Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Music, Writing

Some Next Man’s Other Woman

They asked you one more time,
to be stronger than the demons that stole you,
because nobody is going to save you,
beyond begging you to be here one more time,
even if they won’t give you a reason to stay.


They stole your heart,
dragging it from your chest,
and up your throat,
though it begged to be with you,
because there was no greater love,
there was money to be made,
from your separation and desperation.


They started writing your last goodbye,
on the back of the betrayals they walked you into,
rehearsing your funeral before you even died,
couldn’t love you when they had a chance,
making you the media’s greatest masterpiece,
blinded by your tears in Belgrade,
begging for your beautiful broken heart to be laid to rest beside you.


They kept your heart,
in a glass box,
surrounded by gold records.

Read My Books

Hear My Music

Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
Notes To My Muse

Ask Jen





Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Wrestling, Writing

World Poetry Day :)

Hola amigos,

Today is World Poetry Day, so here are some poems that I’ve finished up.

I’ve written about quite a few things that I’ve been thinking about lately, such as the difficult journey to loving yourself, the unfortunate news of privacy leaks for public figures, my regrets from the past and my hopes for the future, and I hope you enjoy reading them.


J x




Torch Song


Ready For Love

Remembering Royalty

Poor Man’s Ecstasy 

Home Movies


Education For Pleasure 



Yayo, Yano

My Funny Galentine 

Magic Show 



One Great Marriage 


Torch Song

Each endless escalation,

and asinine argument,

ends under your eyes,

before finding the floor.

I’ve told you before,

that I love you, and loathe you,

and there’s nobody else,

that I’d torch myself for.

I torture myself,

to replays of our wars,

my blazing hot heart,

is ash, when yours invades mine.



I don’t recall a single thing about you,

except for the tornado,

mailed to my midsection,

when I heard your name.

I think I forgot,

perhaps out of spite,

or in the knowledge,

you had no knowledge of me.

I couldn’t say what captivated me,

and I’ve lost the list of my lust filled longing,

it fell from my pocket,

when I fell out of love.

I’ve lost the heart, I was so sure I had,

that was all the better for your scars.

My newest is refurbished,

fresh and functional.

I’m busy doing my nails,

and you mean nothing at all.


Ready For Love

I am the ghost of romance past,

and you won’t sleep at all tonight.

I’m a throwback lover,

with those old fashioned tricks,

that feel brand new,

to your played out playbook.

You call, for once,

just to see how it feels,

and we bloom,

like the flowers you learned that I like.

We dance in a darkened alley,

behind the railway station,

while a million passers by,

stamp out a sweet, street symphony.

You lend me your favourite jacket,

as you summon up the stars,

and the frightened fuckboy disappears,

replaced by a man, ready for love.


Remembering Royalty

She can sit on my throne,

but it’s been embroidered,

with the memory of how I’d sink into silk,

and survey your starvation for me.

My image is carved in the arm,

with ambitious promise.

As she rises,

you’ll be mournful,

of the majesty that rests with me,

and while there have been a million princesses,

only I have been your Queen.


Poor Man’s Ecstasy

Night comes around,

and my cap is on your carpet.

I’ve become more of a need,

as you neck my dangerous, delicious dessert.

It’s always the last time,

until you remember the first time,

and we have all the time,

the world allows.

I’m just no good,

but I’m not bad either.

I’m a poisoned Parma Violet,

I’m in your mouth every day,

as if it won’t end us both.

You’ll throw me up,

to the sky,

in a bowl,

and across the carpet,

where my cap lies.

You’ll come back,

and I’ll be waiting,

because we just can’t quit.


Home Movies

We’d go through the motions,

but our joints are bent and busted,

and when we touch each other,

our minds are miles away.

You’ve got your brand new ingénue,

and your best friend is your understudy,

but we still pretend I’m your movie star,

and you’re my leading man.

The carpet stained so long ago,

but I vacuumed in earnest.

The door isn’t locked but we dare not step out,

in case we find a reason to never come back.

We’ve been lying on “I love you still”,

so long, we’re still and solemn,

and the words are tasteless in the mouths,

that only kiss out of habit.

The children tower over us,

projecting what we have,

a dark but shallow shadow,

far from the heights of the past.

We’re past home improvements,

the paint we chose was discontinued,

we can’t agree on a wallpaper,

so we may as well tear this old house down.



I admit I spent my money on shots,

but I know I spent no time on you.

