Silly Little Poems, vol 1

Since I committed to writing fully in October, I’ve been pottering away in the background writing poems that, until recently, I’ve kept to myself. “They’re silly,” I thought, “not good enough to become anything or hold any value.”

I changed the title of the note in my phone, where they’re all kept, to ‘silly little poems’, and decided that it would become my own personal book of poetry - nothing serious, nothing that follows conventional poetry rules, just an outpouring of emotion and creativity. And somehow, that note is now a collection of over twenty poems, in just two months.

So rather than allowing them to collect metaphorical dust, I thought I would share them here in short collections, this being part one. There is no theme, no rhyme or reason for why I’ve selected these particular poems to share today, other than that they felt right.

Do not expect masterpieces. Do not expect refinement, or perfect word choices. Expect honesty. Vulnerability. Real moments captured in tiny poems that do just enough to show them recognition. I don’t write poems for the art - not entirely. I write them for the fun of it.

I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

-Georgia

Martyr

Candle lit glow,
ink etches 
as I scrawl,
process, 
bleed. 

Skin tears, 
as crimson outpourings
seep into paper.

Redact. 
Reword. 
Refine. 

The sacrifice of a poet. 

Fall

She falls too quick, too hard, 
without a jumper or an embrace 
to warm the cold inside her -
the loneliness of a girl too gentle. 

As the leaves fall, she falls
for someone who will never notice
the sweet smell of cinnamon on her skin,
or the hint of ginger in her hair,
the warm coffee in her eyes or
the fire she keeps burning.

Forever

We knew
in the car
on the driveway
of my parents house
in the middle of December.

Less of a question,
more of a decision -
a choice -
to entangle our souls
for eternity.

Still

I didn’t realise how much I romanticise 
every
little
thing
until the rain got so heavy
that it made me feel warm.

Mask

The pattern of
who I am supposed
to be
is remembered
by my muscles

But the truth
sits
in my bones

Fall, again

Her hair is darker
than you remember,
hints of ginger replaced
with golden glimmers. 

She falls for everything
the way she always has - 
quickly,
deeply,
but gently. 

She still wears vanilla,
and bleeds cinnamon. 
But her fire is what got her 
everything she has. 

For those of you who have been following along for a while, you may recall me mentioning a poem I wrote aged 18 - the one with the realisation that giving everything to somebody sometimes just isn’t enough. That poem is Fall. Yes, it’s cringeworthy - but I was 18, I think we can cut me some slack on that one.

Fall, again is a response, written aged 28. Consider it an update, a reassurance that despite that heartbreaking realisation ten years ago, she’s doing just fine.