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Paper Cuts…#poem#poetry

This weeks #poem#poetry is a bit of a long one, again chosen by the class.

Paper Cuts

You want the control,
come and then hit me.
You want the submission,
come and then beat me.
You wanted my fear,
come and then kick me.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Time stoped the bleeding.
Scrapes stopped the stinging.
And bruises would fade,
where boot contact made.

But it’s just paper cuts.

First I was distraught,
Each time I was caught.
But I became numb,
for beating to come.

But it’s just paper cuts.

My running day ends,
from you and your friends.
When turning from flight,
and starting to fight.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Along with the pains,
then came the names.
Not delivered with wit,
but hatred and spit.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Name callings public,
your put on display.
Teachers they join in,
with things that they say.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Children start chanting,
the things that all say.
Twisted, contorted,
by end of the day.

But it’s just paper cuts.

My head it would rattle,
when I dared to tattle.
Was told it not matter,
what children did natter.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Name callings harmless,
the banter just fun.
Snowflakes are harmless,
unless by the ton.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Some wording distorted,
and used to control.
changing their meaning,
destroying their soul.

But it’s just paper cuts.

You alter the tone,
it carries a threat,
Misheard the meaning,
“cause I am upset”?

But it’s just paper cuts.

World seams so slanted,
I’m put in my place.
Can it be better?
depends on your face.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Your words the damage,
numerous in time.
wounding is mental,
paper cuts, so fine.

But it’s just paper cuts.

One cut is painful,
more than its size.
When you have several,
the pain it will rise.

But it’s just paper cuts.

Cuts that your words leave,
slice into, my soul.
Never quite healing,
there taking their toll.

But it’s just paper cuts.

You keep on slicing,
it’s day after day.
never quite seeing,
what others, will say.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

You weakened my strength,
you’ve taken my hope.
Then it’s all my fault,
I “just conna cope”.

Because it’s just paper cuts.

Not the one hurting,
and feeling the pain.
You can’t conceive it,
the pain in a name.

Because it is just paper cuts.

Inwards it’s turmoil,
viewed outwards as “shy”.
What was expected?
You cut me, I cry!

It’s not just paper cuts!

Bosses, no different,
their stature to prove.
Skilful word twisting,
their ego’s improve.

It’s never just, paper cuts.

Doubt plants a small stone,
in every new cut.
Open wound festers,
as cannot it shut.

It comes with the paper cuts.

Now socially awkward,
not clever with speech.
Your cuttings have taught
me “what I can reach”.

I feel alone with the paper cuts.

I’m now in training,
defending myself.
I have new skillsets,
improving my health.

Enough with the paper cuts!

I will not listen,
and travel your way.
If you don’t like it,
you don’t have to stay.

I’m stopping your paper cuts!

Paper cuts it’s never been,
just one on its own.
Your words of wounding,
are yours now to own.

You get to own your paper cuts.

Used them unknowingly,
in words that I use.
I should know better than,
poke fun and abuse.

I get to own my paper cuts.

What I’m now learning,
as child should be taught.
Socially skilful,
the bully to thwart.

Eradicate the paper cuts.

Now time to end them,
there’s no room for buts.
With skills will defeat
them, end paper cuts!

A § M
19/6/2017

Reflections…Week Twenty Three

When you know you have caught a bug.

Not the insect kind, though I do with my son, nor the germ kind, this be the new ‘habit’ kind.

One started the blogging just to write something, Miss Ross’s words have echoed around my mind since High School like a squeaky fan in an air conditioning duct. She said I could, and should write a story as she enjoyed reading mine, she also said I failed to write a beginning and an end, it felt like I had just jumped to the action in the middle and I should put them in. Unfortunately copies have not been kept.

To start, writing was a chore, it was hard work, especially when people started to follow me and like the blogs, this added pressure to write well. Writing well is not something I feel I can do naturally, the structure and form of writing is lost on me, and don’t even ask what a simile, metaphor, adjective or pronoun is. These were never explained to me in a learning style I could follow.

I know oxymoron; somehow one feels like this is saying something about oneself.

Now one looks forward to writing, it’s even become a pleasure. My little note book is carried around and ideas are written down in it, often. But now I know one has caught the writing bug. More specifically the Poetry writing bug.

It is still done within the confines of therapy, but I have just finished my third in as many weeks, tweaking will follow of course. Two of the subjects were set as ‘themes’, and in the little notebook are ideas for more. One knows that the quality will not be of the highest standard, but I don’t care, I want to write another, and that is how one knows one has caught a bug.

As bugs go this has the chance of metamorphosing into something much different than what it is now.