Your imagination ran away,

almost as fast as I did,

at the thought of the future you foretold.


Education For Pleasure

I’m mint green,

in experience and in envy.

My curriculum is cursed, with you,

I learn to lean

with the sways of your seduction,

yet your favourite student,

chews gum,

comes late,

and has her name scrawled on your desk,

along with a billion bad boys,

you pretend not to notice.

I’ve a notebook, with your name,

not that you’ll ever see,

and my heart, broken and begging,

crawls back to each letter,

no matter how far they pull away.

Far in the future,

when she gleefully graduates,

I’ll wait, hopeful and hung up.

The girl at your desk,

waiting to ink your initials,

on her soul.



Baby, you were made for the movies,

but I can’t share you with the silver screen.

Your beauty beams throughout the theatre,

and the world watches what I’ve waited my life for.

Some nights,

as your shirt sheds your skin,

and your body is mine,

I hate you.

Your shirt has been shed for other eyes,

and your body is second hand,

and my hands take it personally.

You have loved before me,

You’ve had joy before me,

but you were my first screening,

and you’re vintage.

I want to go home.

I’m not made for this monotony,

to toil under jealousy,

through our Hollywood love affair,

but my eyes belong to you,

and rest, so obsessed,

on your body,

no matter who else has had the pleasure.



It sits beneath my skin,

just waiting to tear down desperate defences,

built on a budget,

so I never became what I’ve seen.

Cut me out of your will,

as accidental as your gift is,

not hurled with hate,

but handed with hope,

that one day, I’ll understand.

I understand all to well,

the harrowing, harmful hell,

that hangs inside your head,

and loiters at the back of my brain.

The blue babies want it,

and it’s creeping closer,

though I put an ocean between us,

it swims,

insistent zombie,

to feast on my thoughts.


Yayo, Yano

I want you in my veins,
in my soul,
in my bed.

Slip under the sheets,
slip under my skin,
slip under my safety.

You’re simply unforgettable,
illegal for good reason,
but a moment with you,
will be savoured for my stretch,
no matter the bars that hold me,
I’ll remember the bars where you held me.

Tell me where I can buy you,
on a cracked out corner,
from a cracked out cad,
I’ll part with my heart,
if you promise you’ll find some feeling,
in the love starved bones that I call home.


My Funny Galentine 

She told me she loved me,

and it felt foreign,



All at once,

and never at all,

I wanted to believe,

even if I was hidden under hatred,

a free gift with the magazines,

that found their way into my basket,

even though they hated my guts,

and my eyebrows,

and my cellulite,

and my.. well, you know,


The whispers of the world,

and the fiction of normality,

are nothing, when I’m in love.

I have the merry way she laughs,

her eyebrows, wild as her spirit,

sweet cellulite, and sweeter smiles,

and everything, yes, everything,

is mine to love, for the rest of my life.


Magic Show

You, mischievous magician,

pulled off your finest trick,

when you made my morals vanish,

and my heart run from my body,

to your waiting, wasted arms.

I’m the empress of our mess,

cowardly courageous.

My crown is made of lies we told,

and I sleep well knowing,

you’re sleeping with your enemy.



Too late to love you,

through the aching annex,

where your hollow heart sleeps,

with nightmares of me.

Twenty to nine,

twenty to nine,

twenty to nine.

You’ll never be mine.

The world on the shoulders,

of the white wishes you wore.

I could kiss apologies,

on the long dead lips,

soothe the scorched skin,

our world back in motion.

Twenty to nine,

ten to nine,


You are mine.

The world shared between us,

and your wishes, my goals.

Yet darling, desperate, dismal girl,

I’m simply not inclined.



It’s so funny how I’m nostalgic

for the worst nights of my life,

when my tears were blue,

and my soul was white.

Before I learned to love the fire,

that licked along the lines,

that separated us,





Before we crashed,

two car smash,

uninsured, with no licence,

and so intense,

before you pulled me from the wreckage,

and ran me down, again and again.

I bask in my bad dreams,

of broken you and me,

and I love it,

and I love you,

and I love us.


One Great Marriage 

He says he loves his girl Slim,

I know it’s just a name.

His hands will follow my waist,

no matter how far it goes.

Twenty first of May,

may I have our love forever?

I’m seasick, as he waves at me,

I shake myself to pieces,

bayside bae, and his party girl,

so satisfied in his storm.

