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.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Green Day Had A Point

I couldn’t resist the call of your calm embrace,
my alarm cut through our soft, serene dreaming,
but your arms were still so insistent,
not a doctor, but determined to heal me,
and so, there I stayed,
still in your gaze,
never judged, never questioned,
just allowed to heal.

I thought I might sleep until the Spring and Summer went back into hiding,
opening my eyes as October arrived,
turning to you without a word,
knowing that nothing more had to be said,
but the alarm is as insistent as you are,
and so,
I must drink my way through this,
swear under each anxious breath,
waiting for night fall,
so that I can hide in how you hold me,
until the alarm returns to drag me back to war.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Plaything Of A Narcissist

She never met a mirror that she didn’t like,
never got tired of her own tones.
I understood,
because I was crazy about her,
caught up in how clever she is,
just another doll on her shelf,
spellbound and silent until she picks me up,
I purr, pulled pure from my senses by the softness of her fingertips.
She knows!
Of course,
she knows!
She is a bright beauty,
intellectual and enticing,
and I am at her mercy.
That’s just how I like it.