Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Growing Up

I think wistfully about what I will be like when I grow up.

Clean credit cards,

a clean sink that gleams, as if it has never glimpsed a dirty dish,

a son, settled into sleep (I am so convinced it is a boy),

while I write,

perched on the windowsill,

singing softly to my assorted indoor plants,

and the patient glow of the moon.

There is no landlord,

and I am the lady of a tidy home,

wearing neat, sensible clothes as I turn walks to nursery school into a wild adventure,

quite out of character for my new persona,

but the last little part that I will keep of who I was.

There is a shadow of a soulmate,

when I dream about it,

always in the corner of my eye,

or just out of reach,

and sometimes,

I ask them who they are,

but there is always refusal,

so I reluctantly accept that sometimes,

you have to wait for the answers.

I spend my time,

in the current time, being stiff, distant and weird to suitors,

so I can be sure that they’ll stay,

if I get back to my old ways (which are technically my current ways),

but just like the lonely sea,

I am always left bereft,

so,

sometimes,

I think I ought to try being more palatable,

but who really wants to just be tolerated?

My son has dark brown eyes, like mine,

and I have yet to tell him that the dinosaurs are extinct,

because I cannot bear to break his heart.

He has the smallest hands I have ever held,

but they are always cold,

like a ghost,

and I haunt the hospital,

pleading for peace of mind,

while a doctor (always a male) tuts, and says that ALL new mothers are hysterical.

I have never seen my boy as baby,

so it feels unfair to be labelled as new,

but I suppose it’s one of those things where you never stop learning,

so I lean into the label,

grateful that my child gazes up at me as if I am a God.

Posted in Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

My Misspent Youth

Cool girl,

Canary Wharf,

pickpocketing promises,

of necklaces and neck kisses,

when all she wants is dinner and drinks,

the chance to collapse into the city,

see the world,

on the right side of the river.

Taking notes,

in lectures,

bustling bars,

on how to find a rich man,

to take to the inevitable family events,

where everyone asks,

“So,

darling,

what’s going on in your love life?”.

Maybe she could be a rich man,

like Cher said,

drinking and dining alone,

on the docks.

Cool girl,

Canary Wharf,

pockets full of diamonds,

dreams,

and determination.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Newlyweds

Night falls,

and the hands of time,

are tornadoes,

ticking and trawling on.

Round and round,

reliving our frequent fights,

silently saying ‘Sorry’,

counting the things we have in common,

creeping around each other,

silent, sombre snakes,

nightmares in the daylight,

only dreaming when it gets dark.

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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Like Someone In…

Listless,
hopeless,
like a stencilled stereotype,
all my shoes have wings,
as does my heart,
and I lose my voice,
my mind too,
like the little mermaid,
each time I look at you.

 

Like someone in pain,
I am desperate for a cure,
which I am sure,
I’ll find,
somewhere in your arms,
bed or the back of your car.


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
Soundcloud
Instagram
Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

YouTube
Email Me