Iris Ocean Writing

When we were young we wore pound shop blue eyeshadow shared peel off nail polish in the playground and sucked red lollipops to stain our lips. When we were young our value was measured in Diesel and Longchamp and you could not join the cool kids if you did not share their body type. When we were young we had to return expensive gifts  to make the money go further; my mother said "I don't deserve designer clothes" and I carried the wound for decades. Now that we're old  we take our kids for shopping sprees we give them all their mind dreams fulfil not theirs, but our old needs. When they get old will they be filled with gratitude, or are we, in turn, getting it wrong and raising broken kids with attitude?

You know when you're in university in a new city and you’re worried about your electricity   bill   so there’s no time to sit still because you’re left will no will to live.  Then you work like a bee without getting the honey you don’t make any money but you have to explain the quotation   use annotation have some thought exploration.   No that’s not exploitation   even with no remuneration.   Do you wonder what it’s all for? If your ideas are not worth more than someone else’s beliefs because he’s been published before? No, there is no light in the tunnel in a system that runs like a funnel towards unemployment   and zero enjoyment. It’s a pain with no ointment to get a job that you hate People will tell you it’s fate you should find someone to mate to continue the species and pay the price, which is to forget all your wishes So why are you doing this in the first place? You dress your words in fine lace   get in the right head space   ...

I want to talk to you tell you all the things I feel but can't express. But how can a ':' become poetry? Closing a ')' opens up countless possibilities. And if I put a '3' after a '<' my heart will be yours. Thinking about you puts a smile on my face. And I want to say so much more than a  ☺  can express. But an image is 1000 words and love can write entire books - libraries even. Can you read them in my emoji? So I type and delete again hopelessly trying to write a symphony with the beeping of my keyboard. Maybe then you can understand just how being around you makes me feel. Let's try again. :)  <3  :* That seems about right. Right? ............................. Follow me on social media: 

My friend, always standing there in front of me looking no- staring or maybe begging. The little path unites us unites us? divides us? measures how far we are from each other. I will come to you. ...... My friend, you are coming to me always coming never moving always trying. Why? I see the path in front of you your path your  goal. I wish I could move too. I wish we could finally meet in the middle. But I am born to wait. Born? Wait! I was never born. Neither were you. We were made you to move and me to wait. So we do this and nothing but this forever and ever ever never to meet never to speak never to touch. If only you could move My waiting would have meaning. .......................... This poem was inspired by the two statues facing each other next to Sheldon Square in Paddington, London. A tiny plaque next to one of them reads 'Standing Man', Sean Henry, 2003.

What makes a REAL character? A+B+C...  Wait! That's maths. Follow the rules! No! My world, my imagination, my characters. Real, like our friends, who worry about the bills, the food that was in the oven a bit too long, and argue about the X factor. They don't want to save the world. We fear those who do, set them apart, isolate them in a little sphere of genius and expected greatness. Reality or greatness? Both. I can do neither. I don't choose who my characters are. They tell me. They sit across me in the pub, share my lunch, walk me home when I'm alone. They already are real in my head. 1-0 for Unconscious Imagination.

Experience. God’s ironic way to say ‘You already know.’ Free will. Hope. Defiance. Why? Why not? A fly hitting the same spot on a window, hoping that this time it will be open. This time? This time? Maybe this time… I am the fly. Hoping the glass won’t be there. But I am also the world. Seeing myself going for a new window. Disillusioned and sometimes cynical. I know maths. I can calculate possibilities. Though I can not help but wish for the glass to disappear. Human nature? Faith over experience.

New beginnings are supposed to follow an end. Not limbo. That weird feeling that something good finished but the next thing hasn't quite begun. Yet. What am I supposed to do? Wait? Look? Run! I am confused and paralysed. The moment I understand why, the moment everything feels right, it's not any more. Irony. Feelings. All of the feels like they say. Internet. Reality. All fake. I think therefore I am. I think that I'd rather not think. Would I also rather not be? Probably not. My sentences are too short and my ramblings too long. Always wrong, always somewhat not quite what people expect. But, why do they have expectations of me? They do not afford me the same luxury. And why do I care? Stop. You're thinking again. I can't help it though. What did I actually want to say? I feel therefore I am. I feel a lot and intensely. Mostly sadness. Cliche, I know. I wish I could feel something more original. A new feeling, something no one knows. I wish it was something positi...

Cold. The search for human affection proved fruitless. The loneliness of someone's arms is shocking. Your heart locked away your body taking over and the desire to love again extending the gap. Protecting yourself from pain hurts. Running away from emotions fails unless you never stop running. But you will. And they will catch up. Don't fear the pain. Feel it. Taste it. The tears cleanse your soul so you can have a blank sheet. New love can only come after the last one is gone. To make your heart strong you need to let it feel.

We were given rainbows and we turned them upside down to find gold but there was nothing so we threw them away. In the end all we had was the rain not to revive us not to wash away our sins just to remind us we were still there.

In my next life I want to be a carbon particle. To fly in the whispers of the trees and fall on vibrant rainforest leaves live in lovers' nightly sighs and burn in a baby's birthday candles. No. I don't want to be a carbon particle. Flying in atomic mushroom clouds falling on smoky concrete jungles living in famined final breaths and burning in helpless forest fires. In my next life I want to be Life.

I saw a nocturnal rainbow of curtains and IKEA lightbulbs while a sea of pixelated images defeated the raging H 2 O outside.