#emilywarner

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No answer, by Emily Warner

You Tues 19:07:

I saw you yesterday. I want you to know my thoughts. I know you won’t answer. Just knowing you know, might help me sleep a little easier.

You Tues 19:08:

I know, you hate me now. But hate is an emotion that is fuelled, that means you’re adding fuel when I dance across your mind time-to-time

You Wed 02:10:

We are a book filled with history, you have clearly closed.

You Wed 02:15:

Did you think we’d end up like this?

You Wed 03:00:

Do you remember when we ran into the sea at 1am, I thought I would come out with 6 toes and one finger. You said you’d the loan whatever fell away.

You Wed 22:00:

when did you go from moulding your life around me to cutting me out of it? Was it that night, late December when we stared at the ground in silence, the cold condensation of our breath the only thing between us? Or when we shouted at each other amongst the flowers because you wore all black but I told you the theme was white? Was it when you left me standing in the rain as your train went by- your tie in the puddle beside me? Or you realised I was simply a person- nothing more, nothing less and there are 7 billion other persons in the world?

You Fri 03:05:

Do you talk about me like a stepping stone into now, I wonder if you talk of that time as if it were a second, as if it were a moment, as if it were only a snap shot.

You Sun 02:01:

I can’t sleep

You Mon 18:53:

I sat on our wall yesterday; the one we sat and watched the world go by, talked of how future us would fit into it. Do you still want to help the poor? I’m not sure if I want to be a nurse, anymore.

You Wed 19:24:

I’m over my fear of the dark, once you left, there were no monster, no shadow, no robber that could hurt me more then the realisation I was now alone. I realised I must have been in the dark the whole time.

You Thurs 23:59:

Are you happier now?

You Fri 01:33:

I saw the photo of us from that party that we didn’t want to go to but I insisted. We thought the world was against us, I wish we could be naive together again.

Do you still count stars instead of sheep?

You Mon 04:02:

Can’t sleep

You Tues 01:52

You said if you were stupid enough to leave, you’d come back to me and I promised the same. Here I am. But you’re nowhere to be seen?

You Tues 02:09:

Do you remember that night when we stayed up to watch the sun and you told me why you smoke your life away? Do you remember you said you’d stop for me, why didn’t you?

You Wed 04:27:

Do you remember sitting in the rain eating chips that tasted like shampoo, we joked of how they must be the cleanest chips ever. How their roots must be silky… it seemed funny at the time.

You Thurs 01:55:

Do you remember our last argument? Why did you never let me understand? I’m sorry for this; sorry I’m for that, I’m sorry I somehow always got it wrong; got you wrong, I’m sorry I left you sitting on our wall with your head in your hands. I wish I could go back and not loss my temper. I told you to get there for 5; why didn’t you just come at 5?

You Fri 05:09:

I’ve been thinking. I’ve been replaying our memories like a video player I know is going to break. I’ve replayed my favourite memories on a loop back to back. But you’ve magic marker-ed yourself a new life minus me. My whole equation has been solving to find U. so I thought I’d leave you with this:

You fixed me, broke me, sewed me up, ripped me, glued me, tore me, loved me in a language I’ve never learnt, and I’m tired of “I love you” and “I hate you” being wrapped in the same wrappers but you never telling me the ingredients.

So goodbye, I didn’t think I’d say it like this, I didn’t think say it at all, but here I am. Goodbye.

Them Sat 07:03:

I remember.

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How and why I write, by Emily Warner

I write to explain the world to myself in metaphor. It’s easier to digest reality coated in similes. I write because sometimes paper listens when no one else can. I write so I can look back-point to a line and say “this-this is how I felt” to see the complexities of emotions in words that rhythm makes everything make sense. I write because even if your world is crashing to the ground you can cave it into something awe worthy. I write so I have hope for tomorrow, so I have knowledge from the past, so I can enjoy the present. Poetry is my form of choice, as dyslexia is a cloud I can’t shift, the lack of need for sense means I can write. Unrequited love poetry is my favourite and I think this is because the best poetry is raw and when the writer is vulnerable because what they’re saying has so much truth to it. My biggest inspiration (Rudy Francisco) said “I write best when I am either falling in love or falling apart”. I write because it makes you feel like you’re not alone. Because poems say more then pictures ever can. Because I like to remember what I felt, why I felt it, and see if after with hindsight I was right. I write because when I was 13 I thought of a metaphor, I wrote it down, which lead to a poem, that metaphor made things click. I write because I like to understand, to learn and when things click it feels like a weight off my shoulders. I write because writing is never finished, you can never stop editing it, and I like that my words can mean one thing to me but something else to other yet the same words will hold so much different meaning.

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Jacket, by Emily Warner

In May, you put your jacket on my shoulders when it started to rain-

Let the droplets hit your face so mine could stay dry-

In June, you twisted the sleeves of your jacket around your finger- stumbled on-

3 syllables I’ve never heard sound more true.