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

Poetry…The Meal

My first poem since school, I will get better

 

The Meal

It had been raining,
for most of the day.
So off for a meal,
overlooking the bay.

Sea breeze blows softly,
to add a slight chill.
The sea comes in gently,
as it’s quite still.

I could not leave Spot,
alone in the car.
So we sat outside,
we both looked bizar.

Me on a blanket,
Spot on a bed,
people walked on past,
shaking their head.

I chose a burger,
in a wood box.
It felt quite natural,
sitting by rocks.

The chips they were chunky,
brioche the bun.
The clouds started breaking,
showing the sun.

It was now setting,
orange and yellow.
This made the evening,
feel rather mellow.

The castle at Criccieth,
up on the hill.
Below in the village,
it was quite still.

Dylan’s was busy,
on the inside.
The windows they steam up,
the view it did hide.

Who had the best meal?
I’ll let you decide.
But next time we go there,
we’ll be outside.

A § M
6/6/2017

 

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/writing

The Hashtag Question

What exactly is the hashtag question?

Well mine was after a discussion with my sister, I was asked to help explain what a hashtag was, well I knew it as a filling system, but only with a number…#1, #2, #3, so on and so forth so for me #=’Number’ and of course Twitter, something I never really understood, too many hashtags and not enough substance.

Though I know that the last part of that statement is not completely correct, the tweets I used to get on my feed were more akin a competition to get the best number of re-tweets for the #.

By writing this and including so many of them, I too feel like I have entered that     re-tweet competition.

But, upon further reading it appears that Blogers are now putting the hashtag in their blog title. This can have two effects

  • Increase the traffic to the post.
  • Decrease the traffic to the post.

The latter comes usually with the over use of the hashtag.

My thought is…What if I place the hashtag down the bottom of the blog and link it to the title of the same blog? Would this then have the same effect to pulling in traffic?

So on this one experimental blog I have done just that. Now how do you know if it has worked? By using my views, usually I have under ten views, the most is 30+, so in this way I am the best candidate to show an improvement in traffic, after all in blogging terms one is a small fish in a very big pond.

The other way to know if it worked is if you came here and are reading this from a # link.science-experiment-clipart-1208540-cartoon-of-a-science-professor-conducting-an-experiment-royalty-free-vector-clipart

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk

#HashtagQuestion.

Reflections…Week Twenty One

canstockphoto8630797Burnt noggin day down by the canal.

It was the Etruria canal festival this weekend and as we had a good time last year we went again today. The weather started as a usual child typical Saturday, overcast and looking like rain later, but the sun came out just after we had lunch, and promptly cooked us. I usually wear a hat when out but forgot today for some unknown reason, and the sun cream was left on the side. Well prepared we were not.

I took the camera with me but I knew from last year it would really get used tomorrow on the return trip with Spot, specifically to take the photos; and hopefully some usable video. As usual my notebook will be travelling with me for blog inspirations as they happen, and a shirt, and a big hat, maybe some suncream to scare it away, the sun that is, it works in the back garden at home. I am hoping to get some ideas or at least notes for the poetry class here as well.

The creative writing/poetry class was a bust this week, even the lady who runs it failed to show. I did not write a poem,  however  a shopping list of words connected to my theme has been created, I will continue to work on the construction of a poem from this list as I go on. But not wanting to show up ’empty handed’, as it were, a poem by Wilfred Owen was printed off and take along.

The theme for this week was – a loss of a person, the poem was told to me, and my class, at school by a substitute teacher we had for two weeks. He also told us how clever Hitler was on his use of language and its manipulation of it in his speeches, a theme that seems to be reoccurring these days too.

This is a moving poem, that still has a pattern of rhyming my brain can follow, so here it is – one for every 14 year old…

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.—
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

You see in a way this has been locked into my long term memory,  a poem that follows a format I can follow, it is about horrific subject matter, but still it follows a known format of rhyming the end words.

The  skill of wordsmithing he possessed is awe-inspiring, and although I forgot the poem itself, I never forgot the subject matter and the search for it online was easy. The words may have become distant, but the power of the words have remained with me till this day.

One day I will write a poem or a written piece that will have a lasting effect such as this one, yes the bar is set high; but nobody has said one cannot use a pair of ladders to get over it.

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017

 

The Notebook

canstockphoto8630797It felt strange carrying it around at first, then I made a change, which felt random, but now I feel much more comfortable about it.

