as the stale taste I wake with in my mouth. Bits of dreams filter into my morning and I look longingly towards my bed covers, wishing to nestle beneath them and hide for the day.

On what it means to be a woman Is it really not appropriate to describe myself as a 32 year old girl, really the label feels more fitting, when exactly do the lines get blurred. Should I behave differently in recognition of this more suitable term for a person of my age. Is innocence lost completely, should all vestiges of those more gentle days already be long departed. What it really means to be a woman? you should probably ask someone more qualified than I, for times I feel more like a teenager trapped in a grown woman's body, still bubbling with the same anxieties and insecurities. Maybe I'll secretly refer to myself as a girl instead.

Ras The crowd surges forward, all moving to the same beat, not seeking anything more ominous than dance. Music vibrates through my seat and I feel it pulsing in my cheek, in my hair and somehow I think I am pulsing too. He preaches the religion of Dub Reggae, yet in music the words melt into each other and I  can only nod as though I understand. Happy to sit on the edge, Watching a throbbing crowd dance as if on cue, wondering if drinking in atmosphere is really a thing. Or if music I can't really describe should make me this happy, this upbeat. Surrendering to the night that's in it as this musical odyssey draws to a close. Unsure if dub reggae is something I can really do justice to  with mere words but I can say with clarity that I like it. Even if it's just as a woman, watching, waiting, not quite participating. 

How to be a stranger If you're the girl wearing a cashmere jumper because it feels so soft and cosy against your skin when everyone else is dressed for a night on the town then you might be doing it right. If everyone around you is having celebratory drinks while you slug from a bottle of water, wanting to keep a clear head and clearer skin. If everyone else is enjoying the music, dancing along, and you're frantically scribbling into a note book, allowing the beats to be your backdrop, the blank canvas onto which you splatter your thoughts. If your world within is sometimes more colourful than the one outside, you feel its okay to retreat. Then who's to say what's strange, everyone finds their own normal, their own baseline, and perhaps I'm not really strange here just a stranger.

How to quieten a mind How do you silence the dialogue within, the endless chatter, the judgements I almost blurt out, the mental spillage that goes on and on. How do I stay in the now when I am always absorbed in a troublesome past or an uncertain future. How do I be anything other than what I am. How do I calm the frantic woman within. Twenty two habits of negative people and here I am ticking almost every box, guilty as charged. How do you change a mind that's set in its ways, patterns ingrained. How do I silence my mind, my thoughts, my judgements on myself and others. How do I be myself when I hardly know how to be.

Dead bird Ceramic carcasses dance ludicrously inside my head And I crush your skeleton , little dead bird that never lived. I shed no tears for your mediocre minutes Of half felt life. And no remorse comes As I observe your crushed form Upon the black, black sea. Little dead bird, I will allow you the luxury Of living within me. I shall nestle your Fractured form within my chest And warm you with the dampened beat of my heart. I shall lie for hours imagining Your ceramic bird song And I will dream of the tears That I will never cry for your swift passing. Worship your sacrifice in the name of art, And not think of all the other things you could have been. I sip tepidly from a ceramic mug which Feels eerily like you, In a land of other possibilities. And as it goes crashing to the ground, Shattering into tiny pieces, I collapse and sob for the mug that was never you. O little dead bird, Why do you lie so still, So solemn. Your pointed beak taunts me endlessly. I withd...

Anticipation I sit beating time Yet time still crawls past And I get tired of listening to incessant exhaling. I don’t move from this spot But on the inside I flutter and dance about the room, Hearing songs from yesterdays radio. Bravely I push myself places I thought id never go. I reassure myself silently But my coiled, tense form is on display For those who care to look. I hear shouting in the kitchen And I feel glad that I’m locked safely in my room. I watch the clock as though this will hurry time. I know soon I can escape even just for a portion of the night. I want to learn so many things, Not in segments but all together And go so many places. Experience the world in just a day And still I sit winking at my own reflection Until I rise and delve in to the night.

Blacker than the darkest night cant stop this time, running till my heart beats from my chest i feel  nauseous and  awake  and sinking back to that deep and dirty place where dreams feel like memories and i am myself, naked , unadorned don't need to look to see how my flesh ripples beneath my touch consumed by a hatred so deep  that it leaves nail marks upon my arms like battle scars , once faded i am but a girl, once full of life  now jaded

DEAD GULL Oh dead gull you tattoo yourself upon my iris. Your bony carcass melts into the rocks leaving only the cloying stench of death. Your feathers go bathing in the vicious sea Which greedily brought you to your death And I look now upon your matted remains And bony form. I feel I should weep for the life ripped from Your wings, as others soar above you In blissful ignorance. Your eye is long rotted, Leaving me gaping into a hauntingly open socket, Pondering your gull like soul. Your beak opened inviting sand Into hidden crevices, Soon even this brittle shell will be lost to the sea. And I sit watching, waiting for you to rise and soar. And the sea laps at my feet in a silent warning

Devil Hangover Cold blue walls suffocate me As my head thumps rhythmically to the soothing beats And I drift further into Oblivion, Drowning my waking thoughts. I see nothing , only endless space , My face crawls into a positive frown. My deep, dark ponderings are cast into stilted air As you shake me from my lurid daydream. The noise it leaks through my thoughts And coats itself stickily upon the walls. And I lie screaming silently but I sit huddled, Losing myself, finding myself and death falls like night. I fall deeper in love with poetic mysteries which defy the spoken word. And I’m sure I had a dream about this in another once upon a time. but I sit here not waking, not sleeping, not living , just falling deeper into myself.

Exploration Night time can be a dark and dreary time. A bell rings and my inner demons come calling. A sugar rush backwards through my veins, An easter bunny lies guiltily half eaten. A tale that almost tells itself. I shy from confrontation. The light stays on and so I avoid myself. Wish myself already asleep with whispered protestations. Can you see me now ? I see nothing but my own twisted self image. I know where my worries lie. I am well practised in the art of procrastination. Tomorrow is always another day, Yesterdays tasks lie un-ticked and pressure builds. I wait to be suffocated by own inactivity Or puke with panic flashing in my eyes

Here I lie . . . . Here I lie , upon my bed Or with my words. No one really cares what webs I weave. In the end I fool only myself with the subtlest deception. Cut open, I bleed feelings for everyone to see, A gushing river of vulnerability. I am out there and yet I am nowhere. Too busy pondering myself to really see the world. Truth tickles my throat and I cough until I bleed Or at least that’s how it feels when every Emotion takes on soap opera proportions. I jump , not checking if anyone is there to catch me, Not sure if I want to stop falling, unseen. I lie and the world lies with me

Hold me now Hold me now I think I’m gonna be sick. My nails beat grooves in my palms And my eyes water dangerously. It goes on and on And I nod praying, Praying for it to end. I go tumbling down the black spiral Vomiting my regrets away. I feel as though I’m doing nothing right. I feel bad and useless. I grow angry looking at my damp, red face. My eyes glow eerily, A deep, deep blue. I’m hoping, wishing, praying That my voice will have a less sombre note When this black contraption we call phone Rings again. Oh mother dear , you need not hear me crying Another time , if there is another time Will I be crawling home soon I wonder.