In July, you lay your jacket on the floor so I could sit-

Let your arms and legs come out in goose bumps so mine could stay warm.

In August, I told you I was Pandora’s box- you don’t want to open.

In September, you left.

In October, you placed your jacket on my knees so I’d stop shivering

Let your teeth chatter so mine could stay silent

In December, you handed me your jacket before we even left

Not understanding my words when I said I wanna know how the world feels.

In February, you gave me your jacket so I could be protected even when you weren’t there,

I just wanted to know what droplets and goose bumps and teeth chatter felt like

And what was I to do when you left, if I couldn’t remember how they felt?

In March, you wrapped the both of us in the cocoon of you jacket,

I felt the squeeze, and I knew it was too tight.

In April, I left.

In April, I thought that made me strong.

Last May, I thought the day someone let me wear their jacket was the day everything became clear skies.

In April, I said goodbye before you finished your hello

In April, I thought that made strong.

In May, I put your jacket back on my shoulders- I forgot how hard rain fell,

Neither of our faces could stay dry.

In June, you left.

In June, you said your head wasn’t working right, but I thought that’s why we borrowed jackets?

In June, I told myself it was summer; and who wears jackets in summer?

In June, I tried on jackets with labels I can’t remember now.

In June, I wondered how this is the same month last year I heard those 3 syllables- I wondered why I believed them?

In June, I wondered how long dreams last.

In August, you put your jacket on her shoulders.

In October, I watched the walls you built separating us completely set

I watch you and wonder why the ground under your feet looks so much like the ground under mine.

  Now, you perform in the play of “I don’t care”

The leading roles of acting as though our scents didn’t once intertwine in the fibres of a jacket

Featuring, together never meaning you standing next to me

I stand in the wings

I’ve been reading my script. I just can’t remember my lines.

In November, the curtain hasn’t fell.

In December, I finally understand-

A second hand jacket get holes more quickly.

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Bridge, by Emily Warner

We used to sit by the river- my brother and I. We’d talk of how we’d build a bridge one day. We just could never find the time. But then he grew older- leaving me young. He couldn’t remember what we were building the bridge to. The only ends he had to meet were deadlines. We’d skip stones we never realised would turn to sand. I’d tell him “sand is much like stone- the pieces are just pulled apart”. He’d chuckle with his deepened laugh- “build a bridge to connect the pieces, then”. And I wished it were that simple.

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A complex flee, by Emily Warner

I admire you in the hardest way

How you walked away from me,

I can’t help but think of you each day;

I gave you all the attention I could pay,

I even went down on one knee,

I admire you in the hardest way;

But that wasn’t enough to make you stay,

I wonder if we would still be,

I can’t help but think of you each day;

Do you remember us as if it were grey?

Do you describe me as a shadow to she?

I admire you in the hardest way;

I want to remould our history just like clay,

Because then maybe I’d be free,

I can’t help but think of you each day;

We started with a simple “hey”,

We ended with a complex flee,

I admire you in the hardest way,

I think of you each day.

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Password, by Emily Warner

My password was your full name with a T

Reminder of what such a name had meant

Of the closeness you had once felt for me

how you’d be close you be as I click sent;

I remember you in my memory

laughed as if it were no apology

better than any herbal remedy

To fix my slight broken neurology;

We’d exchange words for hours in our own bliss

But on our last day there were simply four

You stranded your lips to “I can’t do this”

The plates I’d spun for you fell to the floor.

My password was your full name with a T

I have changed my that old password to me.

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Paranoia, by Emily Warner

2:55am

He taps your shoulder so you’ll look the other way,

Chases you down alleys you didn’t know you feared,

2:56am

He’s every loud footstep,

Every siren,

Every heartbeat,

2:57am

He’s sweaty, and clammy, and damp,

Yet his touch turns you to ice then fire,

2:58am

He’s an electric shock,

He’s a brick wall- he won’t let you climb over.

Engulfs you. clouds your eyes,

2:59am

He’s an itchy sweater you can’t take off,

He’s a labyrinth you can’t get out,

He’s a belt fastened too tight,

3am

He’s every black cloud, a black sheep- you can’t hide.

He’s a blur of anxiety and heavy breathing.

3:01am

The kind of bitter that never leaves your mouth-

The sort of sweet that’s sickly-

The sticky you can’t get out your teeth.

3:02am

He’s an interval that lurks in the wings of the performance of your memory

3:03am

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Logan, by Emily

Logan’s favourite form of writing is script, which is convenient seeing as he wants to do film at university. Probably also something to do with his preferred watching over reading. Logan’s writing started at the young tender age of 7, due to boredom and to preach for injustice. When asked to describe himself in 4 words i was given “never-ever-organised-enough”.