Aspen Writes Poetry

Poundland. Fluorescent hum, too bright. The bottle—isotonic pink fizz, glucose, rescue— clutched in my shaking hand. Energy drink, says the cashier, shaking her head. Not old enough. I smile, 24 and shrinking, my legs jelly, my hands static-buzz. No hunger, just low, brain misfiring like a dodgy plug. FND. Wonky wiring. Outside, the pavement tilts. I perch on a bench, heart tap-dancing, muscles ghosting a seizure not yet there. Breathe. Wait. The library doors hush open—warmth, sanctuary. No questions, just a woman who nods toward the coffee station.  Cups, sugar, kindness. I tip in two spoonfuls, stir the world steady. Sip. Feel myself come back. Thank you, government, for making life too expensive to live, denying pensioners heating, but at least today, you gave me somewhere to stop falling.

 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗆𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖾, 𝖼𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝖼𝗅𝗂𝖼𝗄 '𝘚𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦' 𝗈𝗇 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗌𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝗉𝖾𝗈𝗉𝗅𝖾 𝗅𝗂𝗄𝖾 𝗆𝖾-  𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗉𝗋𝗈𝖻𝗅𝖾𝗆. 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗂𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗍𝖾𝖺, 𝗍𝖾𝗅𝗅 𝗆𝖾 𝖨’𝗆 𝖽𝗂𝖿𝖿𝖾𝗋𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴, 𝗐𝗁𝗂𝗅𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗇𝖾𝗐𝗌𝖿𝖾𝖾𝖽 𝗌𝗉𝗂𝗍𝗌 𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖻𝗂𝗅𝖾— 𝗇𝗈 𝗂𝗆𝗆𝗂𝗀𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗍𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝖻𝖾𝗇𝖾𝖿𝗂𝗍𝗌, 𝗇𝗈 𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗁𝗍𝗌 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗌 𝗐𝗁𝗈 𝖽𝗈𝗇’𝗍 𝖿𝗂𝗍 𝗇𝖾𝖺𝗍𝗅𝗒 𝗂𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖡𝗋𝗂𝗍𝖺𝗂𝗇, 𝖦𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗍, 𝖠𝗀𝖺𝗂𝗇. 𝖣𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗄 𝖻𝖾𝖿𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗉𝗋𝖾𝗌𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝖻𝗎𝗍𝗍𝗈𝗇? 𝖣𝗈 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖾𝖾 𝗆𝖾 𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗇 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖼𝗋𝗈𝗅𝗅? 𝖮𝗋 𝖺𝗆 𝖨 𝖺 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗂𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖾𝗑𝖼𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖺𝗇 𝖾𝖺𝗌𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗌𝖼𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖼𝖾 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗇? 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝖺𝗒 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝗇 𝗈𝗉𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝗉𝗈𝗅𝗂𝗍𝗂𝖼𝗌, 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺 𝗆𝖾𝗆𝖾— 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗂𝗍’𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍. 𝖨𝗍’𝗌 𝗄𝗇𝗂𝗏𝖾𝗌 𝗂...

It started with a stain, rust-dark,   smudged on white cotton—small as a coin.   A pain low in my stomach,   a fist unclenching,   the slow ache of something leaving.   I counted back—   weeks folded like laundry,   days misplaced in diaries,   the morning sickness I called a bad egg,   the tiredness blamed on winter.   On the bathroom floor, tiles cold as milk,   I bled out what I didn’t know I had,   clots thick as pomegranate seeds,   a life I never meant to make   slipping through my fingers.   After, I held my stomach,   hollow as a pocket, empty as a glove.   Googled things in the dark,   read words I didn’t want to own:   miscarriage. loss. tissue.   Outside, a robin scratched at the soil,   digging for worms, its belly bright   as the blood in the bowl of the toi...

My legs forget themselves,   fold like unanswered letters.   The ground tilts—   or maybe I do.   My stomach twists, a clenched fist,   a small animal gnawing at my ribs.   Food is a gamble.   Water is a dare.   The doctor nods,   writes words that don’t explain—   functional, irritable, chronic.   As if naming it makes it kinder.   Am I ill, or just   a body misfiring, a machine   built with crossed wires?   Either way, I am here,   learning to walk on uncertain legs,   to breathe through the ache,   to exist despite the script   my nerves insist on writing.

