Posted in Creative Writing, Writing

Counselling

Don’t be stubborn.

Don’t be distrusting.

Don’t be so distressed.

Don’t carry the crimes of lost souls, into your new life.

These are the mantras,

I repeat in my mirror,

every morning,

trying hard to adore the idea,

of existing in such an unsure,

unappealing universe.

I don’t mean to be unkind,

but as a great crab once said,

the human world,

it’s a mess,

and,

yes,

I am messy,

but was I born this way,

or am I just the result of my environment?

It doesn’t really matter,

because,

we are where we are,

and I am miming my mantras,

to the mirror,

for far longer than I intended.

He holds onto me,

stubborn and seductive,

as I venture between the valleys,

without leaving his arms.

Maybe one day,

I will free him,

from the sentence my past suitors have inflicted,

on him,

and anyone else I encounter,

so that they do not fall prey,

to a prison,

that they refuse to escape from.

I want him to escape,

so that we can be free,

forever,

together,

but my mantras meld,

into one,

unintelligible mess,

and I forget,

all I remembered,

about how to be in love.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Full

For so long,

I was the love of my life.

Admittedly,

I wasn’t THAT crazy about myself,

but I knew I was all I had,

so I found a way to adore her,

never letting my eyes stray from her dreams,

holding her at night,

as she cried,

keeping her on track.

I knew where I was going.

I knew who I was.

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My heart was empty,

but it was mine,

until you stole it,

and filled it with new dreams,

questions.

I started questioning where I was going.

I started questioning who I was.

My heart was full,

we were fighting over it,

and I let you win.

I let you take the love of my life,

and fill her heart,

and her head with ideas,

so,

now she is yours,

until you leave,

taking your ideas,

your new dreams,

and half of her with you.

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If I sound resentful,

or regretful,

it’s because I am,

because I’m not pretty,

but I’m not dumb either,

(I think that’s how that phrase goes…)

and I’ve been down this road before.

I’ve wanted to believe these things before.

I’ve picked her up, after they leave like this before.

So,

I let you take her,

because she desperately wanted to go,

but when you break her heart,

please,

don’t give her hope that you’ll fix it again,

it just makes it harder for me to do it.

 

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Drove You Crazy

I didn’t plan to spend so much time,

inside your mind.

Sweet sailor valentine,

dressed up in denim,

and your mother’s money,

precocious brocialist baby boy,

that I just couldn’t resist.

I never meant to mean so much,

just summer love,

or something to study,

but there I was,

traipsing through your mind.

It was just the summer.

My own was somewhere else,

sometimes,

when we kissed,

under sing song stars.

You complained about my expensive and excessive lipgloss,

and I made a mental note,

to punish you forever,

but,

you must understand,

I never meant like this.

I never meant to mean so much,

because I thought we were pretend,

so I was unaware of why you started to cry,

when I called you,

offering homework help,

and liquorice.

It was just liquorice. 

I never meant to move in to your mind.

I never meant to mean so much.

You must understand,

I didn’t think I had the right,

but,

still,

I dove inside,

and drove you crazy,

so you say.

I never meant to mean so much.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Planting Roses

No bars to break,

but here I am,

surrounded by searching space,

a prisoner,

encased in ivy,

that I have imagined,

grew side by side,

with the roses we planted.

 

 

I never knew my charge,

but I was sentenced to be sped,

back to the real world,

on several delayed trains,

with barely there air conditioning,

and piece by piece,

I felt each flower fall,

all around me.

 

 

The empty, invisible walls tell tales,

and I can’t tell which voice is yours,

anymore,

because the rain still falls,

and the wind still wails,

but I’m not sure they’re really there.

I’m not sure where it hurts,

I just know that it does,

and I know why it does,

even if that isn’t “proper science”.

 

I don’t know if you’ll wait for me,

or how long you’d have to wait,

but I know I need you to.

I remember this kind of crying,

thirteen,

Hastings beach,

knowing my world wouldn’t fit into a quaint country village,

not just the bright lights,

I had dreamed of,

for as long as I knew how to dream,

but a love.

I wanted a love,

that I couldn’t yet describe,

and maybe never could.

 

 

Again,

twenty three,

pausing at Preston,

with my heart in my throat,

poking it’s way out,

with razor blades and regret,

knowing it had found the love,

but not the words,

to explain how essential it was.

 

 

It never ends,

it only eases,

until it doesn’t,

and then,

I am back behind bars,

that cannot be broken,

by anything but,

freedom to be locked away,

planting roses,

with you,

and watching your excited eyes,

as we we wait for them to grow.

 

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I could walk away,

at any second,

out the door,

into the sunset,

under a train,

but with each step,

the chains of my choice,

and the punishment it brings others,

would grow heavier,

until my legs broke,

and my torso wept.

 

 

Give me rain,

or sun,

or death.

Give me some way,

to make each moment just a moment,

rather than a reminder,

that I have a life,

and a job,

and a whole realm of responsibilities,

that don’t include planting roses,

with you,

and watching your excited eyes,

as we we wait for them to grow.

 

 

Give me hope,

that one day,

I will find a time,

when I can survive on the inside,

and see it more as the outside,

real life,

my life,

without you.

 

 

Tell me that I’ll survive,

even if you’re lying,

or,

better yet,

lie down,

keep my side of the bed warm,

rain roses from the roof,

petals,

settled in the sheets,

growing strong under bright lights,

waiting for me to make parole.

 

 

I’ve found the words now.


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Listen to”Past Preston” here

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RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
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