Creative Writing monologue for Y10

Wrote this as "what a good one looks like" in 10 minutes or so, have since looked at it, considered it's worth as an actual piece of writing, so thought I'd post on here... Enjoy

CONFLICT

It always seems to end this way. Me, inside my own room, thinking to myself about how unjust this is. She never has to go through what I do. Sometimes I see myself as being stronger and more resilient than her, but it never matters in the end. She never gets the punishment. Just me. I don’t want people to think I’m being unfair, or unkind. I love my sister. She means everything in the world to me. I think her behaviour is disgraceful, bordering on evil; I would never be that bad. What she does is unforgivable, but it’s not her I blame. It’s them.

The old people.

They look at me like I’m some dirty piece of mud that has become stuck to the bottom of their shoes. The shoes of the righteous. The shoes of the dictators, more like. While she just carries on behaving as though she couldn’t set a foot wrong. The second coming perhaps. She could walk on water in their eyes, complete feats of impossibility. Me, I barely put one step forward, a great accomplishment in my state if you ask me, and I get told off. It’s not YOUR turn to walk, it’s your sister's…

She even has more drama than me. Her tears works are second to none, she would do well to invest in waterproof mascara, but I think that just adds to the effect.

They’re fools. They fall for it every time.

Wait, what is she doing in my room? Mum? Dad? Why are you putting her in here with me?

Play nice. PLAY? NICE? With her? No, I don’t want her in my room. Please don’t leave me with her. You’re my mum, my dad! How can you do this? How can you turn a blind eye to the bruises, the marks? Don’t go.

Please.

But they do. And I roll in my cot, begin to wail, and wait for the pain.

The Gun

Only a week had passed
Since the tragedy occurred.
76 innocents on the isle,
Visited by the Devil's acquaintance.

Gun toting,
He slaughtered the prodigies,
Lambs that were faced by a wolf,
Dressed as a shepherd of the law.

The world wept,
Sharing the pain of losing
a few, but too many,
Promising pieces of our future.

A future we need,
And a future that was stolen
from them.
Cruelly early.

It was said afterwards
That there was little hope for them,
The attack was something no-one could have forseen,
And the gun was powerful.

Now I sit,
In my tent, far away.
Surrounded by two thousand youths,
As a young teen fires his toy BB gun.

The sight
leaves a bitter taste on my tongue,
The
pop
pop
pop
of plastic pellets,
Sending shivers down my spine.

Adults admire
the ignorance of youth,
Whereas I,
In my youth,
Turn away in disgust.

Sunburn

The itch begins at the red patches,
One each,
On the pair of pieds,
In a lovingly decorative pattern through the sandals.

The man looks down...
Shit.

BLS:
Boiled Lobster Syndrome.

The man  loudly complains,
Of the skin that is
definitely
going to blister.

He moans about the aftersun
he should have packed.
He lazily declines the Savlon,
kindly offered to him.
He wishes he'd stayed in the shade,
Or worn socks with those sandals.
The fashion police would have to just do one.

Finally, the man,
in his
AGONIZING
pain,
Calls to his mummy,
And orders her to put on the
Soo-oo-oothing ointment
previously offered.
The crustacean's friend.

She puts on the cooling creme
And the man sighs in relief.
And continues to moan.

For although I refer to him as a man,
As he should be at
25 years of age,
He is but a boy.

Aren't we all?

Maybe not the girls.

The Pope Hearts AIDS

The Pope and his Aids
are in the pharmacy.
They walk past the rows
of shelves laden with sweets
to soothe the throat,
The tablets to settle
the stomach.
The vast richness of
hayfever remedies.
And pause.
Pause.
Pause.

Condoms.

"This will not
do", says the Pope
to his Aids,
gathered around him;
a host of bobbing apples
floating in a barrel of
false enlightenment.
"This is an abomination!
A blasphemy to the Holy Trinity!
Remove them from this store or I,
Will
Leave."

The Aids rush around him gathering
every flavoured, ribbed, extra large offence,
and dumping them in a pile next to the holiday lotions,
Three for two on suncream that would protect from Hell's fire.

The excommunicated prophylactics sit in a pile,
Waiting for their judgement of fire and brimstone,
As the Pope turns to his Aids,
and says,
"Sometimes, in this world of sin,
we need to stick to the rules,
That I make,
For everyone's safety.
How can the world
NOT see this?
Sometimes I think it's just
you lot and me."

Because, as we all know,
The Pope loves his Aids.

Bible Studies

My group is friendly,
Made up of many nations.
The Italians, Spanish, French,
Portuguese, Polish, Romanian,
Ukranian, Hungarian, Dutch,
And English.

But their group laughs.

Each group of people have brave translators,
To cement the feelings of goodwill,
And pass on the news of Jesus Christ,
Their words flowing around the room like
A whisper of breath,
blown from a pair of lungs with great importance,
Gathering volume as the imformation creats a backlog of understanding.

But their group laughs.

The Brother begins the discussion,
And the discussion is deep,
And the discussion is dull.
Heads begin to turn towards the back of the room.

