Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Chaotic Love

I am aiming arrows at a heart that can’t be conquered.

Stupid, sapphic Cupid can’t understand why my charms are disarmed by her.

My heart played,

like she plays her video games,

sapphire stare so focused on the screen,

never at me,

occasionally at the cats that slink past the cream coffee table,

on the hunt for hugs that she willingly provides,

fair hair tumbling over her eyes.

I make a coffee,

stirring in milk,

watching the purring protectors that circle her,

and finally she smiles,

a cup of warmth in her hands,

warmth in her cheeks as the cats let their guard down,

and she hands me the second player pad.

This is enough. This is perfect.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Falling From Grace

I am on a ledge,
once again.
There is no danger of death,
just sentimental suffering,
and I see her watching,
sharing popcorn with her boyfriend,
shielding her eyes from the sun,
so she can get a better look at her lovefool.

I’m going to fall.
She knows it. I know it. Her ugly boyfriend knows it. The gathering crowd knows it.
She blows me a kiss,
holds a gun up to my bruised shins,
let’s it clank onto the cold steel that lies beneath my suede shoes,
she smiles and says that it’s loaded.

Her ugly boyfriend is leering,
lustful, longing looks,
one hand in the popcorn,
one hand in his pants.
This was supposed to be private.
She is edging her way onto the ledge,
laying around my buzzing body,
she nuzzles against my shaking knees like a cat,
tries to trick me into conversation (she once remarked that my voice was sexy and feminine, so I felt a little objectified.”


Her boyfriend isn’t ugly, I suppose,
he’s just not my type,
and he’s in my way,
so he gets my wrath,
and, God, why can’t she just stay away and stop giving me hope?
Why can’t she stop making my legs feel weak?
Why does she want me to fall when we all know she won’t catch me?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

She Was A Monster Too

Crazy Ken and Barbie,

butchers of the brightest stars,

the sweet innocents that couldn’t escape,

missed and mourned in grassy graves.

Interrupting the peace of the night,

the monsters of the moors scar the unsuspecting parents,

the kind of people who just do their best and never imagine that evil had its eye on their children.

There’s no such thing as an innocent accomplice,

you see,

no softer description to be doled out for the ones who insist they were following orders, and considered resisting.

It’s not enough to be apprehensive,

if you open the gates and let hell walk the Earth.

It’s not enough if you dance with the devil, at a distance, because you’re still too close, too compliant,

your hands are bloody and you are just as depraved.

Don’t you see what you’ve done?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Hardcore Souma

My name is never something that people ask when they meet me,
they just see me,
their eyes, glittery and gluttonous,
and that’s all they want to know.
I have known for a while that I am notorious among those that dare not speak my name,
they whisper it in the halls as I pass,
like it’s a curse,
some kind of spell that will send me back to hell,
if they chant it with enough ferocity and fear.

I am a pariah to some,
a secret desire to others,
but a little girl to the only one I ever trusted.
I am true to him, always,
like a puppy that stays young, loyal and grateful forever.
I waited by the window for him every night,
waking up, a wreck, as the sun rose every morning.
Shelves of trinkets I’d stolen and scammed stared at me as I dressed,
mocking me with the memory of every other morning that I’d woken up without a single word from him.

I rise from my grave everyday,
a damned daylily,
cursed to roam the Earth until life gets sick of this cruel joke it has been playing for years.
I have tried to leave so many times.
I get reckless, restless,
staying up, stumbling into strange places under the starlight,
drinks spill and secrets are spun into a sticky web.
I am caught,
but I am also the catcher,
rounding on myself with remorseless rage,
I tear the very hairs from my head,
my eyes flood and I cannibalise.

I was always going to end this way.
Torn apart in a tornado of lead,
laying in my own blood,
with my name chanted from the sidelines,
from the cult of those that choke when they try and speak to me with their full chest.
No one will save you. That’s just life,
but I always waited by windows and wished on aquamarine moons,
only to be burnt by the horror of hoping.

I hold on as long as I can,
hoping to hear my father’s voice one last time,
but there is just the morose melody of death.
I didn’t expect the pain.
It is searing and unstoppable,
and not like my usual torment,
where I can escape and forget,
falling into the fantasies and the less upsetting memories.
It just hurts and hurts and hurts,
burning under my skin,
with no motive or reasoning.
The sound of gunfire still rings in my ears,
and, God, I’m so alone.

I just didn’t want to be a loser any more.