Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Waiting For The Sun

I let her have my lonely, hopeful prayer,
waiting and whispering for the familiar, fair light to fall upon me.
Her grace flows as she surrounds me,
gentle balm to my beating, weeping heart,
and I beat the sky in the race to raise daylight,
as she arrives, enchanting and without exasperation.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

What Became Of You?

What became of you?
That’s the question that cascades from chaotic whispers as I catch my gaze in the mirror, and gasp,
laughing at the lack of lines in my ageing face as another day dawns.

I write myself a postcard,
calling into the radio four,
but nobody ever answers,
because I stopped existing when she kissed me this morning.

Such a gentle thing,
lips that tasted of peppermint press gently against me.
I was aghast, like a ghost,
glittering as I glide down the stairs,
throwing a glance at the front door,
and knowing, deep in my translucent bones that it will stay locked forever.

There is nothing for me,
outside of this house,
this place where pain is prevented and elation is everlasting.
There are no bills to pay,
no time to be a slave to,
just postcards that pass away,
phone calls that never connect,
and kisses that make me disappear.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

House Fire

I burn down the house with this torch I carry,
and everything fades into the flames,
except her eyes, guiding me from the blaze,
mesmerising,
I am possessed and placed wherever she’d like me to be.

When she stares,
my soul shines,
slipping through my skin,
so sold on the idea of ending up in her arms.

She feeds on my frenzy,
frightening me to death,
then rising me until I am reborn,
and all that she leaves is a tiny tinge of pain,
bruises and bad ideas in my mangled mind.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Gershwin

Call me your council estate princess,
cider is my nectar and your neck is the place where I rest my weary head,
resisting the urge to try on your glasses,
so I can see from your perspective.

God is keeping an eye on me,
because I’m the kind of girl you have to watch like a quaking kettle or a nervous clock,
not because I’d run off and get into trouble,
no, I can find strife while stationary,
a fact with which you will become familiar.

I see you everywhere,
but you are the dearest and clearest when I dream,
softly playing Gershwin as I gaze upon your slender fingers,
your father’s ring glistening in the moonlight as I write about the magic that you make, just by existing.

But,
when will you?