Poetry Blog by Isobel Grace Clarke

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Unsexy in my Sexual Prime

I am not a Harley Davidson,

but a moped.

I am the opposite of a fox 

I am a badger. 

I am not the cream at the top of the milk,

I am the last dribble you find when you’re making a cup of tea.

I am most unfortunately, unsexy in my sexual prime. 

Not adored, but ignored. 

But at least I've got a sense of humour!




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I stretch

I stretch some more

sprawling over my bed

caressing the cold sheets beside me


A weight sits on my chest.

The pang of my solitude,

visiting me in the silent hours of the morning


I bring your blanket closer to my chest,

Sucking in your smell,

Breathing the pores of you.


It’s started to fade now.

The staleness and the dust has set in.

Time ...

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What Happened

I ran the hot water over them

Trying to scrub them away

They weren’t dirt or mud

They were too wide and deep

A part of me


I’d have bleached them off if I could


I’d been so busy

Eight hours working with a hangover

I ached and winced like it was nothing

Smiled and waited on strangers


It could have been him


The bath is when I realised my reality


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Eight O'Clock

Eight o'clock looks better with blue tinted sunglasses.

The sunset is redder, the sea loses its grey,

People become mere shadows in the softening light.

It is calm.


I sit and wait for him.

Curling my bare feet into the sand.

Shadows catch their reflections in my eyes

Seeing only themselves and a lonely girl. 


The waves melt away the metal casings of my heart;


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beachlovesadnesstimeunrequited love

The Box

I am sat inside a box,

My fateful cage.

I push, I scream, I curse, I kick,

And yet...it stands still.


Mocking me with it's security.


It's steel surface scratches me with every movement,

resurging thoughts of bitter isolation;

It's cold chill reeling through my scrunched up bones,

Mocking me with it's unfeeling presence.


I long to feel warmth.

A vo...

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A Single Hand

A single hand,

Rested gently in mine.

Held tightly and affectionately,

Never letting go.


I long for this hand’s warmth,

The comfort of being attached to another,

Knowing they’re by my side,

Eternal and unchanging.


Our fingertips caress each other,

Locking each other in with child-like strength.

Our hands are forever bound to one another,

through our slow ...

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A Single Child

A single child,

Trapped behind rows and rows of wooden bars,

Longing for the warm comfort of their mother.


Their lungs ache in agony,

Wanting and waiting,

Their tiny cheeks ridden with tears.


They shake their small cage

As they grow tired and agitated.

Why hasn’t she come yet?

Doesn’t she know I want her?


They sit in defeat,

With sobs turning into te...

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A Single Tear

A single tear rolls tenderly down his face.

From his eye to his lips to the edges of his chin,

It runs away from it’s creator.


More and more are formed,

Time struggling its way up to a regular rhythm,

The tear drops to the floor, overlooked as a distant memory.


It sinks into the wooden surface,

Making its final resting place there.


The other tears are less fr...

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A Single Knife in the Kitchen Sink

A single knife in the kitchen sink.

Its warm blade, used and discarded.


Fresh liquid dissipates gently into the water,

transferring its fragile bond away from the solitary metal.


The gentle waves wash over its sharp edges,

Whilst its owner viciously scrubs at their hands in the pale water.


Once full of dominance and purpose,

It lies there, useless and despised, ...

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