Caged.

The pack is split.
It's torn.
It's worn.
And it's only just, started to dawn.
On me.
I'm no longer, safe and sound.
So alone, to the moon I howl.
Hoping to hear some response.
A friendly sound, but they're all gone.
Moving, lost, or just plain left.
I've never felt, how I fret.
Now.
These clouds are dark.
And the howl's a lonely bark.
A growl, a snarl, at those I know.
No friendly love, nothing to show.
Even now, I sit and type.
I know I'll be up all night.
Prowling around this room again.
Trying to just quench the pain.
My hackles up, my head set low.
Maybe it's my turn to go.

I'll rip my heart from my chest.
Maybe it's best.
When I feel so depressed.
And I feel like less.
Than nothing.
The way I'm shoving.
My walls up agian.
To heal the pain.
Or conceal the faint.
Heart beet.
Of the wolf that sleeps.
Waiting to burst forth.
With full force.
And take it's course.
Of action.
No longer be a fraction.
But be the whole being of my soul.
Fur ripples in the cold.
Wind which blows.
The snow.
Over my toes.
Shed the skin.
The one that I'm in.
No longer so thin.
Now my muscle's growing.
And I don't mean the ones, that you flex on your arms.
I mean my heart.
It's fibre now tough.
Even it's beet's rough.

here, I am invading

in incognito, i feel, i can be real.
it could be said, that, perhaps, instead,
of a mask of the occasion,  it acts, as a mask, of deep flush 'reality'
(What a horrible word, 'Reality' is. What a horrible word it can be).
is it possible, perhaps
to be existential
to be nihilistic,
and not to take upon,
those great pessimisms that hold
with existential nihilism,
to be sad,
but hold of the worse,
to hold out,
till you can again think of flighting fancies.
As so easily sways the mind on the corporal.
On the day.
I hope.
And in knowing that hope that is nestled inside the very centre of my cerebral,
fluttering it's wings, or tensing, just for the moment of a flutter,
It shivers of the cold tendrils of despair, and warms the heart a little,
just a little, but enough.

Love it when I'm fine and flying high.
And then some words, shoot me out the sky.
I crash land.
And splash in the sand.
Slash with my hand.
Not left with a strand.
Of hope.
So I moap.
And my throat.
Grows tight.
This just might.
Be the last night.
I give up the fight.
Wont take flight.
Yes, oh, right.
Leave me here.
Lying on the ground.
Don't feel sad.
My heart don't pound.
It's better to be cold, and feel nothing.
Than get hopes up, but never win.
-H

These thoughts in my head go round and round.
What if it's wrong, what they found?
What if it's more than a cyst.
What if I, get added to the list.
And Death.
With his breath.
Like ice on my neck.
Comes calling again.
And I'm falling.
To the same.
Feelings of pain.
I'm going to get a second opinion.

I.

I carry this secret
In me, in The Cure, in The Hammer and Sickle, in these stuck out ribs
It weighs be down after entering the wrong atmosphere

I carry this bundle
Of cures for everything apart from The Secret. I wait it out
Build a wall, The Secret is away and we are one.

You dangle your secrets
In front of my eyes, like carrots, bunny dear
They are small and not dangerous, just annoying

If only you knew
When you wrestle me in the fortress, away
The secret wakes up
                                  and comes out to play.

II.

It's the embodiment of another
It is the weight of nostalgia and something new
Like mutual need for distance but relentless laughter

I just want you to know
How hard I'm trying this time to keep
This fortress whole

Don't go adding to the
Finds, the fires, the tsunamis that It brings
Throw away the carrots and stop playing God


-T

Article I wrote for the school paper about us :)

We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing. Action always generates inspiration. Inspiration seldom generates action – F. Tibolt

The action for me was going on a poetry course in Ty Newydd, where I met other young poets who went on in their separate directions to all, each in their way, continue to bring poetry into the everyday. Once you realise you are not alone in your passion to write, to read and above all, to be heard, you can’t go back to life that doesn’t involve sharing your love for writing.

When I came home after the course, an idea emerged. Why not create my own writing society, where everyone has a right to share their writing and gets the weekly incentive to develop new ideas. There had to be a purpose to it too, which is what I outlined in the first meeting – we were all to become self-published authors on a blog that I created ashbycreative.blogspot.com , where everyone agreed to post things that they’d written in the meetings.

So, every week on Tuesday after school we meet in B18. Normally I come up with the concept for each meeting, be it rhyming tournaments, haikus, the theme of love or any other writing exercised that I can find. These I’ve found on the internet and from English teachers, but the majority I think of myself. For instance, this week’s exercise is that each member gets a sealed piece of paper that has a certain perfume/herb/surprise smell that the recipient has to identify with a word. Then the seal is broken and the real name is revealed. Then, a paragraph is written about what that smell associates with and why it is different/the same as the original.

In addition to the weekly meetings, we have writing-related film nights. Last year, I hosted a fancy dress creative writing party that allowed us to be inventive in a more relaxed atmosphere. I tend to vary the location of the meetings as well – in the summer we often have picnics, or in the winter we enjoy the comfort of the heated flooring. Mostly, the meetings take place in a ‘squirkle’ of tables – square that seems to help everyone be involved in the discussion, also relative to the name of our blog - Quirk. At the end of each session, we read out and peer asses each other’s work.

Finally, Quirk has been a place for opportunity to participate in writing competitions, to go on poetry workshops and even to perform at The Curve theatre and Leicester Love Festival.

What I was looking for in this project was other people in the school that have passion for writing. What I found was so much more. The club started out as a gathering of my friends and grew, letting me meet amazing people with touching, beautiful, quirky, funny, inspiring, frightening and amazing stories to tell. There’s so much talent here. Come and see for yourself.