I am a month late to begin my New Years resolution of starting to write again. After university, real life had taken over my ability to multitask; no longer can I watch television and begin a first draft of a poem. No longer can I eat a pot noodle without feeling guilty (the less said about that, the better!)
My twin sister got me a new notebook last week. This was my attempt of starting to write again.
Words mumble out of that mouth
-unclear, unresponsive. I shrug them off.
Our room is bare, except for the dying magnolias
Put in a chipped glass for a vase. The petals curve
Inwards, cradling each other. Their colours bruise the room,
A present from your mother. Our suitcase stays alert
By the front door ,where the lock doesn't work,
As if we will have a change of mind,
leave before Christmas
But the room was paid for in pennies,
Found in pockets and piggy banks.
