Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


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.

when will you?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

New Year, New Poem

Red and green sparks slink across the sky.
Life is returning for a moment,
meek and mastered no more,
she is strong,
roaring as she stretches across my eyeline,
to remind me, once again, that nothing lasts forever,
except the joy of fireworks.

I feel it in the air,
bubbling and brewing under my skin.
There is magic in my drink.
Down it goes,
right down my throat and I take a deep breath,
like my life depends on it,
because I have been given another year,
and that is such a thoughtful, selfless gift to give a girl like me.

I see the sparks up in the sky,
above the forest,
dancing in the darkness as I pour another drink,
at four minutes past my second chance.
I feel it in my soul,
something is coming,
something sweet and so fulfilling,
and this time,
I won’t let it go.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Shooting Star

A star fell as the moon made eyes at me,
and I thought about you.
You, so faraway,
fretting and fiddling with your fringe, somewhere in my fantasies,
that faceless shape I ache for when I leave my dreams and land back in reality.


I know you’re out there,
walking the same streets,
whipped up in the same winter wind as it wraps around your scarf and laughs so softly in your ear, just to remind you that you are alive.

I know that you’re somewhere,
breaking down after a hard day,
ordering a takeaway and falling asleep in front of a movie,
wishing you had someone too,
wishing you could find your own… you.

The hills are burning,
my bride,
the valleys are violent once again,
and the rain falls at every opportunity,
but so do stars.
Stars fall,
wishes rise,
hopes hurry forward for their big moment,
and our paths finally cross.
Maybe in a bustling bar?
Maybe on a sunny Sunday?
Packed trains, where my veins are full of rose quartz and the rush of rush hour love.
These are the places I will look for you.


I can see you in the distance.
Not quite clear enough to claim,
but close enough to dream.
Your name is still a jumble of letters that my tongue is waiting to taste,
and your face will one day rest on my pillow,
awoken every morning by a sweet, relieved kiss,
just… not yet.
The world is not done with me yet,
and yet,
I feel like I’m on the way home,
on my way to you.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

White Owls

White owls wail like they’ve heard this tale before,
like they know how it ends,
an endless screech as the sun sets,
but life is full of surprises,
so maybe those wailing warblers will sing a sweet song after all.

I am constricted under the cool glow of my magnificent moon,
she smiles down, as if I am her most treasured daughter,
and with every moment, I am unraveled,
finding freedom as the seconds slip by,
and she whispers warm wishes in my pierced, imperfect ear.

My madness has become a map.
I slink along the streets like a snake,
teddy bear in hand,
wild words between my luscious lips.
The night’s sky is shining and there is a bright light in my eyeline,
for once, I know exactly where I’m going.

Rainbows rise beneath my shoes,
and I don’t sing the blues anymore, my baby blue,
because you are clear within my sights,
and the white owls are jamming to some sweet jazz.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Asked For A Sign and I Got It

Foxes yell the future into the silence of a starless night,

and I listen,

with trembling lips, so suggestible to your own.

The honey flows from the sky,

like acid rain,

destroying the old earth,

so something new can flower and bloom where my past used to pasture.

I can feel your fingertips on my right wrist,

like you are urging me to write a story,

where two princesses journey across ancient lands,

landing in each other’s laps.

I am writing, mi amor,

I am writing.