Poetry Blog by Sophie

Recent Comments

Don Matthews on The period of mental illness (Tue, 5 May 2020 12:34 am)

Emer Ni Chorra on In the shower (Tue, 5 May 2020 12:13 am)

Hannah Collins on Norma’s genes are not human (Tue, 28 Apr 2020 02:31 pm)

David Franks on White noise (Sat, 4 Jan 2020 05:49 pm)

Don Matthews on 1 (Sat, 20 Jul 2019 11:45 pm)

Sophie Morley on In the shower (Wed, 10 Jul 2019 03:29 pm)

Rose Casserley on We are not your fucking pets. (Wed, 10 Jul 2019 02:03 pm)

Jason Bayliss on In the shower (Mon, 8 Jul 2019 03:42 pm)

Sophie Morley on Lump in my throat (Mon, 1 Jul 2019 01:57 pm)

Stu Buck on Lump in my throat (Sun, 30 Jun 2019 10:28 pm)

The period of mental illness

The school nurse sighed

When the girls’ tummies ached.

But it’s not just a period:

Now it’s the doctors sighing,

Whenever I come in crying,

It’s just depression.


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Talking to myself

I’m so alone

Está llorando,

No sé cuando terminará.

Si supiera:

Podría ayudarnos.

Estoy tan sola.

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Norma’s genes are not human

Gushes of blood

In the black and white ink,

That dragged her through the mud

And sent her to the brink.

She drank the bleach

previously used

To blot out each

Word which oozed

The pus of her spots,

the goo in her eye:

It all pools and clots

Into one big lie.

How dare she wake up,

Without her makeup?

They are all spies,

She should pander to them

-Not h...

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Buried alive

entry picture

I’m wriggling my toes,

But nobody knows.

I’m Giggling and trapped.

But then she cracked.

I can’t breathe,

Now that i can leave.

The pressure is rising,

Their smiles are dying.

They don’t understand;

Just fucking stand.

-She’s only made out of sand.

You’re being immature

And an attention whore.

Shes my captor,

Holding me in a coma

-She’s like a blanket.


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softly breaking into you;

consumingly giving to you:


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Frozen or falling; I feel like rain

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I can't move or

that itchy buzzing

will stirr;

alarms sounding:

I'm faster,

than a corpse.

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We are not your fucking pets.

It is a wicked smile they wear

as they watch the wolves wilt,

as at their flesh they tear

and accesorise with their pelt.

So they squirm and writhe,

ugly in their agony:

because in order to survive,

they surrender their dignity.

They howl at the moon,

and catch their reflections,

at the mercy of women.

So they degrade its subjects,

to the level of mere objects.


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In the shower

I'm hugging the sun,

embracing its rays.

The window is open,

wind strokes me in waves.

Outside noise is numbed,

by the rushing and pulsing:

the only sound to be heard,

is of our hearts beating and lips parting.

Condensation trickles

down the panes of the glass,

its mist blankets us,

from any memory of the past.

In fact: it feels as though,

we are in a womb,


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Lump in my throat

This is about the guy who groomed me so language feedback would be 'really appreciated:)



In the sauna

I was an open wound.

My skin was anger:

sore and raw and 

so self-conscious-

always naked.

I'd be feverish,


and shaking.

The constant craving for salt,

was provoked by me,

so it was 'all my fault'

he was so thirsty.

He'd tear me apart...

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groomingSexual abuse

White noise

White noise is the cloak my mind wears

to protect me from its darkness.

I'm always elsewhere,

In a place of emptiness.

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Waking up

I’m wrapped in cling film I’m sure of it:

(unlike sensation)

paralysed and mute, I feel it;

the temptation



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Hour glass

I’ll be sanded away from the inside out,

hollowed, seared, and crushed.

I can only relieve the heaviness

and only by breaking the glass.

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Narcissists anonymous

Desperate for your mind to be intertwined with mine,

I writhe and thrash into your seductions.

By being intimate we are lying:

pretending to have reached a resolution

-when really all I can feel is acute stinging

of my body and emotions.

Without engaging your feelings,

all I feel is friction;

down: your sciroccian winds are rasping

my spirit and global expectations.


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abusive relationshipssex

My telescope: Tommy

Out of focus there is nothing.

But he needles his way in.

And his warmth spreads,

and his essence flows and ebbs

in my mind and in my smile and in my bed.

He’s the cerebrospinal fluid

that floods my skull,

and all my cracks until I’m full.

Finally: a flash of his face and flesh;

vivid, quick, and then death.

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Happinessmeaningful relationshipssex

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