The other group laughs.

The Brother is under pressure now,
his flock headed towards the greener grass.
He must keep their attention,
And bring them back to the fold.

Juggle,
Or something...

But the other group laughs,
And still he trusts in the faith of the word.

And the crowd goes wild!

In the other room.

And yet while the Brother has lost the battle,
I was lost before it began.

Religion Camp Pt 2

The disillusioned atheist,
Bags stowed away safely,
Joins the rest of the Religious People,
On the pilgrimage to Religion Camp.

The bus is only half full,
Yet the smell of Religion is...
Miraculous.
The smell of Our Lord, Jesus Christ.

The two hip vicars,
Both young,
Shepherd their flock into their seats,
Legally reminding them of the seatbelts they must wear.

Would Jesus not save them if we were to crash?

The organiser, sat at the back,
Is subjected to the torture of the mad youth,
Yelling their devotion to the Lord,
By stopping up 'til one and discussing Capital Punishment.

And lo!
The ferry looms nigh.
The Religious People pile off,
Eager to praise God over an overpriced cup of coffee.

The angry Godlings rush to the deck,
Smoke inhaling and exhaling through their prayer-holes,
Continuing their earlier discussion,
About staying up 'til one and hanging paedos.

The atheist, the organiser and the father (non-clerical),
Our third character,
Gently perambulate towards the bar,
Like the beginning of some xenophobic joke.

And talk turns to the mad youth,
The hip vicars,
The odd couple driving the bus,
Making deals on who is going to swap seats.

The atheist, having sat next to a tasty girl on the way,
Is not inclined to give his seat up,
And the father has come back from camping, and needs his rest.
So the organiser draws the hypothetical short straw.

Fitting.

In what seems like mere seconds,
The announcement comes,
via the new improved crackly tannoy,
to return to the coach.

And now begins the slog.
The long, arduous part of the journey.
The part where hours seem like minutes,
And minutes seem like hours,
Like some retarded board game involving a timer.

Pick whichever one you don't like.

The part where you aren't sure whether
You're awake,
Or Asleep.
The part where eyelids
Droop,
And heads roll,
Onto uncomfortable
Neighbours
Shoulders...

Zzzzzzzzzz.

Water

I eye the water bottle nervously,
Grasped between hands of vengeance,
Mischievous hands.
Please dont!
I dont want to get changed.

SQUIRT.

I'm going to need five minutes guys.

A Note From The Poet

That title would make a good poem I think...

Anyway, this post is basically to explain the last poem I wrote (Religion Camp Pt 1) and the poems I will be posting in the near future, all of which were written at Taize, in the South of France (near Lyon). They all reflect the many experiences I had, almost all of which were positive. Characters, names and locations may have been changed to protect the innocent/make better poetry, and I hope anyone who reads it will enjoy.

BB.

Religion Camp Pt 1

Day one.
The stout atheist,
Comfortable with his Darwin support,
Receives the invitation from his friend;

"Come to religion camp!
It's not that religious at all.
We just play games,
And the girls are really easy."

The atheist,
Curiosity spiked,
Turns to his online banking... ah science,
And confirms the lack of excuse to say no.

He replies, "I suppose so",
His reluctance to accept religion showing,
And sets the date with his friend,
The organiser.

Day twelve.
The organiser calls,
To say that he made a mistake:
"It's slightly more expensive than that!"

The atheist turns,
Again,
To his trusty bank account.
And in what can only be described as a non-religion centred coincidence relating to chance, luck and the random make-up of the universe according to chaos theory, the atheist has enough money.

Day thirteen.
Religion camp is still going ahead, says the atheist.
When are we going?
At the start of summer my friend, replies the organiser.

Day twenty seven.
It's all booked and paid for,
The atheist is getting excited,
Imagining all the girls of the five thousand, looking for salvation.

Day thirty.
The atheist stays at the organiser's house,
Bags packed,
Excitement barely concealed.

"There's just one thing I forgot to say"
Mentions the organiser.
"A few things you need to do while you're there";
RELIGION.

The Holidays

Finally,

After the long wait here they are.

I'm not sure why I'm inside writi....

Difficulties with Friendship

The end of the Easter holidays.
You look forward to the final party,
The big one,
The housewarming You've been looking forward to for a month now.

And the work hits,
Smashes,
Breaks,
Upon the nerves that are already increased after
Such a long time away from school.
From the classes that need You,
And the classes that want You to leave
Again.

You call the friend You love,
The one You can always depend on,
Knowing that they will forgive,
They have to.
They know what pressure You are under,
And yet...

The friend answers, "Hello?".
All very normal so far.
You begin the explanation,
With a long winded apology,
Even though
You know
That there is no other option available,
They have to see sense.

And then you hear it.
That awful, gut wrenching,
And completely fucking unfair comment:
"I thought you were my friend?"

And the apologies turn to smoke in Your lungs,
Choking You're ability to be polite,
The sadness and guilt that rides in your chest
Like a mucus covered imp,
That slightly resembles Your conscience,
Slips,
Takes a long Helter Skelter down to your feet,
Not to be seen again for a long while.

