The Foyle Young Poets of the Year Award 2018 is open for entries! The competition will be open until midnight (BST) 31 July 2018 and is eligible for anyone aged 11-17 years at the date of the deadline.
I wait for the black fog to arrive
To see if it is a cloud forming
Or vanishing over the skyline
I will wait in the blue shade
Not knowing its narrow ways
Or its marches over the pass
But I will stand with what I have
Of a vigilance that never fades
Waiting to slay the black fog
That bears my very name
Time is a strange companion that follows us faithfully
And without us knowing, plunges us into Life itself
It carries us like lovers without passion and love
But follows us constantly – Delicately Continue reading “Time is a Strange Companion”
No matter how I try to change, I can never be like one of them. You know, the kind who went to the right school and have the right kind of friends. The kind whose parents speak in clear and grammatically correct speech patterns. The kind who goes to Paris and New York just to admire the fucking flowers and enjoy the awful coffee and pastries. The kind whose friends and parents don’t know the difference between soccer and football but can tell you the difference between a Monet and a Warhol. Who cares?! They are the ones who goes overseas for holidays and doesn’t take shit from anyone. They are the ones who have people running around like headless chickens under them saying “Yes sir” “No sir” “Sorry sir” whereas the only time the rest of us hear those word is when we visit McDonalds or KFC. They are the ones whose kids lord over the rest of us poor uneducated souls with bad teeth and bad grammar and bad postures. We are the poor saps who listen to loud music and eat cheap food. Who doesn’t know how lucky we are to even have a job all thanks to them who are titans of industry. Who are ungrateful and unreliable roughs who only cares about fucking and drinking and gambling and sleeping. Well, who doesn’t love all of that? So what if we are uneducated, rough, stubborn and violent? If we don’t can’t rise up, we will drag them to our level. They will be kicking and screaming in the mud. Just as we do not want to rise up to the light, they will not want to play with us in the mud. So no matter what they think, I can never be like one of them. Because I am not one of them and they are not me. And naturally it is and naturally it shall be, forever and ever. Note from a poor and fuck you sap.
There is a rage in me that burns quietly in the shade.
A civil rage that require no fuel to ignite and burn.
it only keeps burning. Why? I cannot say but
I play a metronome to chain the beast.
Scared as I struggle to smother its flames.
Knowing that if I will lose control
if I inch too close the blaze will return
reducing my troubles to cinders
Meet me at the old cafe by the corner. Will you be there?
I can’t wait to see you even if we are only six weeks old
I don’t know why but you have something that mystify
You make me feel like saying that I am just a boy
waiting for a girl by the old corner cafe – melting
You know how I killed the pain? Got nothing but time
Passing me by as I imagine our bodies up to the sky
with nothing but chocolate, coffee and cigarettes
spending time with our silly smiles and giggles
waiting for you and nobody else – in my mind
waiting by the old cafe growing old with you
I am by the old cafe – will you be there?
How dark our troubled season
of people swinging from charity Continue reading “How strange the lands become”