He won’t dance with me until we’re alone,

the crowds can’t get enough of us,

but he’ll be at home waiting,

a better buzz than I’ll find at any bar.

I whistle, impatient, and he runs,

everything important surrounds me,

as he closes me into his arms.

I am his last love,

and he, my first.

Hello, baby,

don’t ever say goodbye.



Decorated in fantasy,

and infamy,

built by the dreams of those who daren’t,

though I do.

For them,

with them,

by their design,

and by the blueprints of a small dreamer,

who flew past never,

when nobody could,

and reached the stars.

I was perfect until they printed a new me,

that I hadn’t seen.

I knew her beginnings,

I’d lived her beginnings,

and every other second too,

and it was mine,

until it was mined from my mind,

and shared,

suddenly sordid,

through the mouths and minds,

and hateful hands.


as I removed my clothes,

for myself,

they jumped from the walls,


and removed my achievements,

and my voice,

and my heart,

as if any part of my body was theirs to take.

When I lay alone,

on the judgemental floor,

surrounded by damning decor,

they wondered why I wept,

and asked if they could take my tears too.


Darling, Desperate, Dismal Girl
Amor, Amor
Always The Mistress, Never The Mrs

“Baby Back There” from Ours
“Window Shop” from Ours

“Beach Walk” from Ours

Things About Rings
Tis The Season To Be Bad At Wrapping Presents🙂
Lipsticks I Love

Ask Jen

Posted in Ask Jen, Blog, Lifestyle, Thoughts On Writing, Wrestling, Writing

Ask Jen – January 15th

Melody Ann asked “What inspired I Love You, Bye?”

The dehumanisation of celebrities. It was originally going to be the end of Querida, with Damien kidnapping her, but I came up with a different ending, so ended up using the idea for a separate story. I think while the majority of fandom is wonderful, creative and respectful, there are people who cross a line and treat their idols as if they are objects that belonged to them, so I wanted to explore the idea a little, and that was what I came up with.

Katie asked “Who is your favourite wrestling manager of all time?”

Either Donna or Vickie Guerrero. I think both really added to matches they were involved in, and really went the extra mile to make the client memorable, without making the entire thing about themselves and leaving the client forgotten, which is pretty much the key point of managing that a lot of people miss. Unfortunately, some genuinely believe it is just about standing at ringside, and clapping/looking dismayed at the right moment, or constantly speaking for the client and doing all the promo work, so they never advance their skills, but there is far more to it than that.

Being a manager is about taking what is great about the client and enhancing it, making sure they are memorable, while giving the opportunity for them to learn from you and improve on what they may currently be lacking, which they both did very well.

They were also both strong female characters who took no shit, which is lovely.

Jack asked “What kind of coffee do you like?”

I don’t. Coffee is far too grown up for me. I don’t even like coffee flavoured things, actually.

Amy asked “What do you think of Youtubers writing books?”

I honestly don’t care to be honest. I know some people get mad about it, but it encourages reading in young people, sells books which brings money back into publishing and helps to fund new authors, and makes the readers of those books happy.

I could complain about Youtubers getting book deals, or I could just keep writing my own stuff, gaining experience and skills and not have an internet trail of trashing other people who have been published, that will make me look bitter, and alienate potential readers when I eventually get a book deal.

I would personally not read many of them, but I’m not the target audience. I think there is a big issue in writing communities in that people genuinely believe that books are only valid if they are the kind of books they will read. It may not be for you, and that is fine, just read something that is aimed at you, and move on. I wrote more on this here, actually.

There is the ghost writing issue, but the fact is, ghost writers decide to ghost write, and they get paid, so it isn’t really something to be concerned about, it is just a part of the writing industry. You could argue that Youtubers should be upfront if their book is ghostwritten, to maintain transparency with their fans, but that kind of defeats the point of ghost writing, because you’re not supposed to know…

TLDR, I don’t care, because I have my own shit to do.


What Do Little Girls Dream Of?
Enemy Of The State

Boo, Bitch

“Don’t Wake” from Always The Mistress, Never The Mrs
“Final Messages” from Always The Mistress, Never The Mrs
“Baby Back There” from Ours
“Window Shop” from Ours

“Beach Walk” from Ours

Tis The Season To Be Bad At Wrapping Presents🙂 
Lipsticks I Love

You Don’t Have To Be Alone

Ask Jen