i wrote a thing

this isn’t a poem.
this is me letting the tap run,
letting the red ink drip so
sweetly from my
love-stained fingertips.
this isn’t a poem.
this is me counting
all the times you made me smile
(they last me until the next time
i get to see your face again).
this isn’t a poem.
this is me romanticising
every atom of your body
my dear, your whole being
is a work of art.
this isn’t a poem.
this is my heart.
hello, i am sorry for not posting much recently. i think i’m too ingrained in life and that definitely isn’t a bad thing. don’t get me wrong; i will never stop writing.
all the love x

the stars; the world; the rain; the fire

who do the stars shine for?
the dreamers. the lovers. the wonderers.
the ones lost in the deep. the ones drowning in their own thoughts, their terribly intense feelings thick like¬†honey in their throats. they’re the ones that need the light the most: that sense of stability and calm that the stars always bring.
who does the world spin for?
the busy. the determined. the focused.
the ones so wonderfully engrossed in their personal adventures. the inspired and the inspiring; changing the world one breath at a time. they’re holding hands with the world as it grows and twists and spins.
who does the rain fall for?
the reckless. the adventurous. the brave.
the ones with nowhere to be and nothing to do are the ones with the most life. the ones jumping through puddles and running in the dark, the truest smiles. they’re living, they’re alive, they are life.
who does the fire flicker for?
the safe. the calm. the happy.
the ones sheltering from the storm. the ones who have found a moment of golden, blissful warmth amidst this beautiful wreck of a planet. the ones who are content; curled up with a lover or maybe just a chipped mug and a creased book. they are complete.
good evening! i hope you all had a good day; i definitely did.
all the love x

flowergirl // a poem

she spends mornings unwrapping furry stalks
from cellophane, being careful not to
tear or bruise vivid chlorophyllic leaves
nature cut so precisely with stencils
for her. so, she takes each stunted stumpy
bloom and picks away the dust between
the buds and skewed petals until she has
made them perfect (to shallow observers’
sense of sight exclusively). that colour
fits in the category of Things you Can’t
Quite Describe with Words. but rather, with soft
memories of over-creamed and over-
sweetened cups of coffee from a tiny
cafe between the collarbones of an
ambiguously-aged mountain, bruised with
traces and dusty fingerprints and ghosts
of generations of feeling beings.
the chalky ground bleeds with nitrates (and de-
composed dusty daydreams) for the flora
blooming boldly between silver stacked slate.
until she comes, one morning, to pick
the furry stalks, bundle them with rope and
arrange them in such a specific way
that pleases a muffled part of the pulse
beneath the left side of her ribcage.

thanks for reading! this is one of my first (and favourite) poems i’ve written, inspired by early mornings watching my mum arrange flowers on the kitchen table. follow my instagram account if you want to see more! @for.poetry.etc

all the love x