Luke Lovell Poetry

-

Vacant expression on your face.

Seemingly staring at the clock, waiting for time to tick.

Whilst the hands grudgingly move forward for me,

they rapidly retreat for you...

a time vacuum

-

Your physical form is unmoving, and the only sign of life

is the harsh up-and 

down of your aching heart.

They come in tightly pressed uniforms

and always in pairs of two, out of the fear of the unknown

and the horrifying prospect that a remnant of life could creep

back into you at any moment

-

They make comments about the weather:

reeking of counterfeit happiness

and for the first, fourth or seventh time you cannot recall what her name is.

-

Vibrancy has been replaced with bleakness

The primary colours (your white-streaked blue jumper) invaded by sombre grey

The engaging brightness of your eyes, contaminated by murky swamp water

When stared into, glimmers of days gone by 

- flash -

a memory jukebox.

- flash -

On the promenade, eating strawberry ice cream with the sherbet you

always glowed over.

-flash-

Reverted back to infancy?

No.

Babies cry and you only stare and sometimes quiver,

vacant expression on your face,

seemingly staring at the red roses (of Lancashire) on your windowsill, 

 they germinate then terminate.

-

You once told me you liked lilies, but they gave me a headache.

Sweet the sensation was to you, sickening it was to me.

 -

My response: answered by the pounding of my subconscious,

which sent an assembly of cobwebs (under the rule of one black widow)

To coat the mementos of our bond in tendrils,

Sealing luscious red roses, the filaments mummifying them into slumber.

 -

Love’s framework proceeded to crack under the weight of the widow,

It’s button-like eyes crying as it oversaw the annihilation.

 -

Pointing at you with its endless fingers, guaranteeing your demise

It commanded some vines and weeds to grow over your naked body,

Shielding your breasts from my eyes and burying you away.

Your eyes bolt shut with images of emerald overpowered by moss.

Nostrils caked with dirt.

-

You became a kind of effigy to Mother Nature.

 -

Finally, your nose twitches –

“Can you smell the lilies that were prepared?”, I whisper.

You shake your head.

A fitting tribute.

-

I talked to you about my past experiences in the field of affection,

How some people don’t fall in love with the person, but the idea of love itself.

They see one appealing quality and snatch greedily, wanting it all to themselves.

- 

Eventually, those grubby hands swipe that vase of flowers, 

(that we kept on the windowsill)

, and they smash onto the floor.

The growing puddle of water explains

that gluttony results in destruction.

-

Despite this, you do the same –

Using me for your own benefit, a punching bag for your emotions.

Every day you were unhappy, was another day of mental manipulation

And frank mindfucking for me.

-

I just wanted to be loved,

But when your definition of love is like a toxic arrow through the heart,

How am I meant to reciprocate?

-

So now, when I talk to people about my experiences in the field of affection,

I just say that I’m on a

 break.

A break

-

 caused by my inability to move past something that had so much promise,

But was progressively shredded by you, the machine excruciatingly,

-

I once cursed myself.

Tread on my own toes.

And whipped myself into submission.

I chose to turn my back

and ignore people's cries for my amity.

-

Fed by my own insatiable appetite for antagonism,

my mind binged itself on insults whispered by its own creation –

Swallowing cities where the forecast is forever rain.

The thunder materialized and struck down on a scaffolding pole,

The beacon reverberated through the site, a site for a new development,

yet another estate of egos resting in slumber, arrogant to the lightning.

-

I walked the beams of the site on a thin line between depreciation and                                                              obliteration.

It is a dangerous line that I hope I no longer have to teeter off, where I was

Balancing like a tightrope walker with a despondent heart

The crowds eagerly awaiting for my

 downfall.

-

But over time you edged me off that line and I was sent, in a –

crash into the dark void below.

-

Awakening among the filth, I stretch my arms wide.

They hit the walls of my tomb, a shrill ding echoing.

I look around and besides me and the mud, a fresh bundle of lilies

Lie at my feet.

-

A small hole appears in the side of the void,

No bigger than a ladybug.

The pinprick of light I see, I crawl towards:

It turns out to be an illusion,

A cruel trick.

The little hole is filled again, machinery burying the glow.

-

I’ve always been a late bloomer.

Puberty, where I’m told I didn’t develop until age fifteen.

And even back then my voice still sounded the same as a pre-teen.

I felt paused in my progression, like life had decided to halt my existence.

-

To limit my advancements and to make me into a scapegoat.

