I hope I don't get into too much trouble posting this.

I have a good friend I call 'Sticky' who asked me recently about my poems that I have written on my blog, TulinKei. I decided, for the first time since making the blog, to try and explain as much as possible about a recent poem I've written. I've gone for We broke the house as it reflected a lot of recent emotion and weariness.

As readers may or may not know, I had some troubles with my house for this academic year. I always say it takes two to tango, so this is why my most recent poem on 'TulinKei' is called 'We broke the house'. However, it leaves things unsaid that will probably never be put in art form. The friendship that was lost, the care and love that remains unknown. In previous poetry, I've already written about losing friendship, and I wanted to focus on something specific that I felt at the time. I also have a friend who has been stuck in the middle because of being friends with both “sides”. I thought about this, and the behaviour witnessed from the other 'side'; sometimes erratic, sometimes irrational, sometimes not very normal. I have depression, and I've learnt that put the depressed in a box, and sometimes, we can set each and every one of us off given the time and a few mistakes. Now put some very distressed people in the box, close the lid, shake the box about a bit, make funny noises here and there – mistakes, misunderstandings and waves of confusion – and violá. No one really knows how it happened, but there is a lot of hate boiling around. A lot of “it's your fault”, “it's my fault” - a lot of anxiety, a lot of fear...

A lot of “Oh goodness that person doesn't care.”

“That person must hate me.”

“That person must...”

You call it paranoia.

So while I am emphasising it does take two people to tango, (sometimes three) and that depression can be like an evil shadow, pulling the switch for someone else while their back is turned; my point is that I was quite irrational, and so were they.

I remember when they told me they wanted to move out they accused me of being paranoid. And it is a very fair point.

I didn't bother reminding them they had been plotting to move out behind my back, would have preferred me to move out instead ideally, and were never honest with their feelings and issues. There was a delay between the event that irritated/upset them, and the explanation that thus event did.

Takes two to tango.

They were paranoid too.

But since then, I've had a lot of amazing support from my friends and family. Many of whom have been very patient, and kindly helped to rationalise situations and try to see their side of things when I may not been able to. Yet, there are some things that the even the most neutral of friends have failed to understand. Things that have led me to concern. While I don't want to mention most of this, they often encourage my friend to cease contact with me. That makes me sad, and while my friend has reassured me that this won't happen, it inspired the core concept of the poem, painting my name as a different identity, with little care and precision.

The first line “You wrote me from a book of disorder” refers to my old friends trying to 'diagnose' who I am through imaginative theories and psychology books. Trying to explain, perhaps literally, how abusive, selfish and uncaring my personality is through clever words and inevitablities to my friend stuck in the middle. It's deciding that your very good friend no longer exists, and you prefer this new person instead to fit your image. It's like having the image of the perfect cake in your head. (Bare with me!) There are many different types of cakes in the world, but you refuse to look at chocolate cake, banana cake, carrot cake – no, the only cake you see is a Victoria sponge using specific and exact ingredients according to your understanding of what a Victoria sponge 'must be like'. It makes looking up a recipe pretty pointless, doesn't it? But that is what happened here. My old friends read a few things, thought up a few theories, found a personality they wanted to find to match up with 'mine', and made it so.

They no longer know the real me, instead, they wrote me.

This is where 'You stole an idenitity' fits in. This identity isn't actually mine, it's something else that they have used. It's like disliking someone's secret evil twin. The good twin and the evil twin are completely different people, they just look the same.

The poem continues by mentioning the house, and painting the walls. As explained earlier, the core concept is the idea of painting my name with a different identity, with little care and precision. I try to emphasis this with 'paint thrown thick and black' and a brush that is 'tattered', 'long, old and worn' – because I think this has happened quite often.

I feel it must be exhausting to do so.

Feelings about the house before we moved in was of excitement and positive thinking. That's what 'The place that you longed for' means, and the following expresses how the house was never like that. The dream died.

'The paint drips onto your shoes

as you remember where the first cracks appeared.

But you don't remember how.

Or what.'

This part of the poem refers back to the image I mentioned earlier of very distressed people shut in a box that rattles and shakes. There was confusion in the house, a lot of tension, but... I feel a lot of it was based on misunderstandings and misplaced ideas from us all. Cracks appeared – tension appeared, but, why exactly, how... And then the what. The subtle link back to the 'evil twin identity' I tried to explain earlier. What exactly the issue was might not have been what exactly we treated the issues as.

We broke the house.

Further on I go into how I feel that perhaps, among all the other stress, pains and anxiety we've all gone through from outside sources, how sometimes, it might be easier to use a false identity as a scapegoat to blame when things go wrong.

'For all to see and share and learn' refers to when I hear my friend telling me how he's often been told again and again to stop contact with me, again and again, how I am a bad person... It's almost as if it's an addiction. And a very poisonous and tiring one. I wish I could say 'let it go'. I try to assume it has been let go, but then comes the long messages my friend has received again and again. My old friends have escaped, they don't have to be burdened by me anymore. So, this addiction, this hate. It's unnecessary. Let it go.

I suggest in my poem perhaps it is an addiction that tries to use this fake personality to help with other issues in life. There has been a lot of stress we have suffered from outside sources that created a chaos in the inside walls of the house.

'Hungry child weeps' is a line that I wanted to use to sympathise with my old friends.

I doubt I really understanding anything with my old friends, but I wrote the poem from the information I've received and witnessed, from the shapes in the mirror I've learnt. I don't see that evil twin, no. I am blind to the real old friends, but neither think of a personality to replace them, doesn't do anything good. I still care for them, and while I've mainly avoided painting their names so harshly on walls, I've pencilled their memories in notebooks because I miss them. I believe I've recently damaged the line between us permanently and I have to let it go; The sadness and misery I have because of everything. Don't need it. Don't want it. Doesn't help either way.

It's gone.

The house is broken.

But lets drop the poison, avoid anymore decay and leave the names alone.