Fooling 

“You ain’t fooling anyone,” said Paul to the mirror.

© Carl Burkitt 2018

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Struggle

For two weeks words have struggled to enter my brain.
The few that have either didn’t feel strong enough
to travel down my long arms and out of my fingers,
or were negative, mean and not cool about me.
I’ve kept myself locked away and avoided people
and things and haven’t even looked and my notepads.
But today is the day to celebrate poetry
and I’d be remiss to miss out and have another blank page.
So for you today, on World Poetry Day, I’d just like to say:
I’m not OK.
And that’s fine.
But I will be.
Also: Midwifery.
What a great word that is.

© Carl Burkitt 2018

Pockets

You know the tiny pocket that lives inside your jeans pocket? What’s that for? Is it a pocket for your pocket? Does your pocket keep its pocket money in there? Its pocket knife? Its pocket dictionary? Probably not, it’s too small to hold a dictionary. Or is it? Surely a pocket’s pocket dictionary is even smaller than our pocket dictionaries. How many words does a pocket need to know? Wallet. Coins. Change. Fingers. Keys. Fluff. Why don’t jogging bottoms have tiny pockets in their pockets? Maybe jogging bottom pockets don’t carry things when they go jogging. Makes sense.

© Carl Burkitt 2018

Open

Having not written anything for a week, the writer forgot how to do it. He picked up a baguette and tried scribbling in a notebook. Nothing. He rubbed a squirrel on a Post-it note. Nothing. He delicately peeled off his forehead, pierced a hole in his skull and let blood and bits of brain and his inner most innards drown his keyboard. Bestseller.

© Carl Burkitt 2018

Run in

Silvio bumped into his ex boyfriend.
He looked amazing. Silvio did not.
It was so awkward, Silvio legged it.
But his ex boyfriend chased after him!
Silvio ran faster and faster and
harder and harder and passed out
10 feet from the marathon’s finish line.

© Carl Burkitt 2018

Resilient

Life would sometimes get too much for Charlie. On days like that he would unzip himself, climb out of his skin and start all over. When things got too much again, he’d repeat the process. Again and again and again. His mates called him ‘Snaky’.

© Carl Burkitt 2018