A bag to stuff all their inhibitions, their power letting them

                                                                                             pour.

-

Only being allowed in the group to be the butt of every joke.

Every time the punchline poked, feeling as if

a cigarette stub was stamped on my skin.

Making me choke, my words faltering, and they win.

Their words masqueraded as banter.

-

My body warrants people to push at me, murdering my completeness.

Because people like to attack purity and bruise uniqueness.

Any innocence that’s spotlighted is ignited into meekness.

My psyche is torched as they search for my weakness.

-

“You’re so gay”, the people say.

The people out looking for prey.

“You’re like a girl”, they echo.

The stigma stung.

-

These aren’t just words to me,

They shook my foundations and altered my perception of myself –

I began to retreat inwards, trapped inside my shell, aching to come out.

And having someone torment me every time I poke my head out doesn’t help.

-

In a society with the vague promise of choice,

That doesn’t bloom you into the lotus that you expected

Hey! Here’s some irrelevant things about me that you need to know! Tagged by @power-of-ages-writeblr, thanks a ton dude :)

Nicknames: Idiot, Scrub, Pleb, Prat, Boz, Myst, Gremlin (Feel free to call me anything tho, I really don’t mind.)

Height: I think I’m about 5′8′’ or 5′9′’? Anyway, I used to be extremely short and in the span of about a year and a half I grew into a lamppost. 

Favourite fruit: Blueberries, Raspberries, Blackberries, the other Berries!

Orientation: Don’t like labels, even though they’re sometimes necessary, so would probably say I’m into whoever I’m into, whoever that might turn out to be :)

Favourite season: Autumn, I love the way the trees shed all of their leaves, almost wish that every autumn I could do the same and start over~ Also my birthday is then and it’s generally the most bearable season.

Favourite flower: This usually changes as I find out about more flowers and their meanings but at the moment, I’d say the Dahlia is my favourite. It symbolises many things like staying graceful under pressure, drawing upon inner strength to succeed, travelling and making a major life change and staying kind despite being tested by life. All of which I aspire to do!

Favourite scent: A tie between burning wood, which brings back memories of camping and the smell of new books, straight outta production!

Favourite colour: Despite my entire blog being shades of purple, I’d say blue. Purple comes close second.

Favourite animal: The Aye-Aye, they’re so fucking adorable! Also, love Owls.

Coffee, tea or hot chocolate: Definitely hot chocolate in winter, autumn and spring. In summer, that’s when I become a stereotypical British person.

Average hours of sleep: Between 5 and 8. Usually stay up really late cause I suddenly stop wanting to procrastinate and do actual beneficial shit.

Cat or dog person: I have two wonderful little twin bois called Iggy and Ivy, they are the cutest meowstics around.

Favourite fictional character: I have too many to count. Some of them are: Skulduggery Pleasant (Skulduggery Pleasant Books), Liesel Meminger (The Book Thief), Esther Greenwood (The Bell Jar, kinda fiction?), Detective Bill Hodges (Mr. Mercedes), Mei Misaki (Another), Auggie (Wonder) and Connor (Detroit: Become Human)!

Number of blankets you sleep with: 0, I’m such a badass, well a very cold one.

Dream trip: I’d love to go to on a trip around the world at some point but in terms of a standalone place, I’d pick Japan and no not because I’m a weeb but because it’s such a beautiful country :)

Blog created: About a month and a half ago, coming up to two months real soon! So glad I joined Tumblr, the community is so helpful and talkative <3

Number of followers: I’m now at 271 followers, which is super cool and weird and I love it, thanks for liking my poetry and random shit like this, is much appreciated - you’ve all invigorated my spirit tenfold! :)

Random fact: Foreign Accent Syndrome is a rare side effect of brain trauma. Patients speak their native language but in a foreign dialect. - This was the most random of random facts considering I used a generator ;)

I’m gonna tag: @writingmilkshake, @very-busy-writing, @jaywrites101, @shewhowalksbehindthewheels, @ajgerald!

Of course, you guys don’t have to participate if you don’t want to! Again, if you want to be added or removed from my tag list let me know :)

You emotionally blackmail me.

 I’m not sure if you were aware but

  You say I’m your best friend

    That you’re on the mend

      But a week after it’s someone else and your feelings conveniently

        Bend -

          back into place.

            Your lips whisper his name, the reverberations hit my chest and

              my valves terminate.

                  To me his name sounds like a scream

                      igniting jealousy that you can clearly see;

                         Yet you continue on: playing games with my naïve mind

                             the jigsaw clicks into place.

