YouTube Tuesday: “Work on It,” They Said

It’s Tuesday again – so here’s another poem from my YouTube channel. I’ve always loved this one, so I hope you enjoy hearing it out loud!

“Work on It,” They Said

A pit of lust and sleaze:
Our love is a disease;
A burning, itchy feeling
In every fibre of my being

It began when we declared
That our future would be shared
In solitude and health;
My sickness and your wealth

It grew into something bleaker
As my life signs became weaker
Now what sparks the tender flame
Is nothing more than shame

When we got deeper into life
Our marriage bonds untied:
The sound of your very name
Only increases my pain

Both of us have suffered
(And found pleasure in another);
This illness has consumed me:
Without love, we’d both be free

I’ve started to get quite a collection of poetry on my YouTube channel now. It’s still a work in progress, but please feel free to check out some of the other videos and let me know what you think:


Throwback Thursday: Skinned Alive

A short poem for this week’s Throwback Thursday, another from Poetry 101 Rehab.

Memories of you creep beneath my flesh Working their way deep inside I could cut you out with a knife But that would only leave scars Worse than the ones you gave me When you ran away with her A re…

Source: Skinned Alive

First Love

‘I’ll never, ever, ever love anyone ever again!’ Sheila wailed, flicking her hair behind her shoulders before dropping her head down into her arms. There was a soft thud as her forehead hit the wooden desk.

Her little whimpers filled the room as her friends stood around her dumbly, as though they were each waiting for some sign to tell them they could speak.

‘Elliot was perfect,’ Sheila continued when nobody did anything to soothe her, ‘and now he’s gone! He’s left me now! He’ll never come back to me!’ Her words, though muffled somewhat by her blouse, betrayed the empty hollowness of the end of her first romance.

‘It’s okay, Sheila,’ Mary said, approaching Sheila and touching her shoulder with one hand. Sheila did not acknowledge the pressure. ‘I don’t think many people stay with the first person they go out with for the rest of their lives. That stuff’s just in the movies. In the real world, nothing’s that perfect.’

Sheila sniffed loudly. She raised her head off the table, just enough for the others to see the tears forming in the corners of her eyes. ‘You don’t understand,’ she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand then dropping it back onto the table. ‘We didn’t have to be together forever or marry each other or anything like that. I’m not even bothered that he was the first one who … because somebody had to be the first. I just didn’t realise that it would hurt this much when it ended.’

There was a knock on the classroom door, and as one everybody in the room turned at the sound.

‘That’s him,’ Sheila said. ‘I recognise the knock. Somebody, make him go away, please. I never want to see him ever again.’

‘Well, you can’t avoid him forever,’ Mary told her, as another one of the girls opened the door far enough to poke her head around it, then asked Elliot to leave. The girl returned a few moments later with a dark look on her face.

‘You’re not going to like this,’ she said, ‘but he was with Penelope Decker. And they were holding hands.’

Sheila was motionless as she said in a clipped voice, ‘Let them do whatever they want to do. I don’t care.’

‘You do care, though,’ Mary pointed out, squeezing Sheila’s shoulder a little firmer, ‘but I don’t think it will make a difference to him.’

Our Photographs by Felicity Green


“One… Two… Three… Say ‘Cheese!’”,
and we said our cheese’s.
Your left hand warm and soft
on my right hand
in our summer sunset.
It was one of our moments
I would forever wish to keep.
It was one of our special shots
that would have
a place in my
history book.
It was one of our photographs.


As seasons changed,
so did you.
You started to transform into
the cold and longer darkness
of winter.
You were darker
and it made me sadder.
By the end of winter,
I knew that
you never gave me the warmth
to warm my body from the chilly season,
but the coldness
to freeze and shiver
under my knitted cardigan.
By the start of spring,
my days started blooming
cherry blossoms
as I move on
from winter.


