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Lana Bell
Lana Bell

I’m Lana Bell; I’m 16 at the minute, and come from South London. I write from global feelings to personal feelings. I’m a Barbican Young Poet and perform my poetry. I write to bring awareness about what I refer to as a ‘global headache’ and at the same time bring hope. I’m in love with expression.

Lana Bell Poetry


Alleyway of your heart

 

Stars only open up at night

Love chases its tail, the night

wakes up the sound of a heartbeat.

 

A dead face with alive tears

the rain beating
its wet heart against the city’s hard walls

I wandered lonely
back against the wall
crying in the alleyway of your heart
Feeling the damp release
as Passion is pounded down lyrics throbbing
love and blood onto the page with flames from my rage

Never, never be filled with self hate
as that is the suicide of dreams
Never be empty as a page with no words
as that is a white flag to your oppressor

The narrow alleyway breathes release, I’m feeling the rain beat,

And guess what

It’s the only thing I can feel.

Global Headache

There is a still puddle of pain
in each of us
waiting to be splashed with the bright wellies of laughter.
And so, water is thirsty
in third world countries

People escaping reality in fag smoke

That only dies in a pounding sunrise, and

Gives you a moment’s breath

To take the world in. Tune your own heartstrings.

The sky is painted in fairytales 
that never come true

A human movement moving like music
Humanity is a slow tear on the cheek of the system

Suffering, corruption spread faster than fire
burning through a forest of trees
I'm coming from the roaring sirens like lions racing down Brixton Street
from the eyes of pain and poverty

I’m resting my head on a vibrating bus window
waiting to be free
Inhaling eyes meditate on a vision of dreams
As a global headache surges in a sick system of slavery.

Conformity Contorting the Crowds

 

Broken homes distilled in eyes

As they pass

Conformity contorting crowds

Their pulse has lost its purpose

So it beats like the lost rhythm of their favourite song

The Truth’s eyes are Bloodshot and wet, tired of society hurting

Their loved ones, But how can we expect to exhale freedom

If we inhale all these divisions they’ve given us.

 

I see the bin man sweeping the floor, no one in the crowd hears his

Body screaming with sore eyes in the sunrise,

Nobody speaks; they have full stops for eyes.

 

I’m talking about dullness

That churns your brain, engulfs your dream,

Because a smile with closed lips conceals a scream

 

We’re breathing in the scent

Of the sweat from the struggle streaming rivers into cascades of hope

Even the working class are divided,

Don’t let this revolution lay homeless, lifeless, and hopeless, subsided

On the side, of the weak beaten streets of London town

With wet eyes reflecting the sun.

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