                                He’s ‘helping you’ with your problems.

                                        Your lips regurgitate the same advice that I gave you

                                        ‘Be strong’,

                                           ‘You’re the best person I know’,

                                               ‘Live’.

                                                  Only now you’re listening to it when whispered

                                                     from another’s lips.

                                                       The pain of caring for you when all you do

is push away,

                                                          Treating me like I could never understand 

you.

                                                             It crushes me like a wall of water,

                                                               the flood seeps into my lungs and eventually my heart.

                                                                    The rush of the tsunami ruptures my heartstrings and off floats my soul.

                                                                           My heart is emptied, and I no longer feel for you.

Hey again! So, time for my first tag game, I’m hella nervous for some reason~

I was tagged by @whatsanwritepocalae, thank-you! You’ve also tagged me in tons of other stuff and I’ll get back to that day by day :D

Last line I wrote was for my horror/crime WIP and it’s from Chapter One, straight after the Prologue ends :)

“Everyone I’ve ever met has been irredeemable and I’m the same, I’m stuck in my ways An and you can’t undo me.” Matt muttered, glaring into her eyes.

If I’ve tagged you, you don’t have to do it. Also, if anyone wants to be on my tag list or would want to be removed; please let me know, because I have no idea what I’m doing!

Hey writers and readers!

 I’ve been on Tumblr for a good couple of months now posting my poetry, talking to amazing writers and liking posts, so I guess it’s about time I properly introduced myself to the community, even if I’m fecking late as per usual!

Thanks so much to all the followers I’ve been getting too (at 180 now, it’s insane!), makes me think I should start taking my passion at writing and making it serious :)

Also, people have been tagging me lately and I figured I needed to do this before completing the tags!

Sooo here we go:

My name is Myst, I’m 17 years old (18 on Sept 3) and I’m a wannabe poet/writer from the land of tea and crumpets. I’ve always had a passion for writing from when I was a weird alien fetus, writing horror stories in class to receive questioning eyebrows from my primary school teachers~

 I guess I’ve always been attracted towards the morbid side of life, maybe out of how curious I am and my annoying mission to question everything. I’ve since stuck with horror to become mainly a horror/crime writer! I’ve not posted anything about my novel WIP cause frankly, I have nothing for it and it’s a bit of a joke to call it a WIP when I grind to a halt for months on end with it.  I’ve designed a few basic characters and have my plotline sketched out but no actual writing has been done yet. 

It’s unnamed atm, but it’s about a murder investigation that spans 30+ years and concludes in the discovery of a serial killer. The detective is a complicated man (a bit of an anti-hero) who’s struggling with his identity and it takes looking at the stories of the victims and the help of his partner to truly make him understand his identity and his place in the world. Think of it like a bildungsroman mixed with a mid-life crisis ;)

However, I do write a ton of poetry, only a bit of which I’ve posted on here~ My poems are usually based off my own life experiences, twisted apocalyptic worlds I think up and themes around the origin of evil. I tend to use a gazillion metaphors, dabbling in blank space and structure to create symbolism, hopefully anyway.

I’m heading to Uni next year (depending on if I pass) to study either Policing, Social Work or English Literature (and Creative Writing) but I’ve not completely decided yet because I’m a bit of a procrastinating mess!

Feel free to chat with me about anything from your own work to random shit like anime. I’ll usually only post poetry but once I’ve got my novel WIP on track, I’ll put some of my OC’s on here! 

I’m always active on here so if you like or re-blog I’ll definitely check you out :D

Thanks for reading, 

They seem to follow me,

Everywhere I go – the visions come back

Flexing and fading into my memory,

Trying to crawl back from the locked cage that once was my mind.

  But that cage was shattered, and it was only a matter of time until what mattered

  Came cascading out –

All my memories,

     the shrieking fire,

 the masked liar,

the funeral pyre

  But then they stop.

 And I’m allowed only a quick glimpse into what was because…

  They seem to follow me,

Everywhere I go – the colours come back

Flickering and flowing

My sepia-toned vision finally turning vivid but the thought that makes me livid is

Who am I?

  The words won’t come, messages from the past seem to lose shape and waste away like 

water down a drain.

Memories are like that – they fluctuate and pulsate

but my memories are different because,

they’re bound in rope and pulled tightly closed.

  I ask myself why, how and most importantly who?

  First one is answered by the doctors, who grudgingly gave help.

A car accident they say, you’re lucky to survive.

