Acceptance by Carol Robson

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Acceptance

Accepted for being you
but were you really?
Really didn’t get to know
the real beautiful you
their loss, not yours.

You accepted who you are
as did true friends
not just for entertainment value
or being politically correct.

This is my personal view
being different doesn’t suck
actually it bloody rocks
and I don’t give a fuck.

© Carol Robson 2012

Thoughts of Yorkshire by Carol Robson

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Thoughts of Yorkshire by Carol Robson

After watching the 2nd stage of Tour De France going through Yorkshire and the amazing views I decided to put this together with my poem which I wrote a few years ago about my home county.

Copyright Carol Robson 2014

PIP Implant Scandal, A Mess.

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PIP Implant Scandal, A Mess.

PIP implant scandal,
did affect me.
Both were ruptured,
silicon ran free.
My health, fractured,
suffering and pain
which alas,
no one could explain.

Questions asked,
went higher and higher,
then they made you feel,
like a pariah.
It became newsworthy
helping the cause.
PIP campaign women
earned my applause.

Interviews given,
hearing many a story,
hoping they would help
not looking for glory.

Many women, still need advice and aid,
only a little, is coming their way.
Toxic implants as they degrade,
really must, be taken away.

This must never happen again
causing so much pain,
causing so much heartache,
from a company, that was a fake.

PIP implant scandal,
caused so much stress,
so never again,
should we suffer,
such a mess.

©Carol Robson 2014

both implantsThese were my PIP Implants removed May 2012

HOMETOWN

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HOMETOWN

HOMETOWN

Walking through the centre
my hometown,
a warm night,
Saturday night.
Minster clock shines ten,
police sirens now a distant fade,
earlier, mouthy drunks
with EDL language
removed from the pub,
that I just left.

Yet! Silence runs through
to distant voices
standing on
smokey pub pavements,
town centre,
Saturday night.

Barren concrete,
no shadowy figures
for cameras to watch,
empty benches,
now the resting place
for the lone beer can
of a previous tenant.

Still devoid,
no town square voices
as I wait for tumbleweed
to roll in
from side-streets
to converge
in the square
of disillusioned hopes,
unfulfilled dreams
of Jamie Oliver
or even Mary Portas,
in this nightly ghost town,
where all have left.
Yet! It will be,
forever, my HOMETOWN.

©Carol Robson 2014