Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Sarah Has A Beautiful Voice

There is a song that I don’t know,
because my voice has not been boxed into my throat,
she floats free from my bedroom window,
soars across stages,
so unaware of her security,
but there are places,
and there are beautiful voices that know it’s melody all to well.


It is a song of captured chanteuses,
stuck behind storied walls,
their voices are innocent,
but imprisoned, in case they effect “helpless” men,
whimsical, wistful refrains are restricted,
to save weak, impotent arseholes from their irrational fears.
So called strong men,
screaming and scrambling at sweet, soft songs,
from the alleged weaker sex.
There is a song that I don’t know,
it’s unfamiliar but so disarming,
a defiant drum beat under the sunny siren calls,
the song of the captured chanteuses,
who must be set free.

—-

Hear Sarah Sing

Donate to The Center for Human Rights in Iran

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am Sane

Crazy is what they call the girls who figure out how the world works.
I have been lost to lunacy for the longest time,
but it’s time to strip away stereotypes and the chains that they use to claim my soul,
because I am not what they want me to be,
but I am still a wonder of this world.
Dripping in diamonds,
dropped on my head,
I am the divine feminine,
guardian of God’s plan,
following the frequently corrected course.
I am dizzy at the deviation,
dancing across the smashed shards of my ideals, dreaming of what I will become.
I take back the letters of my name,
rearranging them as the moon returns,
so bright,
so breathtaking.
Crazy is what they called me,
when I called myself sane.
I know who I am.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

What She Means When She Says “I Tripped Down The Stairs”

It was just a little trip.

Just a vacation,

to a place nobody really wants to go.

The kind of place nobody considers,

never in the brochure,

the kind of place where the sun silently slips away,

and the rain won’t dare to visit.

Baby at the bottom of the stairs,

bathed in bruises,

with a monster staring from the top of the tower.

She wonders,

while watching the blue turn to purple,

how many times she can weave a web about tripping down the stairs,

before she gets caught in the lie.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Dead Women Are Not Documentary Fodder

Pin me to your wall,

let me be your poster girl,

posted on lamp posts and Reddit threads,

with rhetoric and rumours.

Deconstruct my death,

before it’s even reported in full,

tell yourself you honour me with your curiosity,

tie me up in the tropes of true crime.

Dead girls never say no,

so,

regrettably,

you can call me what you like.

You bother me with your curiosity,

digging into my dirt,

your nails, filthy with fragments of my privacy,

an old life,

that I will never step into again,

now covered in oily fingerprints,

drenched in shame and assumption,

knee deep in necro stalking,

until a more captivating corpse comes along.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Am A Woman and I Have Shit To Do

I think I remember the first time I noticed I was a woman.

I was seven,

and a man’s eyes lingered too long…

On what? I’m not so sure,

because I was so small, so bereft of something to stare at,

plain,

unchanged from the flesh flower my mother had given to the world,

not yet a woman, but stared at like one,

leered at like one,

not knowing why my skin was flushed and I felt a sudden urge to run but accepting it anyway.

Mother knows best.

My body knows best.

My never ending sense of dread when a man can’t keep his eyes to himself knows best.

Accepting that women have red cheeks and nervous legs that want to run.

Accepting that men stare, and strike fear into tiny women that are, in fact children.

I paint my cheeks a toasty brown,

to hide the red that lays beneath,

always on alert,

I got NDAs for my legs, letting them know that we don’t have time to be afraid.

I don’t have time to be afraid,

so I’ll silence my body when she’s seven years old again,

shaking and ashamed.

I’ll silence my body,

because I have things to do,

and, yes, I’m sick of stares,

I’m sick of animals shouting in the street for attention,

monsters, stalking through the streets at night.

I am sick but I am strong,

because I’m not seven years old anymore,

and even if I was,

my mother would applaud if I told him to fuck off,

so I shake it off,

I pretend I’m not afraid,

and I remind myself that I am a woman,

and I have shit to do,

and these streets are mine,

not his,

and my body is mine,

not his,

and my fear is mine,

not his.