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

What’s to be done?

My soulmate got lost in the sun,
her sapphire eyes could not resist the allure,
all over the place, for a time,
inked with my initials, when the clock struck midnight,
raised from the dead bedroom a dull life brings,
I watched her whisper my name, like a prayer, as she came to her senses.

Before I held the universe to ransom,
life was just a thing that happened to me,
and yet, as soon as I pointed a gun at the throat of fate,
clear skies, dry eyes and surprises surrounded me.
Kismet can be one hell of a provider, when she wants to be.

Long after the night ended,
over legions of land and oceans,
violet kisses, so sweet and soul consuming lingered upon her lips,
enchanted by my impatient hands and hungry soul,
so that she’d remember to hunt for me when the sun rose.

A mad girl is a determined girl,
so set on her dreams, that she can barely sleep to see them,
holding the clouds and smoke of the city in her hands,
linking them together, until she has something to rest her head upon,
inching closer to the wonders of escaping the waking world.

Honestly, I have been mad since the day I was made,
on the road to unravelling the second I started to breath,
like the blood covered lady of Inverness,
lost, like my lover, to the pursuit of power.
I’ve been told that she likes me like that,
senseless and spirited,
to her, dangerously devoted.
Everybody backs away, but she? She runs.
Runs towards me, her arms around me, because she’s never had it so good.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Portrait Of My Motherhood, From The Perspective Of My Long Suffering First Born

7am,

she was my alarm,

loud lullabies at the wrong time of day,

her voice following the melody of the clattering kitchen as I followed the smell of toast to the table.

She had my school tie in her hands,

throwing it to hands that were too tired to catch as her wife watched the whole scene unfold from behind the pages of a broadsheet.

Dark tresses descended down the back of her garishly bright dressing gown,

and she sipped, through painted lips, at strawberry milkshake as she prepared more breakfast than her family could ever consume.

A gargling infant on her hip, harmonising with her nonsense morning medley,

she was a strange sight,

to anyone but us.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Ebbsfleet International

I drove past Ebbsfleet International, in the dark,

and my heart was dark, gloomy, lonely,

remembering how I’d sit after my shows,

on a bench,

drinking deep from the sweet memories of applause,

my narcissism fed for the night,

before I headed home,

to collapse into comfy sheets and disjointed dreams.

I am on the train tracks now,

and there are many trains scheduled to depart,

speeding towards me, preparing to splash my heart all over the warm metal,

but some will divert,

reaching out a hand and offering a new ending,

but I won’t know which is which until they get here,

bewitched witch, under the spell of a universe she chats with daily, but barely understands.

The past is ever present,

presenting itself as a divine kind of future,

and then, of course, there is the future,

glittering like it is brand new,

but gleaming with reminders of days gone by too,

and I find myself at a crossroads,

weighing up costs and wondering which show I’ll perform today,

and which of my girls I will decide to be.