The algorithm knows what you want to see.   It plants the seeds, waters them, waits.   Your friend—let’s call her Katherine—clicks Like  on a post about Britain, Great, Again.   Next time, it’s a video:   men on boats, women in hijabs,   the soundtrack a low hum of fear.   Katherine watches. The algorithm smiles.   The next one is angrier.   Share.   It’s not about you, Katherine says,   you’re different, you’re one of the good ones.  Meanwhile, my sister holds her gaze across the dinner table,   her Polish boyfriend silent.   Meanwhile, my spine aches, my hands shake,   and the next post says   no benefits for those who can’t pull their weight.   Meanwhile, my friends say   they love me, but click Like on those who hate me.   Katherine shrugs. It's just politics.   It’s just the news.   It...

I was called in to write lines. I will not push others to make myself noticed. The chalk felt heavy in my hand, a weight for what I had done— for the shove that pushed him not off the bench, but out of the room. He was crying. His brother gone - a word that didn’t fit, a word that never felt real, but I saw the way people looked at him, like he was broken, like he was glass, as if their eyes would shatter him too. And I wanted the eyes on me. So I pushed. I will not push others to make myself noticed. The words are strange, as though writing them should fix it, but they only make it worse. Each stroke, a reminder of his face crumpling like paper, his hands shaking - words stuck behind them and the weight of his brother’s death pressing down on us all. Mr Howorth doesn’t understand. He stands at the front, his voice thick like wool, saying, “Think about how your actions affect others.” But what does he know? He doesn’t see the way the classroom holds its breath when he walks in. The way...

You think you know us.   You’ve read the headlines,   seen the stock photos—   a cigarette, a stained sofa,   a pram in the background,   always too many children,   always too many needs.   You think we are taking,   that we are open mouths,   palms upturned like beggars,   siphoning your hard-earned tax,   as if your coins don’t melt in our hands,   as if your system wasn’t built   on someone else’s back.   But here’s the truth—   we are the ones you don’t see.   The mother hiding her hunger   so her child can eat.   The disabled man rationing painkillers   because there’s a month till his next prescription.   The worker on minimum wage,   counting pennies like prayers,   because rent ate the paycheck whole.   We are the scaffolding   you pretend is...

It wasn’t mine to cry for, not my grandfather, not my grief. Yet there it was, spilling— a river un-dammed, salt tracing the lines of a face that was never his. They say people like me don’t feel it, can’t hold it— but what, then, is this ache that presses against my ribs, a ghost of loss I hardly met? Grief is a gift passed down, a second-hand coat draped heavy on shoulders that never asked— but still, I wear it, still, I understand its weight.

 The Day After You wake. The bed is a shipwreck,   your body flotsam in the tangled sheets.   The sun spills in, indifferent,   spreads itself over the empty side,   the untouched pillow.   You sit. The kettle shrieks,   a voice not theirs but still, you listen.   Tea brews like a bruise, dark,   hot enough to scald but you drink anyway,   because it is morning, and you are still here.   You walk. Pavements do not care for grief,   they hold you up because that is their job.   A woman walks past, laughing into her phone—   you flinch, as if joy is something sharp.   It is.   You breathe. It does not feel like enough.   But it is something.   And tomorrow, you will do it again.   Not better. But easier.

The dinosaurs didn’t see it coming—   that hot fist from the sky,   the shudder of earth’s bones breaking,   the long, slow hush of everything after.   We, though, we stand in the wreckage   we built with our own hands—   factories coughing up black ghosts,   oceans swallowing plastic whole,   forests skinned to the quick.   Still, the children dream—   of clouds that do not choke,   of rivers that do not burn,   of trees older than memory,   of a world not borrowed, not spent.   We tell them bedtime stories   of ice that never melts,   of bees thick in the air,   of tigers prowling, wild and gold.   And they believe us.   For now.  

Tell the kids—   don’t rush it,   don’t race towards the years   like a train you think will stop,   but it won’t. It never does.   You’ll blink, and suddenly   the toys are packed away,   the playground is a faded memory   and the bed you used to crawl into   becomes a place you can’t leave   without pretending to be someone else.   Life will hit them,   like it hit you—   hard, like a punch in the stomach,   the air knocked out of your chest,   and no one tells you when,   but you’ll know the moment.   It’s in the bills that stack like walls,   the phone calls you don’t want to answer,   the quiet ache of too many nights   spent trying to sleep in a life   you don’t remember signing up for.   Tell them—   don’t let the world fool them.   There are n...