It is not a notebook for shopping items, nor appointments, it was, at the start, a reflective diary, but now it’s mainly for ideas that seem to get lost from the moment I have them – to when I reach a place to write them down. Those brilliant, wonderful, exciting, fantastic ideas that would propell a story line or enchant a blog reader.

Alas those ideas have gone, the notebook had them running for the hills, running so not to be captured. They run well! But one is persistent

I saw things at the supermarket, perceptions of reality or glimpses of alternate states,when on my exposure therapy, sitting waiting for the others to finish shopping, I grabbed my notebook and put pen to paper, to capture the moment. Suddenly and without warning people looked my way, I could feel my face warming as the blood began to add scarlet blusher to my cheeks. More looked on, more blood pumped to the cheeks, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar I sheepishly closed the notepad and placed it into my bag.  My shamefull glow took a long time to dissipate, even with eyes cast down to the ground.

A different supermarket, a different response, although the other chap sitting on the bench with me kept looking over at my spiders scrawl. One has different writing styles – dependant on the situation, from scrawl to calligraphy. When embarrassed…my writing could rival that of a Doctors scrawl.

There is no way he could read what was being written, but try he did, his attempts were not even that subtle. Almost as though giving up, he picked up his persciption bag, leaned onto his wooden stick and joined his wife as she trundled away from the checkout. I watched as my inquisitive stranger left the store before returning to my notepad once more.

With nobody paying attention an idea formed in my head of ‘could I?’

Could I?

  • Pick an idea from what I see to write a blog?
  • Pick any idea?
  • Any subject?
  • What about…

I picked that subject and started writing, I wrote a couple of pages, then on the next trip at the other supermarket I wrote some more, next trip was the same. At six pages I thought – there is enough here to easily write a blog, a long one at that, but is there enough to be the backbone for a short story? I haven’t written a short story since school, even then they were more the middle of a longer one; according to Miss Ross. I have had no desire to write a short story, so have no idea as to why that thought came to be. Is there a writing infection one can catch?

That is why I have left the ‘subject’ a mystery.  If the story does not work out at least I will have a blog post without announcing the story was a bust at my fingertips, only to see the idea materialise on someone else’s post.

The notebook now also contains an idea for a children’s book, Park notes and blog ideas.

I now miss it when it is not in my bag, my phone has ideas for blogposts on it, but it is not the same as pen on paper; and one loves ones tech,

Now when an idea pops in for a visit I have no care as to what it is I am doing, or where it is been done. Out comes the pad and pen to capture the moment for later apraisle.

One has found a way to practice mindfulness in places that cause most anxiety to such a point my surroundings become only the story one writes.

https://www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/the-blogs

Reflections…Week Fourteen

canstockphoto8630797This week after over two years, I went public with my writing.

Strange when you view it as going public, with those whom you have a private relationship, rather than the strangers on WordPress, with whom you have shared ones journey since the start.

Pride, that would be the reason, if I am honest, as to why it has taken so long to announce it to the people I know. Not the ‘pride comes before a fall’ pride. But rather the pride that you know you have improved and the goals set by yourself to reach – have been reached. The ‘I have accomplished’ pride.

The kind when a picture of a sheep made with crape paper, macaroni and cotton wool is done by a child. The innocent kind of pride, it was done for nothing but the pleasure of the doing.

Well, It’s not that simple. That would be toooo easy a wall for me to climb, lets just keep adding another layer on top, just too make sure its remains daunting.

So the writing was the start, get more comfortable at doing it, get to the point I don’t feel embarrassed about it. I am still going to see if my English is up to grade and retake my exam if necessary. Then it was do my own website, I personally don’t like the way my blogs are filed on my profile, I wanted it ‘just my way’. So if I am going to the trouble of creating a website, should I not own my own domain name? Then it was, if I have my own website would it not be practical to have my artwork there as well? What good can I do with the site? Then, how is it going to get promoted? Make a Page on Facebook, link them all together…..

The blogging became overshadowed as the secret to let out.

Somewhere along the line was a change. A change so subtle I did not see it.

I stopped putting extra layers on the wall, and before I knew it I was sitting on top of it, looking around.

Sure I could polish this bit and that bit, but as it is a growing web site this will happen naturally over time.

It still amazes me when I look at where my blogs have been read around the world, that little old me, has touched the hearts of strangers, in far off lands.

But the last to know have been the ones within 20 miles of where I live.

I probably even managed to surprise the person to whom I owe the journeys start, Anika.

I just kinda announced it out of nowhere, in a kind of – big intro – way, to the unveiling of the website and my blogging.

I even made it colourful to stand out.

Thank you for your unknown inspiration.

www.awanderthroughthemind.co.uk/reflections-2017