Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Happiness, And Other Made Up Fairy Tales

I thought,

for a change,

I might try to be happy.

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I read once,

that you can have the life you dream of,

if you believe enough,

but I’ve swallowed so much snake oil,

that I’m not sure there is room for more,

so my belief system is just a blanket of bad ideas,

patched up by occasional optimism.

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I read once,

that reality is just a state of mind,

but my mind always seems a right state,

so I couldn’t quite appreciate it,

and that just joined the patchwork hell,

another horse on my mind’s merry go round,

spinning and singing old songs,

with everything else up there,

while I try and figure out what’s going on out here.

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I read once,

that if you smile enough,

you start to believe it.

I read once,

that if you say things enough,

you start to believe it.

I read once,

that if you repeat YOUR truth enough,

you start to believe it.

I read once,

that if you put your reality into the world enough,

you start to live it.

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I am happy.

I am smiling.

I know why I’m here.

I know where I’m going.

I don’t feel empty.

I am not lonely.

I am not lying.

I AM SO HAPPY.

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I thought,

for a change,

I might try to be happy,

but some girls just aren’t made for that.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Confessions Of An Angsty Flyer

I am in the sky,

the past is a passenger with me,

as I listen to our phone call,

from last Friday,

where I lied,

letting you think that I didn’t write,

with tears in my eyes,

about you.

Blue eyes,

that I knew,

were blue,

that I love,

even when I am miles away,

that I dream of every night,

that I hope to never lose.

I am not bandaged in time,

this time.

I am flying,

feeling my heart skip,

each time I hear your voice,

knowing I would need more bandages,

if I didn’t have a piece of you,

to keep me on the path away from you.

We live in the same state of fear,

and I am panicked by your sighs.

We were fighting on Friday,

I was vague and unhelpful,

because I didn’t know how to tell you,

that I wanted to be in your arms,

but I feared being there,

in case things weren’t the same,

as they were before Friday,

and before every other day,

when I slip,

close to a cliff edge,

wondering,

distant and dreary,

wondering if this is the time that I lose you.

I am listening to our phone call,

from last Friday.

I assume you didn’t know I kept them,

but they are close to my heart,

and essential to me staying sane,

when I cannot be close to you.

You asked me what was on my mind.

I acted like I was fine,

and I know it was annoying,

and I know I’m not supposed to say I’m annoying,

but I was wondering,

yet again,

when it would be the last time,

I will be your hunnybee.

If you’ll love me,

a day,

a week,

a lifetime longer.

I was wondering,

when I would lose you,

because I can’t believe you’re mine.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Everything Is Fine, Don’t Give Into Despair

I ran away,

just to come back,

when I thought nobody was looking.

Racing away,

to sit by the sea,

watching anime,

in the middle of the night,

as the tide copies me,

running and returning too,

just to see if things feel any better,

when you finally escape.

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It doesn’t,

if you’re followed by what you ran from.

I am followed,

by absurdly long,

run on sentences,

that don’t rhyme,

because I’m pretentious,

and a teacher told me once,

that I didn’t have to be like everyone else,

so I’m consumed with that,

along with complexes about my appearance,

my heart,

and my destined destination.

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I sent my lover a love letter,

from the shower,

because I was showered with suspicion,

that maybe he’d stop loving me,

because I’m just the kind of girl,

who can’t accept,

that maybe,

I am destined to be desirable,

to somebody,

and now I’m sounding like a Smiths song,

surrounded by shame,

at the fact that I’ve never felt proud

of who I ended up being.

Hang the poet,

because,

fuck it,

she might enjoy it.

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In the afternoon,

I watch a Prince,

feeding pigeons,

outside a dungeon,

where I keep my heart,

oh,

but as you’ll know,

she’s gone missing,

happily captive,

and forcing me to smile a little too.

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The pigeons show their gratitude,

by asking for more.

crowding his crown,

their mouths still full of food,

spitting seeds as they scream,

“Please Daddy,

can I have some more?”

and,

honestly,

I can relate.

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It’s Christmas soon,

and I have a complex about that too.

I meet the eye of every elegantly dressed tree,

saying “How do you do?”

to gift related anxiety,

as I journey through December,

waiting for it to be over.

I have a long list of wishes I want,

but my mum can’t get them on Amazon,

so I’m not sure I should say,

“Just get me a new face,

a competent government,

and an end to the ache

of being unsure of where my life is going.”

because,

well,

nobody invites Debbie Downer back for New Year,

even if they gave birth to her.

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I have waited for the life I have,

and the life that I see in the horizon,

for as long as I have been alive,

yet,

every time I get a hit of happiness,

I am back in the gutter,

back at it again,

vapid,

with eyes full of wonder,

watching pigeons pester strangers,

for more of the same,

mouthing,

“same”,

as I smoke a cigarette,

expelling smoke rings and regret,

over nothing in particular.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Fine Wine and Smirnoff Ice

Someone asked me why I won’t date men my age.

They asked me and I was cast back through time,

on trains and buses,

listening to men my age,

when they think they can’t be heard,

boasting about body counts,

swapping stories like Pokemon cards,

about women who trusted them to keep it to themselves.

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I hear men my age,

when they think they can’t be heard,

because my earphones are my guard dogs,

and we have mastered the art of looking unfriendly.

I hear men my age,

confidently crowing about their sexual prowess,

trying to impress and outdo each other,

not seeming to realise that the only cunt they’ll be seeing tonight,

is their reflections in the mirror.

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I am so bored,

listening to them babble on,

being so overwhelmingly underwhelming in every way,

but it’s like a car crash,

and I’m glued to the trash TV, that is men my age.

I hear men my age,

when they think they can’t be heard,

and I think,

wow bro,

men of all ages can be monsters,

but at least the older ones have the experience

to try and keep the mask on for a minute.


Read My Books

Hear My Music

Hear My Podcast

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Virgin Vogue
Sad Girl’s Love Song
Drowning In Us

COME FIND ME
Twitter
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Instagram
Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

YouTube
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Email Me