Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Winter Roses

Life just gets so lonely,

don’t you think?

When all you are is a self aware worker bee.

Taking each one of your gifts,

letting them fall off a cliff,

into a blender,

tornado made of torment,

because the world goes round and round,

and you just never notice.

I suppose the night will fall,

as it’s supposed to,

and the sky will never be particularly spectacular,

and I’ll watch Paddington,

under a blanket,

wondering why it’s such a chore,

to manage anything at all.

The roses I would buy,

every weekend of the winter,

remind me that beautiful things can still be born in the harshest conditions.

They are blooming,

just out of reach,

when I’m falling asleep,

somewhere between four and six,

AM or PM,

either way,

it takes far longer than it used to.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I wrote to a therapist this morning.

Detailing my drama,

that I playfully play off as diva behaviour.

I think,

what I really want,

is to be affirmed,

for all the maddening sadness to be heard,

confirmed and then confined,

to weeping pages,

airtight cages,

where it can’t follow me.

I used to want to be rich.

I’d dream of golden rivers,

private jets and rivieras,

but I don’t think any of it would make me happy.

I used to want to be happy,

but I don’t know that I know how to do that,

and I told them that (the therapist),

but I don’t know that they know either.

I wrote to them,

to say that I don’t know how they’re supposed to fix me,

but I’d like them to (I think),

but maybe it will be just like my golden dreams,

where I wake up,

one day,

in a cold,

confined room,

to a cold,

confined life,

and realise that there’s no such thing as fulfilment,

or happiness,

just a slow,

delusional road,

that always has the same destination.