Tuesday, 9 February 2010

An old poem

I'm "working" from home today. Which means I'm not getting a lot done, mainly since some of the things I need are still at uni. I was just trying to log onto the mindmap program I use, but of course I can't remember what username and password I put it as the computer at uni just remembers them. I searched my inbox to see if I had an email telling me what they were, and I didn't, but instead I found this poem. And I quite like it, so I thought I'd put it up on here.

Don't touch me

There's a garden that I used to play inside.
It's filled with waterfalls and apple trees,
the fruit is always ripe, the blossoms sing with bees.
We could linger through the silver night and hide
in soft hollows; we rolled around and giggled in the rain.

But now I'm locked outside the gates instead.
I can't remember where I hid the key.
I know I buried it, but for the life of me
I can't think where. I'm filled with dread
(tinged with relief) to think I won't find it again.

I stand on tippy-toes and try to get a glimpse
of what the grown-ups are all playing at in there.
I try to imitate, but all I do is stare
at them, at their magic tricks and acrobatics
that I once performed with ease in flower beds.

Have I been faking all along?
Was I ever really in there, or was it all a dream?
Did I ever truly mean my smiles and my screams?
But I remember every touch; I belonged –
or so I thought. But maybe it was only in my head.

Don't touch me. Don't touch me.
I don't know why.
I just know it makes me scared inside.

Maybe if I can relax, I can find my way back there.
So I whisper – scream: relax, relax, RELAX!
But it doesn't work. An ugly thought hijacks
my brain. Madonna, Christina; I just don't compare.
My lips are dry. My face is scratched.

But I know that's not the reason
(it's too easy to just blame the magazines,
because I know it's something deeper, more obsence)
for why I can't get back inside the summer season,
for why I can't (another lie) get too attached.

When will this be over? When will it end?
I AM in love; we talk and laugh for hours
even now we're locked away from all the flowers.
But maybe he is right and we are only friends.
But when I fall, he is the only one I trust to catch

me. But don't touch me. Please don't touch me.
I don't know why.
I only know I'm scared I'm dead inside.


  1. So the garden is the mindmap program is that you're locked out of, it lets you do all kinds of tricks and areobatics, while the key is your password and you reckon Madonna would be smart enough to remember her password?

    Did I get it right?


    I wish I properly grokked poems, but the strange line-lenghts and rhyming distract me from the words.

  2. LOL, kinda. ;-)

    Sometimes the sounds of the words is enough. I never really know WTF TS Eliot is on about, but I still love him cos he makes pretty sounds.