Tagged in

Poetry

Pip Writes Stuff

Pip Writes Stuff is where Pip Turner used to keep post his ramblings. This is rarely posted on anymore, but feel free to have a browse and relive the good times.

More information

Followers

Elsewhere

More, on Medium

Poetry

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

Oct 1, 2017

night time.

Inside:
pitch black.
dead of night.
blowing curtains.
a blue glow lights up the room.

Outside:
everywhere is empty.
leaves fall.
moon beams push through a thin layer of clouds.

1 response

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

Aug 27, 2017

I miss when parks felt infinite

I miss when parks felt
Infinite and playgrounds felt
Like fortresses. When

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

Aug 20, 2017

A Bridge.

The night sky melts onto the ground with a gentle
pitter
patter.

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

Jul 10, 2017

Mountain near grey road
Wander up with me. Hide up
High, from everything.

Later, we curl up.
Smaller than the grass itself
Hide, from everyone

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

Jul 2, 2017

Losing things

When I was younger, my biggest talent was losing things.
Whether it was a jumper,
wallet, keys, memory or even limbs.

I lost my hand once,
Couldn’t find it inside of my sleeve
I remember it every few months, what a dunce!
I was…

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

Jun 4, 2017

Smashed Glass

Windowpanes imitating spiders webs
Puddles cracked beyond repair
Waves crashing into a rocky landscape, giving life to rock pools…

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

May 29, 2017

An argument.

An ocean of long bearded old men
Arguing over a long forgotten argument
Sentences crashing over each other
Spittle foaming out of their…

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

May 22, 2017

now woodland, hidden.

Poking up through rust
Green through metal, unwanted.
Pushing to the sky.

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

Apr 30, 2017

Purplebells

“Why aren’t they called purple bells?” she asked
To either side, a sea of bluebells reaches out
Bringing colour to a once brown wood.

Pip Turner in Pip Writes Stuff

Apr 16, 2017

Re-evaluate

I have become obsessed with the idea of poetry as an image.
Poetry as a way to describe something that perhaps sight cannot.