How DARE They Say I Am Not?

WHAT does this problem have to do with being a friend?

And You know then that the relationship is on the rocks.
Many rocks,
Perhaps a beach full,
Like landing on a horiztonal cliff face,
Sharp,
Unforgiving,
As You consider putting the phone down on Them,
Just to spite them.

But YOU are polite,
And YOU are THEIR friend.
So I just say that I am sorry.

Upon The Arrival Of The New Student

Dear New Student,
You arrived in my class
And decided to pass
On the work that was set
For the rest of them and yet
You decide it's beneath you
Which, probably, is true
But not in the way
You laugh and say
"Errr, I dont think so".

Ok, New Student,
I'll lay this down clear,
In case you didn't hear
The instructions I gave
About the way to behave
In my class.

You do NOT answer back
You do NOT crack
Any wise jokes for the joy
Of the boy
Sat next to you.
You do NOT take your phone
Out of it's home;
Your pocket, where it belongs.
You do NOT chat
Or flit like a gnat
Around my room
Or ELSE your doom
Will be fast approaching.
If you want to belong,
Then dont be wrong,
Be right.
And behave.

Well, New Student
I've got news that seems prudent
To tell you, for your sake
That if you continue to take
The piss out of me
Then, New Student,
You will learn the definition of detention
In all its forms.

For you are the New Student.
And this is MY Classroom.

The Most Awesome Poem In The World

I like to climb trees.
Sometimes, I graze my knees.
Hayfever makes me sneeze,
But still I like to climb trees.

Dedicated to Lois.

Waiting For The AUM

The AUM,
Only one of them,
In this school,
The not so cool,
Strictly no fool
ing around,
Man.

The PGCE student,
thought it might be prudent,
To update his folder,
For the AUM had a chip on his shoulder,
About the lesson plans,
That have no fans,
Which appear to be...

Missing.

Where's the SOWs,
The IEPs
The QTS Standard Audit?
The host of acronym related,
foolishly abated,
documents?

Get it sorted.

The student frantically spends his nights,
Anxious, and writes,
page after page,
of seemingly gauge
less paper.

Electronic of course.

The next day, the time has come,
And after counselling from mum,
I take my folder,
Feeling bolder,
To my AUM.

I nervously wait,
To hear him state,
That "All is good",
Name no longer mud,
"But make sure you evaluate".

I leave the room,
Joyously celebrating my escape from doom,
And rush down to find,
More lesson plans.

Blinds

Blinds,
Clinical and Modern.
Hanging dejectedly like a row of thinly peeled potatoes.
If only I could afford curtains.

The Inevitable Discovery Of That Which Was Once Lost.

Oh.

Of course.

There it is.

In the place that originally you knew it was,
Before you lost all comprehension of logical fact and location.

And once during the "mardy" you might have remembered,
About the spot that it lays in,
Beside the bed,
Plugged in and incidentally USELESS.

But it is found.

And the moment of fury and frustration passes,
As the phone, greeting an old friend,
Slots in,
Lights up.
And begins the slow charge as I wearily lay down on the bed beside it,
Wishing it sweet dreams.

As I dream of a world without chargers.

The Inevitable Loss.

The Charger.

There it is, ladies and gentlemen,
The lump of plastic that sits by your bedside,
Apathetically, grudgingly, lazily making its pitiful existence
An absolute
NECESSITY.

If one could deal without a charger, well!
Life would certainly not be the same.
Laptops, Mobiles, iPods, iPads, PSPs, DSi (soon to be taken over by the 3DS),
Would they exist?

Would we exist?

For when we find that this irritating NECESSITY of modern life goes missing...

Apocalypse, End Of The World, the whole POINT of EXISTENCE seems bleak and terrifying.

How will we cope without the charger? We need the charger,
It completes our purpose in life,
Keeping up with the metaphorical, or perhaps literal (depending on your geographical neighbourhood location) Joneses.

How do you expect me to keep in contact with people?
Write a letter?
How do you expect me to do my work?
Use a pen?
What about leisure? Surely you cannot expect me to play my games if I dont have my Colour 3DSPLite?
Play snap.

But I am not so forward thinking and independent from technology.
I can only go on, blindly dependent on the item,
The item that ALWAYS manages to lose itself.

Oh woe is me. 

Pole Girl

To the beautiful girl who rides the pole,
To the beautiful girl who created the hole,

In my heart.

A heart that is waiting for a Brief Encounter,
A moment lingering on past what could be considered polite.

Avoiding physical contact as much as possible,
I spend the long days, the frees, the lessons,
Thinking,
Not of the lesson plans that I should perhaps instead be doing,
But of the smile that lights up the staff base.
Handy, due to the unreliable motion sensor lights.

So I wait, patiently, for that moment of contact,
Not physical of course,
But of my rampant emotions as unchecked as a GCSE student,
Coming just that one bit closer,
Just one bit,
To you,
Pole Girl.