But my luckiness doesn’t fit with the gunshot wound to my mind.

I know they’re just trying to be kind

But now that I’m basically blind, I need to make peace with the intertwined coils present in my mind.

Carry on saying what you think I want to hear but that won’t stop me from noticing the whispering from your peers.

  Second one is answered by the police, 

who come in droves, 

beckoned by the bureaucracy of the aristocracy and their monotonous tones.

Deal with her, they say.

For the media and its schizophrenia will turn this into a bloodbath.

Due to the nonchalance of our late response call.

A drunk driver.

They say it purposefully drove into me.

But the purpose itself is unknown – presumably lost with the absentee that is

 my memory.

The third and final one is answered by the thing itself, locked up in a prison cell.

Suspicion, what’s that?

It’s obvious you didn’t crash.

Its lips turn to ash as it refuses to answer the questions asked.

They force me to talk to it, the thing that hid my memories

The thing that looks so much like me.

But talk I do, listening to its dreary tune, I find the harrowing truth…

 Born from the same womb, we shared the same food -

No longer tall tales, now proven by the power of technological advance.

Twins.

So, what went wrong?

All everything comes down to at the end of the day is the irresistible pull of

 cold, hard cash.

The distortion of my mind wakes up to the facts of the situation.

Flames burn through my mind and I realise what I’d done.

The torching of the house shifts its way into my soul and I realise something.

 Revenge.

  They seem to follow me,

Everywhere I go – the guilt, the regret, the memories

  The bleeding-heart flowers outside ached as I was led away in chains.

   How, why and who? It all comes together at the end.

And I wish I hadn’t found out the truth because…

Once upon a time, there was a seamstress

The running stitch ran away in her hands

Her craft was perfected, elegant, graceful and full of skill

Her metal scissors snapped with ease, separating the differing colours of fabric

Like she was cutting apart worlds, so full of brightness and texture

  Threaded through and looped around

She worked feverishly to keep the method –

Unravelling the drapery and tugging the streams

Winding them out and pushing them back again

Concentration was her struggle, creation her reward

   Her work was paraded around wondrous locations

The nations heralded her as a sensation

A miracle of creation – what else could she want?

  The thing on her mind was ill-timed

Just back from the party that was mimed

She let her hair down and looked outside

And saw him. He was standing there, in the street –

A living God, altogether more precious than her fabrics

A burning sensation rose in her throat and her heart beat a melodic rhythm.

  But then-

She saw the other one – the creature that stood beside him.

  Once upon a time there was a girl who wore a hairpin as blue as the indulging ocean

Surely it entranced any man in her path?

Beckoning them like a lighthouse’s bright light,

Men eagerly moved forward and embraced the harlot’s curse.

  I shook my head and realised why my husband never came home…

  Sharpened scissors dangled before her,

Her work was just beginning.

Red and green were wonderful colours

So, vivid and abstract –

Portrayed lavishly on a human canvas…

  The neighbourhood grew with worry last night –

A girl killed, the first in fifteen years.

Yet I was not perturbed.

More reserved would be appropriate.

I need to focus on the work at hand.

   Concentration was her struggle, creation her reward

All problems cast out of her mind, she went back to the celebrations

But walking past the bus station-

He was there.

And he was with someone else again.

Never her.

  Once upon a time, there was a girl with deep brown eyes, akin to a walnut the colour of the earth.

Her siren’s call seemed to enthral all men and kept them under her sickly spell

As soon as she spoke, all utterances ceased to exist.

  I tutted and strode past, realising why my husband never came home…

  Sharpened scissors dangled before her,

Her work was partly done.

She sat and drank a newly-brewed wine – the colour of dark, coagulated

Blood.

  The neighbourhood is stark with terror tonight–

The second girl killed within a fortnight.

Strung up like a cloth on the end of the sign down the lane.

But I must focus on my work.

  Concentration was my struggle, creation my reward.

Many came from afar to see how they generated sweet concord

And relish it I did, but oh how something was always missing

Since that rainy day in December, my lips once wide with laughter,

Grew taut and unmoving.

  Forget what the psychologists say, they’re warped themselves

Lost in their many reports and books

But I retort their advice -

They fail to see sense.

 Not like I do.

  I cross the street and see him again

Through the window

– exactly as I knew him before

But he’s not alone, that thing is with him.

  Once upon a time there was girl who wore a captivating crimson corset,

the fabric clung tight to her waist, making her look like an hourglass.

