Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Empty Chairs

Empty chairs,

kept in the cupboard under the stairs,

far away from me,

and my solitary celebration.

Don’t cry for me,

because this ship can’t stand any more tears,

dearly departed plans,

that never had a chance of staying above icy depths.

You know I’m going to drink too much,

neat and neurotic,

fading from fine to finality,

back again,

then forwards.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Tired Arms

The night is late and lonely,

tired arms craving a connection,

the moon is making memories with the stars,

but I am bound for bed,

with nobody but the sheets and my bad dreams for company.

I put on a record,

bracing myself for the barrenness of the cold air around me,

dancing in darkness,

with tired, trembling arms,

that are hungry,


halfway to giving up all together.

I hold it together,

for a second,

then I am crestfallen,

crumbling on the kitchen floor,

tears fall,

and for a second,

my arms believe that someone will hold them again,

one day.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

Rebellious subjects,

under the stars, that sing

“Oh, how cruel is fate?”

sweet harmony,

that portrays my destiny.

“Tier 2?” I gasp,

grasping at my symptom free throat,

googling traffickers

that could smuggle me in to the plague pit that our capital city has become.

On pain of death,

or public shaming,

I hope that you’ll hold me,

when the week is over.

Breathing slow,

beside the barricades,

I curse every face that I see,

playing games with blame,

like everyone knew I would,

because I’m a smart girl,

when I’m sober,

but since I met you,

I’ve been intoxicated,

so I lash out at fate,

unclean hands,

washed but unmasked faces,

that stand between us.

What sadness lengthens Jennifer’s hours?

Not having the funds to just say “Fuck it” and risk a fine,

or the selfish streak,

that so many let loose since we found ourselves in hell.

My brain is not idle,

but has many children.

Dreaming, divine,

of you and I,

underneath the roof of the market,

across from the Campus,

with a sheet of rain,

performing on the tiles.

Sometimes we kiss (by th’ book),

sometimes I stare, shyly at your shirt buttons,

and wonder when they shall be mine to toy with,

but then I am awake,

with nobody but an old bear,

who likes you just fine,

but feels a little envious that I spend more time with another.

A bear (who grew tired of pursuing) sits on my lap,

as we stare at the stars,

the inconstant moon.

I wonder,

if you could see the same picture,

if it weren’t for all the air pollution.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Seasons Change

Orange trees,

leaning against the horizon,

days tire and go home sooner,

our world famous rainy days have returned.

I thought about the wasted summer,

how I barely made friends with the sun,

we were shy acquaintances,

and now I can barely see her face.

I drink hot chocolate,

as the trees in my yard stare me down,

waving their brittle, broken branches,

watching me write my way into trouble,

because the seasons may change,

but I never do.