Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Hundred Feet Tall

Towering above heaven,
a hundred feet tall.

You, the talk of the town,
a town with one resident,
lost child,
all alone,
except her treehouse voyeur,
always watching,
always whistling Tchaikovsky,
accompanied by thunder.

Never climbing down,
never walking,
just waiting,
baited breath and icy stare,
holding her dreams inside of your hands,
tightly, but with enough room for them to breathe.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Falling Awake

Fluorescent, flashing lights go out,

and I am descended into a darkness, so desperate that it draws its arms around me and holds on.

I hold my nerve,

hollow, held breaths as I count the beats of my heart,

each one taking longer than the last to arrive because I am travelling,

trailed by the deep darkness.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Dream and it might come true

Meekly, she comes before me,
her lips parted as she prays,
aching and consumed by the cruelty of life before love,
it’s way past time, but I let that pass me by, and I just hold her.

Reborn, like a saviour on a Sunday,
I am fresh in her fantasies,
lace on my skin, petals in my perfume,
overboard in our oceanside dreams,
vivid and vibrant,
eternally violet,
standing out against a colourless sky.

All it took was a few steps,
swept from one world to another,
high as the spirits that carry our secrets across borders,
like little love letters.
I held her, and she was safe.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Back On The Boat

My mistress’ eyes are the only thing I see when I sleep.
However hard I try to escape the bounds of boundless affection,
all I do is dream of her glacial gaze,
in the service of a temptress,
reeling all day, long after I have awoken.
It isn’t a bad life, to be in love.

Last night, she told me that I have stolen her sleep,
opening the windows of her mind and gliding in,
visiting when night falls, to leave my love for her to find when morning comes.
Every day, she says, she wakes up with my lipstick trailing down her tender, slender throat.
So it goes.

All we do is dream,
stuck in a cycle of wanting but never getting,
having, for just a second, with closed eyes and distant bodies.
Life is so tough, when my lover goes to war,
I just dream of her eyes, and await her return.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Mo Bhean

My sweet dream,

like a lilac sky, spied by hopeful lovers,

the softness of silk on exhausted skin,

the roaring, rapturous cries of the sea as she bows to the moon’s will,

a single poppy in a field of trauma.

You are my escape,

opiate opportunity,


endlessly adored by the one that you have enchanted,

and you smile, with no idea of the seismic consequences of such an action,

soft, stray strands of hair falling over your eyes,



Such a dangerous gaze you hold,

with no idea of the power that it wields,

and what it does to a poor girl like me,

that has never seen the likes of you before.