Wednesday, 22 May 2013

When I Grow Up

I want to have my name inscribed
Between the cracks in the bark of trees;
I want my words to be the low hum
Playing everyone's eardrums.

My last lullaby will be a roar of 
'Thank you's and 'We love you's.
And I'll close that curtain when
My stories are written in ink 

And what I've made is clay, in the hands
Of every person that ever lived. 
When I grow up I want to change 
Your world. And in doing so, I'll change mine too. 

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

My Best Friend

When I was thirteen, I had a best friend. She was like the threads to my puppet: the one person that could keep me together when things were getting too hard. We talked whenever we could, we became so close, and I like to believe that we truly understood one another - laughing with each other, even without the other. She was outrageous, brave, outspoken, beautiful and witty; her stormy eyes were honest and calm. She was elegant, but she also had weaknesses; she needed me just as I needed her. 
And believe me, I needed her, so much: this was the year where I sat on the edge of a cloudburst and watched a torrent of copious downpour tumble to my earth. But she sat with me, listened to the low drum of the water beating the ground, showed me where to a get a boat so I wouldn’t sink, and taught me to stitch feathers, to fly. 
But I think I might have flown too far away, because I’m no longer a puppet and she’s no longer my threads. Her eyes that watched the tempest have found at last a stillness, where she walks with other angels. I pray that I am one of them, but that she flies with the ones who need her most, and who will be her laughs, her threads and her boats.