I Can’t Give This Poem A Title

(NB. Logic I find is probably where humans feel the need to detach themselves and become objective in their approach to things in life, and my answer to that is that its unnecessary. I’ve been at university for 3 weeks and my A Levels literally don’t matter anymore, I’m not even kidding, feel inclined to disagree).

You turn the tap on,
Hot water, lather up in bubbles,
Too hot, where’s the cold?
Make it cold.
Make it ice. Frozen to the artery.

Some people are born with icicles for bones.
And their heart’s cold pulp, glaciers in their brains.
Tell em’ to fall in love
And they’ll refuse the words like God’s existence.

Tell yourself that you should go to Cambridge
And spend your days referring to people below yourself as the ‘common man’
We do it for our middle class wits
And our ice age world,
Pick up the phone and isolate yourself on Instagram.

Nobody’s listening, darling.
So what do I have to say to somebody like you?
Can you pick up a pen and write a poem
About how much it hurts to heave the air into your lungs,
To anchor yourself to the soil
But the world is being dragged out from underneath your feet.

Try to talk but you can’t,
You have a thousand cherry stones in your mouth
And you lack the confidence to spit em’ out.
Poor you,
Objective with your 3 A*s and not much left to go on,
I love your wisdom,

Riddle me this.
That when you cover yourself in your 13.5 tog duvet every night
And Mummy’s put the phone down to make a roast dinner
Do you choose to wash away your feelings about the one person you love
Off like watercolour?

Who’s your canvas, who’s going to paint you?
Your life was painted a primary colour,
And nobody cares for casual blue,
I want to start seeing the cerulean in you.
You don’t feel the clouds drift over your skin during the day,

You don’t stop to appreciate,
The Sun on your back, heat as hard as though God were stubbing his cigarette butt in you.
You’re his ashtray.
You think poetry’s all about “the morning dew on the grass and lemons in your basket”
But its actually about HIV and prostitutes drinking apple juice at 2 am.

You think I could care less about my exams,
Oh dear, my CV’s just not good enough for somebody,
Dog eat dog, well I’m a wolf,
I’ll devour you.
I’ll squeeze you like a toothpaste tube,

Vomit your minty fresh grades all over my sink,
I’m scrubbing out your words from my flesh,
Honey I won’t do my best,
You don’t deserve it,
Wanna come round for just Netflix?

We all want to be powerful,
But I wield it with my tongue and I whip it into your faces,
If it was really all about the money
I’d be off to Cambridge living my bog standard life too,
I wouldn’t be dissing and kissing and drinking and “sleeping about”,

Wishing I was 1000x better than I am now,
Wishing my material was good enough for The Rialto (HAHA)
Wishing I would one day be good enough for The New Yorker (HAHAHA)
Wishing one day Meryl Streep would read my work and make some philosophical quote about much she loves me,
(Now that, I do want)

But I spend my days putting this up for free,
Wiping the dick off my mouth,
Trying to taste him, remembering what its like to be in love again,
Reminding myself my Nana’s ill still,
And how she loves me less now, less than her pills.

And if I didn’t have wordpress they’d be trailing the depths of my diaries,
I don’t care if you read them,
Walk into my room and throw yourself into it,
I would say work hard and get your A*
But what the hell does anybody who’s started Year 12 at Bolton School care,

We’re all just too scared to hand the report paper home to our parents,
And some of you will get a new car for smoking weed on week nights (as so many of my year did)
And don’t give me the bullshit about “I’m doing this for me”
You’ve been conditioned to think that making money is all you really need,
My answer,

Well,
Go ahead and lose yourselves.
Come back at the end of your life on your deathbed
And tell me you wish you’d make a couple extra zeros on your cheques,
Or that you’d fallen in love harder with someone who wasn’t on a contract,

That what the world needs is more Vuitton
And less love,
And the belief that our icicle bones won’t thaw
Whilst we believe what the government tells us
And that nobody really saw 9/11 coming,

And that all Muslims believe in ISIS,
And that Labour left the country penniless
and that the Conservatives really give a shit about your Daddy’s money,
and our economy and austerity and fidelity to the taxpayers of Britain
It curdles my blood just to think about it,
But suck it up through a straw,

This is my homemade soup,
And you’re about to drink,
And I won’t have anymore of it,
I’m angry damn it,
HOW MUCH DO YOU LOVE YOUR LOGIC?

Strange isn’t it,
The way we stick shards of ourselves into our savings accounts
And promise the numbers’ll get bigger, better,
And we won’t be making curly fries in the oven forever
For post-drunk nights out,

And you know how important you are,
Shaving the stars into your eyes,
Cosmic galaxies for you to find,
Drop you into the oceans,
And realise,

You’re more than this brain, this body, this £65 A-Line skirt from Topshop.

Turn the cold water off.

Go be vulnerable. Disarm yourself, dictionaries and guns don’t help.

Wear you naked.

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