Posted in Writing, Blog, Creative Writing

Pillow Talk

Breathing softly on the pile of pillows to my left,

with closed eyes and a slightly ajar jaw,

the face that launched a thousand love songs,

filling my head with notes and melodies every time she was found in my gaze.

Many moons ago,

she ripped the rose quartz from my right hand’s mirror,

sitting a sapphire atop my left ring finger, as if to say,

“This is my body, given for you; wear this in remembrance of my devotion”,

and all at once, all that I could remember was the moment we were reborn,

and her soft face sinking into soft pillows as night fell.

That was all that I had ever needed.

Posted in Writing, Blog, Creative Writing

Grandma

The daughter of an industrial town,
her mind and ambition flowed as fast as the much watched waves of the Mersey,
and she was much maligned,
as clever little girls often are,
but they are the kind of girls that build the strongest women.

Running across the bridge to Runcorn,
dark hair flowing and glowing in the moonlit wind,
the world wasn’t ready for a woman like her,
but she wasn’t ready to settle for the bounds they believed she should stick to,
and as the sun set across Spike Island,
she had made up her mind to be more than everyone was capable of allowing her to be.

Clever little girls that grow into strong women don’t just grow in their own regard,
they topple dams and tear down walls with weary smiles,
knowing that they alone must change a lazy, spiteful society,
so that more girls can grow and flower,
climbing higher and higher,
until they reach down a hand,
pulling each other over the barriers of their bounds, towards the road to freedom.

She never stopped.
Her eyes as focused as her detractors and their dismal desire to keep her compliant.
She, like so many before her,
and like so many after her hoped to do,
became the woman that she needed,
and the woman that a terrified, antiquated ogre could not stand,
standing tall, to show babies in pink blouses how to do the same,
and as I struggled to my feet before her,
I knew that one day,
I would be lucky to be just like her.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Checking Out

I wrote of demons and their dreams,

falling awake as the night nestled into a deep sleep and was replaced by the sun.

The blossoms made a bed in my black tresses,

and the stress of holding the pen became too much to bear,

so I let it fall from my hands,

hearing it clatter on the cold floor as Spring came.

There is only so much I can do.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Love Is A Curse

I am cursed to cry,
crystal, clandestine tears,
because my eyes miss my mistress,
and nothing can fix the fever that breaks and regroups,
like a relentless army, when she is not by my side.

My lot in life was light until she let herself in the open front door,
that waited with hopeful eyes,
for some kind of company,
closing whenever someone knocked,
until she just strode in,
with a whirlwind of smiles and affirmations,
that cleared the way for the door to close out of satisfaction, rather than fear.

It didn’t end there.
It never could,
never would,
because life continues to live on after happy endings,
and as the curtain falls,
we continue.

She would always come back,
but she had no choice but to leave,
in and out, like the changing weather and my changing moods,
and whenever she was near,
I was blessed,
but the second she was out of my sight,
the curse returned,
and I was a storm,
destined never to subside,
until she was by my side, once more.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Two Angels Take A Romantic Trip To Hell

My best girl comes to call as the night falls,
like the shimmering stars across the blood moon,
never able to keep away,
because the Devil dared me to take her heart,
and so,
I reached in,
with manicured, meek little fingers and smiled as I felt her warmth.

Hell looked pretty on the postcards I sent to soul,
and as the moon went from blood to blue and back again,
I stayed by her side,
lost in an underground paradise,
where the weeks went by with a quickness that felt cruel.

Summer ended so soon,
chased away by bitter winter,
who had forgotten how to smile,
and decided that nobody else ought to either,
so there I was,
separated from the heaven of hell,
back in a boring, grayscale world,
when I could still taste technicolour on my tongue.

I could always remember.
I would wait by my window for the moon to make eyes at me,
dressed up all pretty in her favourite colour,
and the Devil would drop my darling at my door,
with a satisfied smile,
and the key to her heart.