Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I am locked in a prison of someone else’s lies.
My tongue was always truthful,
painfully faithful to the bitter betrayal of reality,
always willing to do the hard work of being “hateful”.
They want to tear her out,
tarnish her and her wishes,
take her for their own,
make a toy of her,
but I will not allow her to be lost.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Getting Out Of The Way

I was trapped in an unusual place, with unusual bedfellows,
a land of untrustworthy ghosts and unreliable storytellers,
wondering if you would see me,
or if you were still insistent on being introspective.

You took notes as your glasses wandered down the bridge of your nose,
your girlish smile,
the one that you’d been wearing for decades,
dancing across your face as my name pushed its way onto your phone screen.

Is it irresistible yet, my darling?
Am I a symptom, or the cause of this madness?
I hate it here,
and I hunger for home,
but I don’t know if you are ready to rescue me yet.

You answer the call,
stifling a laugh at my smart mouth,
and I ask, in my very best baby voice,
when will my loving Daddy rescue her Princess from this war zone?

You see, it’s been half an hour of holding myself to account,
trying the real world out,
and I’ve never been more fond of our fantasy.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing


I moved back to the city, followed by the girl I never loved,
she sewed the night’s stars into her smile,
her eyes lit up the dark clatter of the underground’s tunnels,
and I was furious, hunted by my own denial,
and all that the thought of her did to me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

There Is Nothing To Be Gained From Getting Out Of Bed

I can’t quite quit the quiet heaven of being held by you,
the heavy sigh of weary lovers filling the room,
your coffee, cooling on the bedside table,
chocolate bars for breakfast,
and a tender kiss for a sleep aid.
I am tired of the terror,
the outside world and all its horror.
You are so warm,
so familiar,
so, screw civilisation.
I don’t want to participate in anything but this.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

War Of The Roses

The roses were on borrowed time,
nestled in nectar from the kitchen tap,
watching us from the mantle,
as I made an excuse to envelop you in my anxious arms again,
like a child with a blanket,
or a hopeless case with a last chance.

You wanted revenge, and I was your solitary soldier.
My guns were so peaceful, until they were not,
and you waved me off to another war,
white handkerchief,
stained with my scarlet kiss,
safe in your breast pocket as I severed the sweetest dreams,
clattering home with trophies and trinkets for my mistress.

The roses remained,
glowing with my youth as I yearned for you, from the door step.
With a flourish,
a frantic meeting of our much maligned lips,
I was home,
confessing my sins,
healing in your arms,
thrilled, once again, by your gratitude,
and all it’s gifts.