Her figure drew men to her like bees wanting to pollinate

She was intoxicating.

But unbeknownst to them, this pollen was toxic and deadly.

  I laughed and realised how my husband was coming back to me…

  Sharpened scissors dangled before me.

My work was complete.

The fabric sewn shut and tied.

  The neighbourhood was in chaos tonight –

A third girl dead within three weeks.

The news induced a dose of horror –

People fled, like rats running for cover.

  Tonight, was the night that I paid him a visit

But he was a bigot – a hypocrite.

  Blue hairpin.

Brown contacts.

Crimson corset.

  Dare he deny me when donned in his harlot’s wardrobe?!

  My hard labour was shunned 

– pushed away.

Denied by the one who was meant to receive it

My upkeep blown back

, self-believe shattered.

  Turns out,

I must reap what you sow.

  Sharpened scissors dangled before me

My trusty tool was to craft my next masterpiece

but were they always this colour?

Sat by the flames of the fire, 

I first noticed you.

Sitting there – hands in your lap, looking around for answers in all the  awkwardness.

Staring at the crackling fire, hands being warmed by its touch –

You, without warning, attracted my gaze.

I looked up and the fire no longer was needed to warm me.

You created a burning sensation within me.

 The butterflies in my stomach pulsed and sent out a signal –

A signal to assert that I wasn’t alone,

My beacon had attracted help.

For you, our previously unseen connection grew into focus.

It saved me from the mundane and my eyes, usually squinted

 or down-turned in helplessness –

Opened wide in awe…

 Truth is, they could never see behind my facade.

It protected me like a bodyguard, ensuring no one did me harm.

 The terracotta mask that concealed my face      

Adapted and changed with grace

Building new dimensions with pretension, little armies flocked to me

eager to assist me in the guarding, you see

Then my mask imploded and underneath

I was naked.

The minuscule armies crowded around, eager to see the true me.

But all I could think of was how empty I felt without my mask.

 Basking in the hypocritical masquerade of virtue,

Trying to keep it super-glued together

I moved again, and my world was askew,

As I kept asking, why did you make me do this to you?

 The mirror is my savior, my complexion fair and full of flavor.

But what lurks beneath is a hater, a grim rendition of perfection

And rife with corruptions and tyranny.

 Chewed up, thrown out

My veil ripped away,

 naked I stood before the army, protesting my execution stay

If God is omnipotent, why won’t he take me away?

 Omnibenevolent? 

What is present is his malevolence,

Strung out in straight structures it lays, marking its presence.

Through the tumultuous crowds, the majesty of the crown, the gnawing of the hounds-

Suffering on a large scale, encapsulated for centuries to come,

 beware of its siren call.

 Like Pandora’s Box, my life erupted

– everything I had been and will ever be came rushing out as if caught in a winter gale

Cascading out like wine, my blood pulsed through my veins

And stopped.

 The angels wept as the heavens descended upon me, trapping me in limbo

My glistening halo was gone, dissipated with the revelations and replaced

 with jagged points. 

Looking to my mirror as a remembrance of protection –

I saw my true form reflected at me in the mirror.

This true form, deep within, was full of warts

Deformed.

  The mirror cracked from side to side, leaving an elongated scar across my features.

The thunder barked a crescendo and as I looked back I noticed.

I wasn’t wearing my facade…

The jagged points of the Appalachian Mountains soared high above the ground,

defining themselves as the main figure of the landscape.

In a struggle for relevance, at the mountain’s peak was a

dormant sleeping giant.

This fiery giant was feared in the ancient times,

when an industrial metropolis rose out of the otherwise abandoned

 stretch of desert.

 Travellers who discovered this metropolis at first, thought it to be

a mirage,

as like the famous cities of London and Los Angeles,

it had the essential kit for survival – socially and physically.

The structures of this supposed mirage are an elusive concept to today’s

Miscreants –

A money man’s paradise,

A fantasist’s dream hotel

And streets where even the fire hydrants spray gold.

 A drawn-out creak resounded through the wasteland

a creak like the opening of a rusty hatch into the mind’s eye

waking up the fantasist

and abruptly stopping the daydreaming of a Utopian reverie

 which was remembered by no-one.

What have you got that I can get a taste of?

Let’s hope it’s not a waste of breath

Meth, ket, et cetera

Drugs, drugs, and more drugs

An endless cacophony

Maybe if I take them all I’ll reach

Nirvana?

 People tell me I’m wasting away but all I want is to feel loved.