Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Monday

You crossed my mind on Monday,

too late to recall the remains of a burning flame that once kept me warm,

so,

I woke up cold,

recalling the sweet shyness of your voice as you told me that you’d got glasses.

I recall the last time we talked,

like no time had passed at all,

like I had never broken your heart,

like you hadn’t kept a segment of my soul within yours for all these years.

Midnight struck,

but my life decided not to decline into the rags and pumpkins of the past,

because I used to be your princess,

and I like that you still treat me like I wear a tiara.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Chosen Family

We have never been in love,

but his name is neatly sewn into the lining of my long suffering heart,

and it is the only part that has always been hallowed ground.

Slipping his hand into mine,

with a chaste, close kiss on the cheek,

he knows the pain of my path,

and chooses to comfort me,

with no malevolence,

no malice.

There is nobody on this Earth that I trust,

but he is not of this Earth,

ethereal and empathic,

chosen companion,

spiritual siblings,

swept into the cyclone,

dreaming and dancing from Kansas to Oz.

Jill and her best Judy,

against the world,

against the wall,

watching the endless war,

and then writing verses from the vials of blood that surround us.

I keep his name sewn into my heart,

and I leave him all of my ill gotten gains in the will.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Forests

Swallows in the forest,

silently searching for a branch to call home,

spying on me,

as I swallow my apprehensive affirmations.

I will tell the truth,

tepid tears,

shining, sweet in the moonlight.

Birds brush up against my reality,

and everything feels so final, but so new.

The night is unforgiving,

and I am understanding a little better,

why the mornings are so needy.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Gargoyles

Do not give your love to gargoyles.

They gaze with awe and envy from their stony, storied homes but they will spend their nights tearing at your flesh,

stone cold,

staring into your eyes as they feast on your feelings,

a mere appetiser for what they’ll do to your entrails.

They never learned table manners,

human decency,

empathy,

and all you are to them is a trophy,

destined to stay, stuck in grey nightmares,

never feeling the sweetness of the sun’s rays again.

It’s true that the ugliest creatures do the ugliest things,

and you are so beautiful,

so when they call your name,

fix your eyes on the flowers that spring up all around you,

and do not let those enchanting eyes stray above the shoulders of your destiny.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Cannibal Holocaust

I am human,

so they tell me,

dragged from the river,

forced into the ritual.

I heard a cheerful whistle,

far away in the trees,

a soul who had escaped,

perhaps?

Nobody who knew this horror could craft such a beautiful tune,

and let it escape from their lips,

into all this.

I want to be uncontacted,

untouched,

but the human race has hungry hands,

and I lay here,

with my soul and my insides outside of my body,

washed up on the bay of a busy town.

There’s more to life than books, you know,

but I don’t want to hear about it,

because the pages are the only peace I have ever found,

and, God, they’ve already taken so much,

so leave me with Carol Ann and my Marlowe,

let me rest in some kind of peace.

I watch cannibal movies, when the sun has gone down,

and a man who still holds onto my heart asks if I’m awake.

I have made many mistakes in my life,

and some may ask “What’s another?”,

“What’s the harm?”,

but God, he’s already taken so much,

so I stare blankly as arms are torn off,

hearts are eaten,

wishing that mine could be cuisine too,

so that I couldn’t hear her hopeful whistle every time I am drowned and reborn.

Could the ones we labelled as savages, do me this kindness?

They shake their heads,

shaking my hand,

offering a salad.

My girl is whistling again.