Shut up and listen,   they said, their voices heavy like iron chains,   clinking with the weight of unspoken orders,   of missiles, their cold metal bodies   climbing towards the stars,   ready to tear the sky open—   a wound that won’t heal,   the fragile silence we once called peace   shattered like glass in a hurricane.   Shut up and listen.   The clock is ticking, each second   falling like blood from a forgotten wound,   the hands spinning like an army of ghosts,   drumming their nails against the ticking bones   of a world collapsing under its own rage.   Look at the hands of the world—   knuckles white,   clutching the red button like a secret,   their skin stretched thin with power,   eyes glazed over,   tired of keeping the devil inside.   Shut up and listen.   ...

  What are you? An apple, like the rest. Red, round, real. A body, a mind, a life. What do they see? A glitch, a ghost symptom, a thing too soft at the edges. Not broken, not whole—just wrong. What do they say? You are just as sweet. You have grown the same. You should be grateful. What do they mean? You are not real enough to count. You are not sick enough to stop. You are not well enough to keep up. What do they do? Turn their hands to the clear-cut cases, the easy answers, the fixed and finished. Leave me hanging, waiting. What if they took a bite? They would taste the fight— the weight of walking, the effort of existing, the grief of what was. And what do you do? Hang on. Hold my weight. Ripen anyway.

Why does no one say it? I thought I'd wake up stronger. I thought one day I’d just be better. I thought my body would be mine again. Say what? That healing is a trick mirror— lean left, you’re fine, lean right, and you s ee every crack. What can you do? I can sleep. I can wait. I can listen to everyone telling me about silver linings I can’t touch. What do you want? To move without measuring. To swim without second-guessing. To live without the weight of recovery. And what do you get? Another day of rationing steps, of swallowing "at least you can" like bitter medicine. Why does no one say it? Maybe they’re afraid. Maybe they’re tired. Maybe they think no one will answer.

They’ll make being English a crime,   he said, buttoned into his suit like history pressed flat,   creased with certainty. His mouth, a red stamp,   licked and sealed with fear.   They’ll come for your teacups next,   your cracked porcelain queens,   the chipped edge of your father’s war medals,   rusted with stories no one asked to hear.   They’ll ban the drizzle, the queue,   the stiff upper lip trembling under the weight   of too many unsaid things.   Flags will be contraband—   folded triangles of treason,   stitched with guilt, blood-red threads   unraveling in the hands of boys   who never learned to question   what they were taught to salute.   They’ll rename the streets,   erase the echoes of empire   tucked neatly under cobblestones.   Your voice will be evidence,   your ...

They picked the pear first—   slim neck, tapering waist,   a soft green curve, blushing faintly   like it knew it was beautiful.   Perfect. Photogenic.   Set it on a pedestal,   let the light kiss its skin just right.   The apple waited. Round, bold,   hips wide as orchards,   a bite already taken—   too much, they whispered. Too full.   No space for excess in this bowl.   Shined it anyway,   left it at the back, pretending it belonged.   The banana? Too funny.   All angles, awkward yellow grin,   standing there like it didn’t get the joke.   No one wants curves that bend the wrong way.   Not elegant enough, not slender enough,   not enough.   They passed over the plum—   small, dark, dense with sweetness,   its skin stretched tight over a heart   it never got ...

 "Because I have common sense," he said,   lips puckered like the peel of a bruised orange,   words slipping slick, oiled with bravado,   as if truth were just a trick of the tongue—   a game of catch with facts, dropped,   left to roll under the couch with yesterday’s lies.   The sky cracked open, metal teeth gnashing,   bodies falling like prayers unanswered.   But no—don’t look up. Look here.   Watch his hands—big, bigger,   gesturing to nowhere,   shaping air into castles of blame.   "It wasn’t that," he insists,   as if grief could be rewritten,   as if equality were a suspect in a line-up,   mugshot smudged with disbelief.   A shrug, a smirk, the practiced squint—   common sense, he calls it,   like a badge pinned crooked on his chest.   Remember the bleach, the sharpie hurricane, ...

it was never in the words. they never held it. no scribbled note, no ink weeping an apology. into the fibres of paper left on the kitchen table. no, it lingered in the way the door closed softly. like breath departing a body. or the key turned once, with intent and finality— never left behind. it was the shadow of movement. a half-moon ache in the joints. the faint warmth dissipated. before I realised. the power missing from my grasp. steps that once filled rooms. now mere whispers of their former presence. it was the silence after—an elongated thread. fragile as ice atop a deep, dark lake. no pulse of ease. no murmur of effortless motion. the loss of control. which once scattered like loose change. jingling through my day. it didn’t need to voice it. it was already there. folded in the bend of an unbent knee. marked in the dust on shelves too high. etched into the space. where freedom used to reside. so naturally in my body.