Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Hello, Again

You are a song,

I sometimes hear,

in the back of my mind,

when I am away with the fairies.

I called you last night,

by mistake,

awaking with the memory of you,

your curiosity,

for what I became,

after we parted ways,

all the ways I was so different,

and the ways I’d stayed the same.

Sometimes,

I think that maybe I’ve been driven mad,

by days that became weeks,

weeks that went on far too long,

but then I see you,

and I love you,

in a languishing,

lingering way,

and I realise that I was always a little bit mad.

I had to be,

give my mind, entirely, to you.

 

Posted in Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

World Queen

When I was so small,

that being a woman,

was a far away fairy tale,

I saw a ticking clock,

each morning,

when I met the gaze of the mirror.

Intuitively,

I was aware,

that there were only so many moments,

to collect all the trophies I had promised myself,

in between birthing and bridal business,

that belonged to me,

by virtue of my Venus energy.

I was surrounded by baby dolls,

as a baby.

practising a walk down the aisle,

before I could even stumble,

so I often wondered how I could reorganise,

my expected life,

to factor in my hopes and dreams.

Once upon a time,

I wanted to write a new world,

Aquarius angel,

in the amphitheatre.

Playing with my hair,

as people fill Parisian playhouses,

waiting for me to unveil my latest child.

My mother’s grandchildren,

are trafficked,

from my soul,

to crowded, excitable bookshelves,

and sometimes I wonder,

if I will disappoint her,

when they are all I can give.

Maybe they will have a father,

or I will be immaculate,

it doesn’t really matter,

for I am a poetic python.

Every now and then,

I watch the clock in the mirror,

staring past,

to discover the daughter I left behind,

and I wonder,

if she will be happy,

with what we became.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Let There Be Love

Sometime around my seventeenth birthday,

in fact,

exactly on my seventeenth birthday,

I was sat,

crowded by people who loved me,

staring down a cake,

that made me anxious,

making a wish,

for someone else to love me,

differently,

obviously.

img_7856

I wasted a wish,

on a waste of time,

waiting for too long,

for the wrong kind of love,

because I wasn’t worldly enough,

to see it for what it was.

When I closed my eyes,

to ask everything around me,

for the birthday gift nobody could give me,

I heard the last minute or so,

of Let There Be Love,

like I always did,

when I looked at you,

and for a second,

I thought it might come true.

 

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Hunger Pains

I think I was ten.

Wearing midnight blue,

in the middle of the day.

My neighbourhood knew that one day,

probably in the middle of the day,

I’d be the world’s greatest dancer,

and so it span around me,

as I sat,

in the big girl’s passenger seat,

feeling real sweet,

in my midnight, midday, blue,

after dance class.

img_4959

Hawley Road.

You were my hero.

As I said,

I was probably ten,

but now,

I’d rather not say how old I am,

just that I am taking strepsil after stressed out strepsil,

hoping to finally choke to death.

img_4956

Anyway,

back to the car,

Hawley Road,

and the ten minute drive I cannot forget.

I think I was ten.

You were driving me home,

after dance class.

You’ve just done it again,

and I can’t see what I’m writing,

because the day you drove me home,

is replaying,

and tripping down my cheeks and lips.

img_4957

I was ten,

dance class.

I was a booster seat for a box,

filled with my favourite cakes.

I was Hawley Road.

Driving down ten.

Box booster seat.

I’d been dancing for hours.

I asked for a cake,

and you said,

that I was sent to dance,

so I could lose weight,

and suddenly,

I fell from the stars I performed for.

img_4958

I’m still falling now,

and I can see you,

forgetting to remember,

what I cannot forget.

I hadn’t had breakfast that day,

because we had overslept.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Murdered

I went back to the scene,

of the many times she was murdered,

canvassing Camden Town,

to find her at 18,

at 21,

at 26.

I was too late.

road-man-lights-legs.jpg

Murdered,

by the man who told her he knew best,

choked to death,

by the flimsy fabric,

of the dress he insisted she wear,

and the false hopes,

shoved down her throat,

until she stopped breathing.

pexels-photo.jpg

Murdered,

by the billion year old boy,

her corpse,

creeping into his room,

at his mother’s house,

hiding away with the beard dye,

and the other girls he broke on his travels.

police-fog-seaside-38442.jpeg

Murdered,

on her search for who she was,

on a night of nostalgia,

where nothing was the same,

but she closed her eyes,

and pretended anyway.

pexels-photo-793436.jpeg

That’s when I snuck up,

more gentle than the last,

and kissed,

with chloroform and kindness,

the girl they murdered,

finally at rest,

with the woman she became.


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