Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

The Joy Of Performing

Lights up ahead,

hiding you from my view,

as I stand at the edge of expectation,

butterflies in my stomach,

my children in my mouth.

I don’t want to disappoint you,

but I imagine myself in your place,

and worry that I always will.

The lights linger,

ever stronger,

as the applause fades,

impatience begins.

I’m wearing cheap hoop earrings,

my grandmother’s ring,

my self doubt sticks in my throat,

so I drink in some stuffy air,

peppered with my perfume,

and bite my bottom lip,

tasting golden gloss and freezing fear.

My children are impatient.

I’ve told them that they’re loved so many times,

that they began to believe it,

now they long to meet the lovers who have paid to pick them apart (I never told them about that part),

so,

I take the children,

one by one,

and show them off to a gasping,

grateful crowd,

my smiling children shine,

stepping,

shy along the stage,

shimmering in the spotlight,

coming alive,

growing and glowing with adoration.

When the lights leave,

I am exhausted,

existing,

because I can do no more,

disassociating in a dressing room,

surrounded by my children,

their edges frayed,

pages parched and crumpled in tired hands.

I can still hear the applause,

and for a second,

it sustains me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Nothing Is True

My mother’s womb is the ocean.

I cover my dreams,

and suspicions in foundation.

I have been darker than a doomed room,

broken home that sometimes glistens.

When I listen to silence,

I am breathing in bright rhythms,

paying visits to pacific parts of my heart,

untouched by ugly aspects.

Nothing is true,

when everything is in pencil,

erasable,

escapable.

I tell my future,

I’d like to make a go of it,

taking cough medicine,

on a high speed train,

with a clear throat.

I don’t know the location.

The confusion is exquisite.

Never knowing where I’m going,

is a special sort of hell,

where I don’t realise that I’m dead,

until my bones are bare,

baring the truth.

photo of man riding a surf board

My mother’s womb is the ocean.

I washed up,

with bottles and corpses.

I am on a journey,

to a place,

that I’m not sure will be there,

when I arrive.

Posted in Blog

Locals and Pink Fiats

Oh, yes, but of course,

for locals and pink fiats,

the decade was bare.

 

 

Barely anything,

is required, to relate,

when art is so vague.

 

 

Ten years drag along,

swallowing the same slurry,

and we will drink more.

 

 

Maybe it tastes fine,

because our taste buds are burned.

Fire marketing.

 

 

It’s what we deserve,

for demanding small giants

because thinking sucks.

 

 

We will die tonight,

to defend our right to starve.

lol lol lol lol lol


Read My Books

Hear My Music

Hear My Podcast

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
In The Garden Of The Free Children
Virgin Vogue
Sad Girl’s Love Song

COME FIND ME
Twitter
Soundcloud
Instagram
Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

YouTube
Rumbl

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Chasing You

I don’t want you back,

but I want you around,

waiting to want you,

in an uncontrollable way.

I am a guilty girl,

chasing you,

though you’re not worth my attention,

just doing it,

or you,

for the sake of it,

because we’re just no good,

you and me.


Read My Books

Hear My Music

Hear My Podcast

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Sad Girl’s Love Song
Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?

COME FIND ME
Twitter
Soundcloud
Instagram
Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

YouTube
Email Me