Sometimes I write poems

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January hated me the same way I hated him.

He took my excitement, my enthusiasm and ripped and tore at them until I was left nothing more than a husk of the creature I once was.

My vessel, now devoid of purpose and meaning was his for the taking and he took what he could.

January is a drink in the face. A kick in the teeth. A bite on the shoulder.

It took less than a month to remind me that change comes from within.

He destroys to create.

January is about killing things. It is in death that new life can be created.

Only the strongest survive.

The strongest animals, the strongest vegitation, the strongest people.

The strongest ideas.

I have survived this January, he does not control me nor I him.

We live in a constant state of struggle that some might call symbiosis.

Some.

Not me.

Winter's song calls to me.

Breathless, agitated and invigorating.

She haunts my dreams and controls my nightmares.

She nips at me; harsh and uncaring.

Her song, although familiar is still somehow shocking.

February's wind wraps around you like a blanket.

All encompassing and all consuming.

She tries to be calm and gentle but ends up getting whipped into flurries of anger as though she's holding a grudge over some long forgotten subject. Refusing to budge on principle alone.

February kills.

Do not let her frigid tendrils wrap themselves around your sanity.

You may be maimed and bruised. Maybe she even pulls at your flesh until it cracks and tears and finally bleeds but you must not let her take you. Take your life.

She is cold, bitter and angry and you are not.

She is consumed with hatred and you are not.

She is the vestiges of rage and you are not.

Yet as this rage and hatred and anger wind down, as her grip slips and falters eventually relinquishing all hold. You miss her touch, for no matter how hard you have fought against your desire; against nature herself – you have lost. You love her.

The wait until next February will be long and grueling until she returns and centers you with her freezing palms and icy fingertips.  

March always feels like she's lying to you. Like she's made you believe that dark times are over. She shows you the sun, only to disappear beyond the horizon allowing the chill to set back in and curl around your toes. She's smiling, with bouquets of flowers and the re-emergence of bees, she's smiling. Until she's not. It's the promise of new life that resonates and echoes of regeneration that makes the think maybe March isn't so bad. That she has conditions, but don't we all?

April isn't sweet like she pretends to be. She's a wink in the dark, sure. A twirl and an outstretched hand. She's only going to hold your hand until it gets warm. 

April isn't as bitter as she makes you feel. She's a late night walk in the warm air, she's a spliff smoked at 11pm because she has once again robbed you of sleep. 

April doesn't tell you the truth, she doesn't lie either. She's honest, but not forthcoming. She's going to watch you fall from the cliff you're standing on, next to her. Until you're not. 

May is a whirlpool.

She doesn’t give you a chance to pull yourself to safety.

There’s no harm in sitting next to the whirling vortex.

The gentle, almost coaxing caress of water.

The pull at my toes, only just dipped in.

It’s nice to be wanted at least.

The tug at my shin as I slide further in. Where’s the danger?

I can hear the shouting, it just doesn’t register.

Since when did the voices of loved ones sound so faded?

What do you mean you can’t breathe underwater?

June speaks of promise.

Of nights stargazing, feeling her hand slip into yours a crowd.

June whispers in your ear, a breathy sound, barely there.

Promises that there is so much more to come.

That this doesn’t end as the sun sets on the past.

That it will end as the sun sets on the past.

Contradictions feeling like hope. The gift of the unknown, of living in the moment.

And what a gift that is.

July has always been hard to pin down,

every year she sneaks in, in little ways at first.

The smell of tarmac, heated under her gaze.

The first sip of sweet cider, as she leaves the remnants of her goodnight kiss, still warm on my cheek.

Sunsets at 9, a last wink of light before she closes her eyes for the night.

She’ll be gone before you know it, but it made your year to see her again.

August holds me in contempt.

They don’t think before they speak and it only ever gets them in trouble.

It’s not easy being the smartest person in the room, but then, they wouldn’t know.

Somehow August feels like the end of everything, but they’re just trying to get by like the rest of us.

It’s not as simple as A to B with them. They’re not built for it.

They’ve been holding their breath for a while now, someone should remind them that inhaling hurts less than exhaling.

After a while, it’s…well, it’s as easy as…as easy as breathing.

September needs perspective.
He often struggles with anticipation, with the weight of what he once was and what he now has to be.

can no longer promise, even if he would like to.

See September used to be cold and unforgiving, used to blend into October like the morning light bleeds into dawn.

Now?

Now September holds a different kind of power in his hands.

September cups a spider in his palms.

Gently carries it to the garden and then, just as he lets it go, does he realise he has been bitten. 

October isn’t everything you expected her to be, though if you’re honest, you aren’t sure what you expected.

She’s different from last year, thankfully.

But like everything in this life, she’s ever changing.

You miss her. Of course you miss her.

Like you didn’t know what it was like to miss before.

Like the ache may never fade, like it’s going to sit on your chest forever.

But it won’t. Thankfully.

She’s shifting and growing and learning how to cope with the constant change.

Just like you, just like me and just like the rest of the seasons.

Something you’re also trying to grasp.

I just hope, one day, we can grow together.

November welcomed me like an old friend returning home from a long journey.
She grasped my face in her frigid palms and splayed her fingers behind my ears,
She leant in and whispered “I’ve missed you” in a brittle, cracked voice
that reminds me of loves lost and of loves that are yet to have been lost.

Of stepping on fallen branches and dried leaves that life has long since abandoned.
Of warm hands stuffed into pockets and wrapped around coffee cups.
Of long socks, clinging to my thighs and the smell of smoke in the air.

She kissed the tips of my ears and my nose until finally, the gentle yet unnervingly unwavering breeze nipped at my lips.
Once…Twice…
“Welcome back”

December is full of promise.

He shouts romance from the edges of chimneys and hangs off of the tips of lamp posts.

December holds your hand when you stumble down steps and struggle up hills in your excitement.

He can see how hard you’re trying to embrace the festivities, the joy.

December doesn’t expect you to feel a certain way, or entertain him. He’s just there, which is nice. Comforting.

He’s not always perfect, but then, few of us are. He tries though, and that’s good enough for me.

What better way to celebrate the end of a year than to be blessed with the gift of promise?