Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Sunrise

When I think about you,

I see the sunrise,

in the back of my mind,

because I wrote a song,

alone in my bedroom,

about how it felt to watch you wake up,

a swarm of butterflies underneath the sheets with me,

as the sun sat on the windowsill,

watching you, along with me,

the sun,

glancing, glistening up and down your skin,

and you were so beautiful,

so blindingly beautiful.

I wrote a song,

alone in my bedroom,

about how the sun rose,

simply because it couldn’t stay away from you,

simply because it had to stare at you,

simply because you were the most beautiful thing that the sun, or I had ever seen.

When I hear that song,

I see the sunrise,

I hear the clattering of trains outside your window,

I feel your soft skin pressed against mine,

and I feel as bright as the sun,

I feel like I am in the sky,

glowing like an angel,

my heart glows like an angel, for you.

When I think about you,

I see the sunrise,

for she is my rival,

creeping through your window every morning,

to remind you that you are the most beautiful thing that the sun, or I will ever see.

Sunday sun,

wakes us up,

morning meets us,

I’m so in love…

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Lost In The Woods

The last streams of sunlight crawl through broken, bare branches,

as night falls,

and I find myself falling on the soft ground,

surrounded by grass decorated with frost,

half dead candles, that still dare to shine, long into the night.

I find myself falling to a place I won’t escape,

I’m dreaming again,

surrounded by my spells,

my sentimental attachments to things in the real world,

that I can’t quite reach from my casa in the clouds.

I think you cast a love spell,

because I forget myself when I’m around you,

I can’t breathe when I’m around you,

and when we are apart,

my heart is not my own,

my heart just sings a lonely song she wrote,

to show you that she was devoted.

Soft and sensitive,

I sing lullabies to the falling, dying leaves,

writing your name, neatly, across their spines,

placing them gently in my hair,

feeling them fall as I walk,

leaving a trail,

so I can be sure of all the places that I adored you.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

River Thames At Sunset

I want to watch the Thames at sunset with you,

holding hands with you,

I want to make plans with you.

I want to see the sun,

sliding into the water,

shy of the sensation, at first,

but finding itself diving,

deep underneath the waves,

falling asleep where the bodies are buried.

I want to show you where my bodies are buried.

I want to tell you all my secrets,

in the soft light of the sunset,

hands tight together,

diving into another day,

another week,

another month with you.

I purchased a Valentine’s Day card,

for you,

because I saw it,

and I got excited at the thought of you opening it,

and remembering that to somebody,

you are as beautiful as a sunset atop a river,

a river that has seen so many love stories.

I want the river to smile at our love story,

I want you to be my Valentine,

my sunset,

my sunrise,

my river that always leads me back home.

“river Thames at sunset” – Jim Pickard
Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Blood On My Hands

Who am I to you?

Help me understand.

There is blood on my hands,

hard and baked in,

as if I spent my morning committing murders.

The blood belongs to me.

It tastes of tepid regret,

but gets sweeter every time you kiss me,

rose quartz ringing in my ears,

rose petals in my hair,

you touch me, so softly,

and I let my mind slip through my hands.

There is blood on my hands,

the remains of my restraint lies there too,

and then,

there is you,

your game is just beginning,

and the blood pours from my pen,

a curse is carved into my heart,

I draw pictures of us,

again and again,

until I drew blood.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Your First Message

There is a nervous energy in the air,

a long, lonely corridor,

unfriendly doors,

question marks in blood,

drip down the wood,

flooding at my feet.

I wade in wine.

I stopped drinking for the summer,

because I felt dehydrated.

I had cried the sweetest months away,

and there was nothing left,

but still,

I trek along with typed up notes in hand,

blood leaking into my black suede shoes,

each step, shattering my endurance.

I knocked on every door,

knuckles, sore and screaming,

always running before they open,

because I already know what’s on the other side,

but your door is different.

I don’t knock straight away,

but I don’t run either.

I just stand by your door,

tracing your question mark with my fingers,

the blood still warm,

and you,

so inviting.