After coming home bit emotionally wrecked from the brilliant but brutal film 1917, tried “free verse” for the first time. I.e. writing what you think – no filter or edits.

It’s fun – you should try it! Love Belle x

Time to write free verse something Ive never trie.d My pen cannot keep up with my gormless diatribe. Yet when it comes doens to it, oehraps the truth is im scared. Of typing words revelaing, of pulling back the frame. Sometimes I think it better, that dark thaing lie forgot. Let dust settle on their memory. Let them lie and rot. Let the bad stuff fade with time, let new sun scrub the stains. Yet sometimes what I’m left with is a skeleton in chains.

If we leave the dirt behind us, if we scrub off every line. Then what will we be left with, but a bleach clean ghost in time. We will fade to background colours. Transluscent, too perfect. No lines, no stains, no troubled past. Just another bag of skin.

We cannot drink the sorrows, yet we may not run in vain. We cannot laugh off heartache, we cannot ignore the pain. I’ve learned this the hard way over years. I have smiled on through, and looked away, and forced a forward view. Yet my troubles are mere insects, an grain of pity sand. To tidal waves of horror faced by men around this land. Men who war and some who weep. Women stripped of mouths. Souls who slave away without the time to faff around. To binge on movies. Rant and cry when things don’t “go there way”. When life’s rainbow coloured edges show the smallest fray.

Child soldiers, wounded. The blind who see the beauty they are given. In touch and smell where others throw their senses to the wind. In thirty years I know I have just thrown up on my chances. To help. To grasp the reins of chance. To use my golden ticket.

Instead I lie. I loaf and sigh. I watch the minutes melt. I do odd jobs, I claim to try and be a better person. Deep down I fume, my stomach turns with guilt I know the truth. My woes are mine. Invisibilbe nad microscopic. Even to me they hardly seem siginificantly catstrophic. Yet here we go free verse it is, let me say my piece.

Enough of rhyme, get from me hence. I loathe thy strangled harness. I want to speak. I want to shout. I want to put this to the test.

My problem is this. I just don’t know what I want to do. Humanity seems crumbling, yet all we do Is sit around and flick through clips of dancing dogs. Take photos of our lunch. We bitch and moan about minor jobs and build castles in our Fridays. We idolize our petty selves. We close our minds to pain. We focus on the minor sprains, we ignore the wounds of the world. The vast, aching chasm of suffering is just too much to bear. We look away, and play the collective film of denial. A flickering rom com on the walls of the cave while rome and cities burn.

I saw a film today. It burned my mind. The soldiers burrowed in. They left their mark, their muddy screams. Their boot stamps on my brain.

The trouble is with Paradise.

We are drunk with idle milk.

Too long in peace time has turned

our muscles into silk.

Too soft too fight.

Too bored to think.

Too selfish to bear arms.

We drop our share, and turn

and stare at reflections in new ilk.

Collective sin has smoothed the guilt

and poured honey in the wounds.

Those soliders died for us

and we watch Netflix in our rooms.