Category: Poetry

Only Love

I don’t forgive you but I still love you,
It’s only that love that I want to give you,
I won’t hurt you, or abandon you,
I’ll always be there for you,
Do anything for you.
It seems you just don’t want me to.
I have scars on my soul because of you.
You hurt me so much but what hurts me still
Is that you won’t let me talk to you.
I have so much love in my heart to give you,
To give everyone.
But no one wants me to.
I would do anything for any of you,
If you were sad I would cry with you.
I’d feel your pain as though it were my own,
And I would hold you in my arms as long as you wanted me to.
Why won’t you let me?

I don’t have room for hate in my heart,
I try but despite everything I just can’t hate you.
Some part of me does, that’s true.
But the moment you say you’re ready
I will throw that part away all for you,
But you never will, will you?

No Notifications

I was feeling lonely this morning,
With no one for company.
So I sent some texts out to my friends
To stop me feeling lonely.

My lips turn up in a hopeful smile
As I go to find my phone.
Surely they’ve replied by now!
But nope… I’m still alone.
No notifications.

It’s been an hour! All three are busy?
But I have love to give!
Why are they all busy now
When… Oh. They’ve all been active.

They must have seen my messages;
I’m just not worth a reply.
It takes five seconds to type out to me
Sorry, I’m busy, but hi!

Or maybe they’re not busy.
Maybe they just don’t like me.
I’m boring, a chore, a task they’ll put off.
But they don’t know what’s in my head
When I’m so lonely.

No notifications.
Might as well say no friends.
You’re not worthy of being happy.
Not good enough.
Not for those on whom you depend.
They don’t need you.

No notifications.
When I do it’s a rarity.
No one wants to talk to me
Like I have no personality.
Like if they just gave me a chance
I couldn’t make them happy.
I might make them laugh,
Or be there when they cry.
I would love them endlessly
If only they gave me the opportunity.
All it takes is a simple text,
And I’ll be there for you.
My heart is easily given.
All it takes is a simple text
And I’ll never neglect you.


What if I don’t like you?
Or you don’t like me?
Maybe I’ll say nothing and I’ll
Sit there silently.

You’ll think I’m rude or stupid
Or maybe I’m just dull.
I have nothing to speak of
And nothing in my skull.

But what if I’m just shy?
I’m terrified of you.
You sit there so relaxed
But I don’t know what to do.

Should I say hello?
That’s the right thing to do?
Or hey or hi or howdy
Or how goes it with you?

Should I shake your hand?
Or d’you think that is too formal?
What is it that I should do
For you to think I’m normal?

I just don’t think I know
What people want from me.
I’m afraid of doing wrong;
Of being unmannerly.

So I guess I’ll just be safe,
And sit there silently.

Untitled Poem

I was nothing,

Drowning in misery,
A pit of shame,
My river of sorrow.
Drowning on my own.
And I welcomed it.

Soul crying, weeping,
Reaching out for you.
I needed you.
But you weren’t there.
I was empty,
Where are you?

But I am not alone.
I am not yours to own.
I have hearts which will reach back to mine with open arms
When I want them most.
Waiting for me,
Caring for me.
The way you don’t.

And so now I know
That next time my heart is breaking itself
And I am drowning in my own tears,
That pit of shame,
That river of sorrow,
I won’t be crying out for
Someone who won’t
Be there to listen.

Just Friends

I long for the day when this heaviness will lift
When the pain will shift
Into happiness, into freedom, into joy.
When we can be friends, just friends,
And when we care for each other again,
And let the hatred and anger fly free.

Am I being naïve?
Maybe it will never leave.
Maybe I am dead to you and
Maybe one day you will be dead to me.
Maybe you’re right and we shouldn’t try,
Because I know that at times it will make us cry.
But I love you, and I need you,
As a friend, I now see.
I love you.
As a friend.
But do you love me?


Anger resumes in me,
Consumes me,
Exhumes me,
From the depths of what could have been love.

My heart, it feels used
And mis-used.
And bruised,
But I refuse
To let you win.

This isn’t me,
This anger, it’s your gift instead.
But I can break this cycle,
The circle of rhymes,
The hatred rolling
Around in my head.

My innocence turned black,
And it’s true that
I can never go back
To the girl that I was.
You changed me,
Blamed me,
Chained me
To guilt and to anger,
Ashamed that a part of my past
And my heart
Will forever be yours.

But I am strong now.
I will not let you define me,
Confine me
To that hatred and despair.
I will forgive,
Not for your sake, but for mine
So that I can be fine,
No, more than fine.
I will be happy
Without you.

‘Porphyria’s Lover’ by Robert Browning

Screenshot 2017-06-08 20.04.25

One of my favourite poems is ‘Porphyria’s Lover’ by Robert Browning. I love Browning’s dramatic monologues in general; his exploration of the mind of murderers is fascinating! I think on some level we are all morbidly curious about how murderers justify their actions since they seem so fundamentally wrong to us, and Browning is exceptionally talented at simultaneously giving the murderer’s justification while also condemning them.

‘Porphyria’s Lover,’ though, is slightly different to some of his others in that the narrator of the poem does not offer any real explanation for the murder of Porphyria. It’s as if the narrator does not feel that any explanation is needed; Porphyria, it seems, holds power over him (whether socially or in the relationship) and it is logical for him to regain that power, despite the fact that he clearly loves her deeply. And it is this juxtaposition of love and murder which makes me love this poem so much. The narrator’s love for Porphyria is so apparent, it’s almost a romantic story – it’s as if his world shuts down without his love; he is nothing without her. Yet this love leads him inexplicably to murder.

Cue the inevitable discussion of disease which comes with this poem. Clearly the narrator is mentally ill, and the name of his lover and the fact that this is the first word we read of this poem (the title) links the story right from the start to ideas about disease and illness. (Porphyria is a type of genetic disease.) Is love his disease? Is love the disease?

The poem elicits so many questions, and gives so few answers. It’s such a beautiful story while at the same time being just a starting point for so many other stories.

There’s literally so much more I have to say on this poem, and hopefully one day I will, but genuinely if I write everything it would take forever to write and to read!