What’s true?

I tried to pretend and put on a face,

Like the tree bought in to decorate.

Cover it in baubles in the fireplace,

I smile at the beauty but know its too late.

 

I take out my stocking, hand stitched with my name,

Inside it’s full of expectations and pain.

A label in his hand, ‘I Love You’ again,

Its as disappointing as Christmas Day rain.

 

‘Ho, Ho , Ho’ he wrote on the side,

But the joke is on me, Ha, Ha, Ha.

I sat for a while and cried,

Even the tree mocks me by looking so blah.

 

I’ve tried so many times to make sense of this,

I’ve put on my decorations and lied too.

Its a dangerous place to reminisce,

This year its not red and gold, but blue.

 

I hate mince pies and most of the foods,

A gluttony of spending and a panic buy.

Maybe if I spend it’ll improve my moods,

I can smile with the rest and not wonder why.

 

Wonder why each year I tell myself this lie,

To trust others that hurt me and still do.

With so much deception I sigh,

I still can’t figure out what’s true.

 

 

 

 

The Owl and the Pussy Cat (re-imagined)

 

I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, but never had money,
Wrapped up in his old black coat.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely girl! Who never knew love,
What a beautiful girl you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful girl you are!’

 

II
Puss said to the Owl, ‘You promise me true?
How charmingly sweet you sing!
We’ll run away! If you promise me this:
As my heart is a fierce fragile thing?’
They sailed away, for six years and a day,
To the house where the forest grew thick.
And there in a wood their haven stood.
They lit a fire and watched the flames flick,
Flames flick,
Flames flick,
They watched the flames flick.

 

III
‘Dear Cat, are you willing to sell me your trust?’
My trust?’ said the Puss, ‘I will.’
So he took it away, lived for the day
By the house that stood on the hill.
They dined on things grown, from what they had sown,
Which they ate with a borrowed spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the land,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

 

 

All brine and piss and vinegar

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All brine and piss and vinegar,

my mouth is raw.

The pages full of false knowledge

blame the ‘lies’ that my tongue spits.

 
Blisters appear with each spiteful word,

spat at you in a moment of rage.

Anger trapped, desperate for an escape.

They are your lies not mine.

 

Tongue raw from yesterday’s drinks,

burnt and scraped with comfort eats.

Morsels that last a moment,

before they decay and rot.

 

I cannot taste anything but bile,

and vinegar and pain.

I seek the comfort of cold, smooth

kind and compassionate words.

 

My mouth is silenced,

I wake with it glued tight,

a mess of brown clotted blood,

teeth caked in earthy dried fluid.

 

But from inside there is something,

spun from a silver thread.

It speaks truth through your lies.

It’s a tale yet to be told.

 

‘All brine and piss and vinegar’  is borrowed from The Decemberist’s song “Grace Cathedral Hill”

The book that told me ulcers are caused by lies also told the reader period pain was caused by not embracing being a woman enough. I rarely lie, any more than anyone else. I love being a woman. Go figure? It’s like trying to be rescued by a Christian who keeps on insisting my auto immune is because I don’t believe in god. I don’t. Theres some proper drivel out there. I choose to follow my heart.