The Critic and The Ambassador
My critic is myself, the enemy so close.
Standing on my doorstep, haunting like a ghost.
Staring in the mirror, teetering below the surface.
Waiting for the hand to strike the time of chaos.
My eyes are not always my own, the critic they belong to.
They wave my work around, dancing it over a fire.
I mark my work with stars, I’m a liar, liar, liar!
They rip up the pages, using my hands as tools.
A puppet in their foolery, and I am the fool.
My critic is myself, myself is my critic.
Critic is my Montague, the ambassador my Capulet.
Swarmed up in a tornado, praise and hate on guard.
My critic built a wall, brick and brick on top.
My encourager brought a wrecking ball, ready to bombard.
Bricks and ball collide, a match burnt to cinder.
Wax and wick apart, the flame does not hinder.
The critic and the ambassador, what a lovely pair.
Dashing in their differences, always praise to spare.
Taking down that wall, blocks and all.
The critic could not resist and felt the pull.
The critic and the ambassador knew that they were me.
They wed in moonlight that evening, I was even there too.
The Girl in the Prom Photograph
Draped in net curtains,
a misunderstood person
attempting to mimic
all those unknown lyrics.
Wearing dusty cream tulle
oh she feels like such a fool.
Hobbling on old wedges,
the dread settles into dredges.
Confined by crinkled silk,
her skin pales to the colour of milk.
Shaking on wonky heels,
how out of place she feels.
Being forced to smile
feeling like she has run a mile.
The cold, blank, stare
because it just was not fair.
The girl who went to Prom.
The girl in the photograph.
Words
Glitter
That caresses the canvas and stains,
And the mess!
Sparkle travelling, lurking
Finding its way everywhere and anywhere all at once.
The ink
Spilling like a leak, like the
Words that have simply failed
To hang around and find a place to settle
In the most habitable or homes
That decays and falls,
An abandoned house,
Swallowed by leaves of ivy.
Decades passing I
Peek at it through the bushes —
Beams rotten and unstable,
The sink come plant pot.
While
From the empty caverns of my mind, false thoughts
Dictate a life.
My name is Charlotte Wood and I am a 19 year uni student studying creative writing in London. I enjoy all forms of writing, favouring fiction. My instagram handle is @charlotterobertawood.
