Self-Ashtualisation

Gosh! Note that beginning a poem with that G-word I’ve just randomly and unjustly assigned to this one is a bit poetic-pathetic-grammatically, not quite incorrect. Imperfect? I mean just look at those absurd hyphenations hahaha! My mess is a bit of a life, isn’t it? Or should I absolutely stop that rubbish charade? Perhaps righting the wronged life by focusing on bribing mine would help. Just saying.   ‘Ashley needs to stop herself from turning into ashes,’ writes the red pen that is my right hand, upon detaching itself from me. Its ink shouts too loud, whizzing in my boiling ears as they’re nearly fried of heart, or perhaps art attack, no thanks to my wasted choice, grandiosely and gingerly called deflection, daughter of my time thief, agile beyond repair, so I need to prepare to face the music – explosive ears’ tellings-off, to be most exact.   Getting myself together used to be the ugliest words my ears have ever heard, but now in desperation, eac

Teachers are like candles, extinguishing themselves to fight—oops—light their students’ paths, or so they say as sweat and blood, ignited by the fire of self-denial drip-drip-drip on and on and on and down in the form of candle wax singeing every inch of our collected, collective bones no longer humanly recognisable, shadowed by selfless shadows.   I am, not so, but too sorry to tell you Miss M, that unfortunately your candle wax has scorched my renewing, six-year-old skin the most. I’m rubbing one of the mottled patches now, the pain has hardened, been harnessed, intensified, just like – or probably very different to – the door you’ve used to bar yourself from self-love, the same one that has served you well into your relentless, hot-headed, cold-hearted wax-dripping candlehood, which I’ve now realised, perhaps too late, is born out of your burnt-out selflessness.   If I had known then what you’d been through, Miss M, I would have spoken to you

First read all the Facebook poetry memes to find out what you want your poem to mean deep down in the dumps of procrastination. Then start writing and before long digressing, because it’s nice to be wholly in touch with your holy avatar, the version of you yet to exist, maybe in a day, or in fact, right after you’ve got this poem about procrastination done and dusted.   Whilst you write, no, start writing, again, summon your ex-muse into your mind, bring the rage on, feel the raw anger and feel free to throw fireballs at her. After all she’s done, she’s not here to tame you into that copycat who is your mere self-parody in hindsight. Feeling too much? I know. Stop thinking of her then. Reprogramme your brain by procrastinating some more. This time pick three poetry collections about friendship breakups to read before you start to write your third line of your procrastination poem instead.   The next step is to philosophise about the validity of eve