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For the second part of the exercise we had to write the same poem with the same tone but with no rhyme at all. So here you go.
Why do poems even need rhyme?
It’s not like it adds anything
A word like bright
CAN go with lemon!
Free verse is not so constrained
It makes writing that little bit easier
You can write whatever’s in your head
Without worrying about structure or form
Some argue it sounds worse
But I say otherwise
It sounds more indie, much more abstract
You could even put eye with symmetry
And no one would care!
So break those boundaries
Bash down those walls
You don’t need rhyme
No, not at all!
Let’s try that again.
So break down those boundaries
Bash down those walls!
You don’t need rhyme
Free verse is just as good.
In my poetry seminar today we were given a list of words that rhymed in couplets and we were instructed to write a poem with these words at the end of each line. They’re pretty difficult words to put together so I decided to take the comedic opportunity and write a pisstake of rhyme. It’s a much different tone to the rest of the stuff on this blog so I hope you like it! There is also a part 2 to this poem which you can find here!
Words like bright
Rhyme well with words like night
But some idiots put, say, eye
With a word like symmetry
They don’t rhyme! Not like skies
Which does go well with one such as eyes
Another rhyme which works is aspire
Which just suits a word like fire
Trying to rhyme is like an art
You either feel it in your heart
Or you don’t.
You’ve got to think about the way words beat
Like the rhythm of a pavement beneath your feet
The words should link together in a chain
Why oh why can’t I pull this out of my brain?!
It’s such a distant concept to grasp
It’s literally right there, just out of reach – no, clasp!
I think I’m getting it – take the word spears
Could go well with my tears!
So you see
I’m actually better at rhyme than thee
I love how bright
Rhymes with night
But even I couldn’t rhyme eye
With a stupid word like symmetry
Fuck you for making me feel less than I am.
Fuck you for making me hate myself and worry that all anyone is doing is staring at me and judging me.
Fuck you for forcing me to hide myself, my fleshy white expanse of thigh and my pathetic cleavage and my oversized arms from your prying eyes.
Fuck you for wanting to see every part of me, only to make me detest it.
Fuck you for making my try my utmost to change myself, to make myself look pretty, to conform to your standards, your standards which are unbearably and unrealistically high, your standards which are not achievable or real unless Photoshop is involved.
Fuck you for the years where my waistline determined my self-worth. The years I spent covering my body, one of the most precious gifts I have been given, with big sweatshirts and baggy trousers, unable to look at my naked body in the mirror because all that I could see was what was wrong with me.
Fuck you for my body is a temple and you have committed the greatest blasphemy in making me despise it.
Fuck you fuck you fuck you.
Can I even say it enough times?
How many times is enough times?
Will enough times be enough times?
It will not be enough until you can understand that I do not care for your idea of what my beauty should be and what my beauty should look like.
My beauty is not a perfect hourglass figure, nor is it long straight sleek shiny hair nor is it an unblemished complexion nor is it toned and tanned legs.
My beauty is kindness for which I do not need diet pills to slim down. My beauty is compassion for which I do not need Botox to tighten up. My beauty is thoughts and creativity that flow from that crevice of my body and the dreams I dream and the way my eyes light up when I smile. My beauty is in the miracle of my very existence and the fact that I am here and I am alive and I am saying loud and clear
Fuck you for making me fall out of love with the one thing that will always be mine and only mine,
Fuck you for believing that I would not get to a point in my life where I realised what you were doing to me, how you were manipulating me and thinking that you could continue my cycle of self-hatred forever.
Fuck you because you can’t.
Fuck you because once I decide this is over, it’s over.
Fuck you because I will always win.
Fuck you because when I accept my flaws you can no longer hold them against me.
Fuck you because I am stronger than you ever will be.
I think I’m beginning to understand what depersonalisation is. it’s like, sometimes I am not me and I don’t remember things I do. say I’m walking somewhere. I’ll space out and find myself at my destination but won’t remember how I got there, which route I walked or anything. sometimes I won’t even remember why I’m there. I have a hard time separating dreams from reality and I struggle to remember if something did actually happen or I only dreamed it. sometimes I look in the mirror and I am not me. I don’t recognise myself in some photos anymore and I can’t remember where or when some pictures were taken. I can’t even remember what I look like or what my handwriting looks like sometimes. I feel very detached from my own body a lot. it’s a very strange thing to happen because if anything goes wrong I struggle to ground myself if I’m not in a comfortable situation. it’s like right now – my world is turned upside down and I’m stuck in an existential crisis and I’m struggling to stay within the realms of reality.
I think I make it sound much more difficult than it actually is. in general I am doing ok.
life has been worse than this.
The early hours of the morning are a weird time to be awake. They’re also called the small hours, which makes sense to me because it’s always at this time when I’m most aware of just how small I am in this world.
I know 2am well. Being a chronic insomniac for the last eighteen years, I know 2am backwards and inside out. 2am is when the night doesn’t seem scary anymore. It’s when the night is at it’s most vulnerable because, especially in the summertime, the day is only two and a half hours away. 2am is when the night stops being something to fear and starts being something to embrace. Cities stop being dangerous and become places full of things you see differently. 2am weaves through, settling gently on things that seem less pretty in the daytime.
2am does weird things to me as.a person. It’s when I feel my most vulnerable. I feel lonely, a deep, desperate loneliness whose only desire is to be needed and wanted by someone. I have an inherent need to be wanted by someone and I am not good at dealing with rejection. But on the other hand I’d prefer to live a sad truth than a happy lie.
Things like that overwhelm me at 2am. Along with thoughts about what I’m going to do with my life, what my life is going to do with me, memories of moments I’ll never get back, the realisation I’m never going to get those moments back and most of all, the overwhelming, shocking feeling of being insignificant.
But I think this is okay. I consciously try and keep those things off my mind during the day but the phrase “off my mind” doesn’t truly work because nothing is ever “off your mind”. You’re just not thinking about it, and the effort of not thinking about it makes you think about it even more. So we need 2am. We need to be awake sometimes at this time so we can think about memories and the future and have existential crises because when else are we going to have them? When else are we going to feel vulnerable and stripped back enough to have those feelings that you need to have in order to cleanse your mind and start afresh?
That being said, being awake at 2am isn’t the best idea when you’ve got an exam the next day. So at some point, it’s time to turn the light out and finally go to sleep.
I have a very love hate relationship with my scars. I have plenty of them to love and hate as well. while they fade physically, mentally they often stay, lingering in the back of my mind like an annoying fly that won’t leave me alone.
I used to hate them with such a burning passion because I always felt like they were a brand labelling me as crazy that I just couldn’t get away from. people would look at them and then glance quickly away like a child caught with their hand in the cookie jar. but that’s not what they are.
they’re a brand labelling me a fighter. they signify battles I’ve had constantly with myself, battles that I’ve won every time. they’re not so much scars or blemishes anymore, but a part of me. finishing details on my imperfectly perfect body.
other people may be ashamed of my scars, but me? I am not. not anymore.