Summer is now coming.
A summer without you is coming.
I’ve torn and thrown our photographs
in the trash bin
because I am saving it
for better moments
from someone better.
I may be moving to a new summer,
but I still can’t move on from you.
The photographs we have taken
a year ago,
the same photographs that
I have sent to the trash bin,
they will still remain photographs.
Photographs that were printed
with our moments from the past.
They were our photographs;
the photographs where our memories
will forever be
in our history books.

About Felicity

Felicity Green is an amateur writer and photographer in the Philippines. She expresses herself through music, art, writing, and dance.

Big thanks to Felicity for submitting more of her wonderful poetry to Let it Come from the Heart! If you enjoy her writing as much as I do, please visit and follow her blog:


Patrick was in Becky’s face from the moment that she stepped through the front door, the package from the postman cradled in her arms.

‘I saw you out there,’ he said, standing in her way with his hands on his hips. ‘I saw you out there with him.’

Becky re-adjusted the parcel in her hands and tried to get past him. Patrick stepped in front of her whichever way she moved.

‘I saw you out there with him,’ he repeated. Becky sighed.

‘Yes, Pat, the postman turned up with a parcel while I was taking out the bin,’ she replied. ‘So yes, I was with him, and it was out there. Now, could you please move out of the way? This is really heavy.’

Patrick did not allow her to get past or move further into the house. He puffed out his chest a little, as though he was trying to take up as much space as he could physically occupy, and said, ‘You were smiling at him!’

Becky found the time to scoff in between shifting the weight of the heavy parcel from one arm to the other. ‘Yeah, Pat, I smiled at the postman. That’s what people do when they see other people. They smile.’

Patrick raised one of his hands and prodded her in the chest, just below her right shoulder. ‘I know exactly what you were doing,’ he told her.

‘Yes, I was getting this parcel for you. Please Pat, step aside so I can put it on the table. I’m worried I might drop it.’

Patrick seemed oblivious to her struggle with the parcel cradled in her arms. ‘You don’t care who sees, do you?’ he half-shouted, still pointing at Becky. ‘I should’ve realised that already, I mean you don’t care if I see, so why would you care if anybody else sees? The whole street is whispering about you and you don’t care!’

‘What? What are you – ? I smiled. At a man. Oh my God, the whole street must be in uproar! I turn up and stay at my boyfriend’s place for a night, and then the next morning I smile at the postman and he smiles back!’

Patrick slapped a hand to his forehead, his mouth hung open. His eyes were wide and bulging, as though he was genuinely amazed by Becky’s attitude. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Wow! You just don’t get it! You don’t get that what you’re doing is threatening to tear us apart!’

‘The only thing that’s threatening to tear me apart,’ Becky replied, ‘is this damn box if I don’t put it down.’

‘Becky,’ Patrick continued, doing nothing to acknowledge that she had even spoken, ‘I can’t stay with you if you start flirting with every single man you –’

‘What? Flirting?’ Becky cried. She dropped the parcel down on the floor and whatever Patrick had ordered smashed; again, he did not seem to notice anything. ‘For crying out loud, we’ve only been dating for a couple of months! I come round to your place, the postman spots me coming out of the house, he asks me to sign for your parcel, we smile at each other – and – and –’ she flustered, trying to find the words, ‘you go nuts! What’s wrong with you, Pat? You know what, actually, don’t answer that. I’m leaving.’

She turned and left before he could say anything more than, ‘Yeah, go on, leave, just like everyone else does when they’re guilty.’


I love the image of the thorns and the rose in this poem. Very well written.


you don’t like when i’m sad and so
we are both dancing
pretending there aren’t thorns in our feet.

& it’s been this way since,
blood soaked socks covered by shoes and
both of us continuing to twirl,
pretending it does not matter,
pretending our soles are clean.

when you leave i hope
you take a washing machine with you,
i hope your shoes are still white, i hope
you pull the thorns out,
i hope
you believe
the beauty of the rose
is still worth it.

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