Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

My Son Was Afraid Of The Storm

There was a monster in the sky,
according to the shivering boy underneath my bed.
He had scrambled under,
his little legs kicking against the carpet as if it had sent the shocking scenes to the stars above him,
his whole body shaking as tears trickled down his pale, perfect face.
I followed him down to the darkness,
taking his hand tightly,
and I just waited,
holding the wailing boy close to my chest until he could hear my heartbeat,
so that he knew I would protect him until it stopped pulsing.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Was A Bad Mother To My Inner Child

She used to watch the moon from her dimly lit bedroom window,
pretending to sleep,
trying to keep her stories in order,
so that she wouldn’t slip on the shame of her real reflection.

The moon knew the truth,
sending her to sleep with her soothing stare,
the way her own mother would,
if she had been given the chance.
The girl would wake in the morning,
her pillow painted with the pain of her betrayal,
back to the real world,
so unsettled in her own skin, and her own truth.

Sometimes we meet in the moonlight,
as I stare from my window at the bright sky,
never sleeping,
always shaming myself,
even when I say that I’m fine with how I turned out.
I want to tell her to be kinder to herself,
because she’s just a child,
not a monster,
not a deviant,
but we are years apart,
and my pleas are just echos that fade away before they reach her.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Woody Woodpecker

I decided to travel through time today.
Taking myself to that tree in my old back garden, four houses ago,
back when I would perch on the branches like a lovesick, precocious owl.
I used to write you stories,
sweet scenes that I could never really enjoy,
but pushed myself to provide anyway,
because I loved you,
(you don’t need me to tell you that).

Love is sacrifice,
and love is sacrilegious,
and I know you already know this,
so there’s no need for me to lecture from my makeshift treehouse,
but I do,
because I’m only thinking about the tree in the first place,
because it was where I used to write for you,
and I’m only thinking of when I’d write for you,
because I was looking for an old picture of myself today,
and I found an album of our holiday snaps,
and it all suddenly clicked.
I was thinking about you.
My camera really only clicked for you.
I’d pretend to be fascinated by the scenery,
or that you were stood next to something noteworthy,
but I just wanted to keep you somewhere in my gaze,
because you were fucking beautiful.

I remember when I used to tell you how beautiful you were,
and you’d get this lovely little glow on your cheeks,
like the angel that slept within your soul had just awoken.
I could never tell if you blushed because you weren’t used to being told,
or if it was some kind of reaction to the person who told you,
because you used to glow for that man I can’t mention,
and pop stars who played you to sleep with piano ballads,
so maybe there was something in it?
Or maybe it was just teenage, hormonal madness.
Or maybe I’ve gone from a mad, teenage girl,
to a mad, teenage woman,
and nothing had ever been real,
and I’m not in a tree,
I’m on a flight to my hometown,
knowing there is nothing there for me anymore,
since I shared it all with you.

I’m going to get out of this tree,
and I’m going to call up my ex boyfriend,
then I’ll probably let him have sex with me,
and I’ll hate it
and I’ll cry in his en-suite bathroom,
and then I’ll throw up,
and write a poem about that too.
I will use up all his hot water,
trying to banish every trace of him from my body and soul,
because I loved you,
(you don’t need me to tell you that),
and I don’t know what to do with that.

You have been nothing but old photos for such a long time.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Slipping Through Her Fingers

I blacked out and woke up with bruised knees.
For a second,
it felt like I was standing on the frame of my brother’s buggy again,
peering over the sun guard,
to see the world a little better,
but, no, I was just back in bed,
nursed by a matron who meant well, but had to know she was trying to heal a lost cause.

I’ll never see myself the way that you do,
and I was never afraid of losing myself forever,
because I was already lost,
so, slipping away a little more each day just felt natural,
but you kept bedside vigil,
in case I found a way back.

As I slept,
you said something about how it had always felt like I was slipping through your fingers,
but you had to know that I was never really there.
You gave birth to a ghost,
a spirit, who couldn’t ever stay,
but still,
you hoped I’d stray from the plan,
remaining in this realm, just a little longer.

The sun is so bright on my worst days,
and I can see her,
the girl you’ve been waiting for,
her hand clasped in yours,
tight and frightened,
and I realise that I’ve been waiting for her too,
but she’s been lost, for the longest time.

I don’t see her, when I stare in the mirror,
except for a small shadow,
that grows fainter with every second,
and I finally understand why you miss me most when you look at my baby photos.
Is it selfish to banish her?
I can’t stand to look at her,
because I’m embroiled in envy,
at how blissfully unaware she is.

Posted in Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

World Queen

When I was so small,

that being a woman,

was a far away fairy tale,

I saw a ticking clock,

each morning,

when I met the gaze of the mirror.


I was aware,

that there were only so many moments,

to collect all the trophies I had promised myself,

in between birthing and bridal business,

that belonged to me,

by virtue of my Venus energy.

I was surrounded by baby dolls,

as a baby.

practising a walk down the aisle,

before I could even stumble,

so I often wondered how I could reorganise,

my expected life,

to factor in my hopes and dreams.

Once upon a time,

I wanted to write a new world,

Aquarius angel,

in the amphitheatre.

Playing with my hair,

as people fill Parisian playhouses,

waiting for me to unveil my latest child.

My mother’s grandchildren,

are trafficked,

from my soul,

to crowded, excitable bookshelves,

and sometimes I wonder,

if I will disappoint her,

when they are all I can give.

Maybe they will have a father,

or I will be immaculate,

it doesn’t really matter,

for I am a poetic python.

Every now and then,

I watch the clock in the mirror,

staring past,

to discover the daughter I left behind,

and I wonder,

if she will be happy,

with what we became.