You are not a poem. You wouldn’t want to be one anyway, they are only handled to be disrobed and dismantled.
People are selfish with poetry and think it belongs to them should they like it.
You are what ever you make of yourself from day to day and week to week and can rewrite and be rewritten. Reinvent. Don’t wait for someone to “work you out”. You are not what others make of you, not their idea of you.
So you are not a poem, nor even an anthology. Why limit yourself? Be a library.
No one understands what the hell is going on. Anyone who claims to “have all the answers” is lying and should be avoided.
When 2am is heavy on your eyelids and the computer screen’s electric sheen has dyed your skin grey and you are sat there staring at the green light that lies next to that most sacred name of the one who’s been in your thoughts all day and you are there, all alone and longing, then you will truly understand how Gatsby felt.
You don’t have to be young to be good at what you do, you just have to be good at it.
It is fun to inspire lyrics but it is much more fun to write them.
You exist, even without documentation.
Having said that, don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for belonging to this generation. There is nothing necessary about a selfie, but people used to sit for hours for portrait painters.
It is okay to feel lonely, I think everyone does. We live our lives alone, punctuated by moments of company.
Don’t read women’s magazines. Seriously, Just don’t do it. Do anything else. Read a book. Read Ray Bradbury, he’s one of my favourites.
Some of the best love affairs are friendships. They aren’t written about as much.
It is important to enjoy being cliche sometimes. Lying in bed with a joint and a Pink Floyd record playing just feels right. Similarly, a bubble bath with a loved one is right, and so is a picnic on a sunny day (as long as you have cider).
You are suddenly lumped with this pair of tits that you have to carry about with you everywhere. They are with you on the train and in school and even at the swimming pool. People will stare at them and scold them and love them and tell you how to dress them and be offended by them. They are a nuisance, but they’re nice to hold in your elbows when you are having a shower and are the perfect pillow.
Start a coven. You find your people along the way. Strong women and nice men are the best fun.
Every journey by yourself is quietly melancholy, be it by train or boat or plane. Wallow in it. Listen to something beautiful. Stare at the world unfold out before you. Don’t look at your phone.
That tenth whisky and coke is probably not a good idea. But ah fuck it, do it anyway.
This new body of yours has this magic. Take it out for a test run, its shaky to start. You’ll dress it awkwardly in body conscious skirts and low slung jeans and glitter and you’ll hold your cigarette self consciously. You’ll regret these things later.
Your new body has this magic, but it can be a dark magic. A curse. You’ll try to tuck yourself under your elbows and fold yourself away, aware of the new eyes that didn’t linger before. Before, you had this body that could run so fast you thought your legs might fall off and could climb trees in a wink and whisper ghost stories to the dark at night. Now your body is a comodity. Its soft and it doesn’t fit so well in dungarees. Now your body can’t walk alone in the dark, and can’t run in heels. Now your body is fat, or curvy, or too skinny.
But take up too much space. Don’t be like a fern curling in under itself, timid to touch. Do as ivy does, unfold.