Help Me. Give Blood.

Its aggravating,
Irritating,
To the point of disorientation
Everywhere, every spare
Piece of wall
I see "Please give blood".
They scream and call,
Blame you by name
to give your blood. 
If you don't,
Then its wont
They'll put you to shame.
Its a blame game,
A dice of infaliable guilt-trips
The blood, the dying children,
Eyes of pity
Crying for you to
Spill your blood.
All over, everywhere,
Constantly, constantly, constantly...
Yet they never know,
Because they never ask:
They just blame,
For
I am not appropriate
There are rules upon laws
Drug abuse and tattoos,
And the cincher,
The unfortunate,
The absolute minimum
You have to be a certain weight
to give out free blood. 
And
How can I be if I am small?

Apology for Not Committing

HUNT the narwhal
and then you'll see
what is going on with me
I missed the appointment,
Yes, I did
I didn't want to, so I hid. 
Just this once I'll say I'm sorry
I'll admit my deed, I'll admit this sin.
I don't mind if you are angry
I understand if you don't let me in.
I'll stay out of your path
Away from your words
Stay in my bed
Leave you undisturbed -
Then you can forgive me
And all will be well,
Like nothing's ever happened -
It'll be swell!
And like my narwhal I'll peep out
I stick out my horn and we'll shout!
We will laugh together and "mess around".
Stamp out corner, make enough sound
To be heard alright nice, 
I'll hold my horn above the ice
And puncture the sky, once - thrice!
Mighty aloft, mighty indeed,
Remember me well in times of need -
My narwhal's swimming
Through the sea
And he's so very hungry, so dear please
Hunt him quick and come to see
The lonely island that is me.

Battle Cry

There is honour to be found
In the seat of my saddle
I take up my sword and ride
Into the battle.
My horse's hooves clatter
like the ringing steels of war,
Cantering before the host
Of a thousand more.
My helmet is my mask
My breastplate my defence
I do not see anything
But what is in front of me, hence
I am a victor, soldier
I am a man of war
For years I have sought
On wings of legend, to soar. 

EMOtions

There is sorrow
In this song, there are too many words
I listen, but do not hear
A rythym of sounds,
A rush of vowels
Just phonemes, broken up by the heartbreak of the writer
Who sat weeping as she tried to relate her heart,
Tried to write the emotions of a dark dark world,
We strive to be heard
But forget our words.
Emotions are left,
Frazzled, dried in the bare sun.
Crisp edges, hardened and brittle,
A confusion of effortlessness.
Hard, harsh, going going gone.
The poet who desired to do nothing less
Than give his love one final farewell
By way of ink and paper and his mind working into overdrive.
Overdrive, overdrive, overdrive-
He strived to serve
But became the auderve.
Let me weep and come to terms with
My feminity.

A wee bit of thoughtfulness to end: A Mirror

Can you see the inside of a mirror,

Where the world is darker,

But the grass greener?

Is it happier in that world?

Where everything is nothing,

Except itself.

How can such a beautiful thing,

The world of a reflection,

Be caught behind.

A single pane of glass.

Can you see in the mirror?

Can you see the other times?

Can you see happiness,

Love or affection? A reality -

Is reality, reality inside?

So do what you will,

Change the world with one hand,

Destroy a country

Restore

But always know,

Always remember,

Always think,

It’s you who’s staring back,

When you look into a mirror.

Poem: The Reality

This was written based in a series of books I was writing at the time, a series that was terribly very fantastical and has since developed into a darker, more complicated plot. 

When the eagle’s claws kill

And when the palm of man strikes,

Who to then shall you be loyal?

The birds call is strong,

It will awaken those who are nothing,

And those who are will come.

Man upon bird will fight,

And those of both will hide,

Into those places of depth.

With their loyalty divided,

Between those of air and earth,

What can they do of worth?

With a feather clutched in hand,

Can she make impossible

The length and breadth of time?

Written for Shaun: Beyond the Window Pain

Can you see his face in the window?

Tears streaming from his eyes.

His hair is falling across his shoulders,

And lives with the smell of burnt rice.

His cheeks are swollen with sorrow,

And his nose blue with the cold,

Quivering lips and shaking head,

That once was known to be bold.

The ferocity of him has gone,

Withered away in some gone year,

The spirit that had played his way

Into the town is no longer here.

The glory has gone from his heart,

Only pure white tears are cried,

With the spark gone from within him,

He seems no longer alive – he has died.

