Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Thunderstorms, Tempting Gallows

She’s hiding somewhere in lost memories,
lips lost behind her hands so she won’t make a sound,
thunderstorms,
tempting gallows,
while the earth keeps turning round.

Not tonight.
Not for a minute.
You’ve got plans.

I wish I could call her tomorrow,
say that it all turned out just fine,
but she knows every inch of my voice,
she knows when I lie,
even if I do it for the right reasons.

Thunderstorms,
tempting gallows.

Not tonight.
You wrote something really good last weekend.
People should hear it.
Not tonight.

You were born in the city.
You were raised in the country.
Your heart never strayed from the sea,
and your eyes never strayed from the lightning in the sky,
those thunderstorms,
tempting gallows.

No.

Little girl don’t you cry,
‘cause I’m willing to lie.
I promise,
everything was fine in the end.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Shark Week

Is my life over?
Is this all there is?
Am I lost in the thunder,
thrown into dismay as the world crashes to pieces around me,
or am I just hormonal?

Sometimes,
I wish that I had been a braver babydoll three years ago,
and stepped into the sweetness of the sun,
but there was so much to distract me,
so I could forget the scorch of silence as I turned my key and stepped into an empty house,
instead of the sun.
Is this another one of those times where I am asking difficult questions of my soul,
or am I just menstruating, and assigning too much meaning to what it does to my body?

I have a lot to cry about.
Failed romances,
failed remodelling of my life,
tension headaches and the typical tyranny of time,
and the ever present reminder that it slips away from me, and my body clock with every trip around the sun (that I failed to just jump into).

It is a blue Christmas, in July.
I am eating ice cream and buying myself gifts that I cannot afford,
because my body is crying at my failure to make a mother out of her,
or a wife,
or just something to be proud of,
and she stared with such affection at the sun that I had no choice but to distract her with something shiny.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Spoiled

They are tempted by my temper,
because my exotic flair makes it feel like passion,
something fashionable,
like in a French magazine,
since sweet sixteen,
and further back,
in the fables of my life that I have forgotten,
I was rotten to the core,
storming through each day with a smile and my rage.

I dream of diamonds,
around my neck and down the throats of all those that I dislike,
spoiled brat,
Queen of the pampered Princesses,
running through benefactors for nefarious purposes,
never satisfied by their platinum cards and best wishes.

Last night as I strolled through the shopping centre,
I saw a little pair of shoes, painted blue for my little one,
feeling so blue because they had tightly tied laces and left a taste in my mouth, without my lips even opening.
Ghosts were following me again,
the things that money cannot buy will always allude me, they never let me live,
living in my bones and setting fire to my soul.

There are geese gliding across the rising sun as I recall last night’s dream,
boil a kettle that will never be poured,
pouring over my seamless, endless era of madness,
because I truly want it all.
The streetlights switch off,
and I switch on the siren waterworks.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Know That I’m Not Supposed To Be Here

I want to talk to people,
to leak onto their fingertips, through dried ink,
to be carried around by absent minded hands for the rest of the day,
stuck in the back of their mind, or the back of their throat, like a strong flavour or an even stronger memory that hurts so badly to think about.

I spent my childhood obsessing over being remembered,
because I didn’t think I’d make it this far into adulthood,
and now,
I’m aimless and awestruck,
wondering how I’ll be remembered when I’m gone, because I have now been here too long.

I was supposed to be something fleeting,
short but sweet,
the kind of girl who just disappears into dark nights and is never heard from again,
the kind of girl who lives in the air and never shares too much of herself.
I thought I’d wave goodbye on the beach,
blowing a kiss to the setting sun as I waded into my second birth,
the water, avid and endless around my legs and my waist as I went to waste in the sea’s sweetness.

I couldn’t do it.
Changed plans and cowardice.
I spent my whole life, waiting for it to end and then something in me decided to try again,
and now I’m waking up,
just to look at myself in the mirror and ask my reflection how she’s feeling.
She always lies, which is deeply unhelpful,
and I fantasise about what I could be now if I had let the water love me as she would have liked.

Is it ever worth it?
I always ask,
but then I start shouting and screaming before an answer comes,
because I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want to know.