Picking Cotton

We met at the gigis,
By the meat sarnies,
Your dress was down to you knees,
While I needed the breeze
of the wind between the trees.
These are the details I remember with ease.

I recall I won some cash,
So I decided to splash
out on a flash
looking tank with a slash
in its price. Brash?

I thought not, but you thought so,
Filled with woe,
At the waste of my dough,
My seeds thrown without the sow,
No investments I'd only blow.

Now I feel I know you better,
Although the eyes get wetter,
At the mistakes I make,
The risks I take,
Trying to be nice,
Listening to your advice,

On how I can be that happy medium.

I'm Seeing Someone

The term is puzzling.
Illogical.
I see my mother most days,
But I certainly wouldn't.

I'm not... whatsisname.

The Austrian.
With the windows.

No!

Without.

In this modern age,
It is the done thing,
Leaving some at a disadvantage.

Stuck in the past.

A la mode.
QUOI?

Who on Earth thought this offers the same romance as dating?
Going out?
Being in a relationship?

Shakespeare, Byron, Keats.
They are all rolling in their graves,
Like a synchronised deceased dancing team.
Their lessons have not passed on to us, clearly.

'Oh no, I'm seeing someone'.

I can barely bring myself to say it!
My voice fills with scorn when I make the attempt.
A ridiculous name for a ridiculous concept.

I really am stuck in the past.
A past I was never a part of.

How ironic.

Dating and the Third World

The newsflash scrolls across my eyes:
"Drought Hits Africa."

I understand, dear Africa.

I myself am experiencing a drought of sorts,
Of warmth and love and tender flesh.
Of long, enduring glances,

Romantic and clichéd.

The dry season has been too long and I truly think I can empathise.

I do not mean to offend, dear Africa.

It is not life or death, like you.

My children, however, suffer too.

"Starvation in African countries reaches record numbers."

The swollen bellies of the children on the report,

They remind me of the swelling of my...

Desperate for the release from their suffering.

They need a successful date,

Even a one night stand.

Pushing morals aside to do what must be done.

For you, dear Africa, help is easier.

Noone judges your looks in order to give you aid.

You do not have to endure dancing in town,

without alcohol,

A sober penguin on land,

In order to impress.

If only girls used libraries to connect.

Swap digits.

Silence and the written word,

Speaking in volumes.

Star signs

The long, flowing, chocolate locks:
The key to my heart.
The eyes; deep pools of rich mahogany:
The wealth of my soul.
The curves, of smile and of hips,
Bring the warmth to my lips,
As I smile in return,
To the girl that I yearn
for.

In women, we are told we find humour threatening,
But in this...goddess,
It only makes my thoughts better in
My mind,
My body,
My soul.

The laughs and hard-won emotions curl around my person,
A protective shroud perfect for a crab.
This fish knows life is better under the sea,
Perfect for me.
And you.

The moon has taken Cupid's mantle,
Sweeping us together in the tides,
In a mad rush of spray and delight,
Never have I been more thankful to the night.

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.