Somewhere inside I know him,

His true self lies elsewhere beneath,

It is hidden away strongly by sorrow,

The very thing in which he had a belief.

The mourner has grown so weak,

Once hazel eyes are now deep red,

From blood-shot veins bursting again,

The pain came from within instead.

In instead of out, form the hurt and pain,

This world commonly gives birth to,

Not from this his sorrow comes,

But from another hurt heart so blue.

She had tenderness, warming,

Beautifully warming for he,

But because of a fault while he loved her,

She was made to leave him, oh she.

So here I do stand beside him,

My arm dangling beside his thin self,

Shaken as he is with weeping,

And into my pockets I delve,

Where I find the long-lost bar,

Of half eaten darkest chocolate,

That we ate the day it got colder,

And the icicles grew on the gate.

So many memories are attached,

To this single delight of pretty life,

We laugh and we forget for a while,

The blunt cause of all this strife.

And then so we begin to walk,

And the snow begins to fall,

Our hearts are bounding in joy,

That is blocking against sadness wall.

This is the spirit we always share,

One of friendship and happiness,

It is one that only we posses,

Full of figures of speech – harmless.

What can I say to comfort he,

As the snow crunches under our toes,

I do not care for him like a fancy

Except that how people write prose.

The same old movie is dug out,

And is played again and again,

Our voices lift as we shout out,

The faults that were so obvious then,

We pick ourselves up and move on,

To the kitchen where we go,

Find the lemonade and the raspberries,

To take back the joy we lost long ago.

As I write this I know we had good times,

But uncertainty will always be so,

For I wonder with all of my heart,

Will I ever grow?

A bit of past darkness: Sorrow

It kills hope, All hope,

Slaughters happiness,

Murders joyous times

It can drive a person mad.

It is black, So black,

Greys and choking blues,

Deathly mourning hues,

With shadows throughout.

The eye stares, wide stares,

Wide with disbelief,

Quivering with passion,

They want to let it out.

The tears fall, fall

Landing on the ground,

Like liquid weeping,

It is flooding the garden.

They are drowned, drowned,

With weepers sadness,

The joy is gone,

It leaves a shock to fall.

This is sorrow.

Old Poetry: Ode to my Fridge

Away in a refrigerator,

For the first time in an hour,

The turkey sat on the lettuce,

While the beetroot turned sour.

The chicken flung about,

On short stumpy legs,

The cucumber screamed,

Running into the dregs.

But then, for the first time in history,

All the veggies turned around,

Biffed the turkey into a corner,

And threw the meat to the ground.

The carrot bit the ham,

 The potato bit the pie,

The corned beef, still in its can,

Just sat down and began to cry.

Then the door opened,

Fleshy hands leapt in,

Searched around only to find,

An empty meat tin!

Old poetry: Identity

Look at me,

What am I to you?

A poor man with no life?

Look at me,

Oh Earl of your Land,

Tell me what I am.

I could be a rich king,

Of far away,

I could be a pauper,

Of dirt and clay,

I might have a castle,

With maids so fair,

Or only a wicker hut,

With nothing to spare.

So think my king,

My Lord,

My Liege,

What thinks you?

Put me at my ease.

First bit of some old poetry: Figure and Remember

Here's some poetry of mine, back from 2007, when I was young. Its drafts, so take a look but don't compare it to my newer stuff :)

Ailsa Williamson 28^th October 2007

Aged 15

There’s something in the atmosphere,

And a murmur in the air,

A feeling of spectacle,

And distraught despair.

There is a child’s cry,

I hear it long and deep,

In the forest of the twilight,

While the town lies asleep.

There is silence in the alleyway,

In the deadened town,

A whisper is telling me,

Gloom is settling down.

There is a figure there,

Full of sudden trickery,

His eyes are flaming torches,

And behind him lies a mystery.

The man is slender,

Tall and skin so fair,

Two sharpened fangs,

Are bordered with black hair.

This is the night of all nights,

The one he has been waiting for,

For many a day he has come,

As a shadow beneath the door.

For years this has been happening,

Same day over and over

With no reason for it at all,

Except to spread fear forever.

And the figure stares at it all,

From his window in the house,

Watching us all as we jump,

As one heart of a timid mouse.

We see fear so often,

But take it not so lightly,

Remember today of this rhyme,

And think not Halloween so slightly.