Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

A Good Person

Celestial power seeps through my skin,

as I sleep,

I am deep in a dream,

running from waking hours,

wondering what else I can do,

to be free.

I used to wonder,

if I was a good person,

being who I needed to be,

so I could keep myself alive,

watching my soul surrender to shadows,

accepting that life is a choice,

between survival,

and self satisfaction.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Confessions Of A Self Aware Manic Pixie Dream Girl

Recharging over night,

I awake beside you,

with bright eyes,

slight sassy retorts,

when you ask me how I slept,

because we both know,

I probably didn’t.

I read tarot,

while you dress,

write poems,

while you cook breakfast,

and I never stop rotating

between a routine of smiling and pouting,

in a way that makes you wonder,

what I’m thinking

(I am probably thinking about the pancakes you have yet to finish.)

You ask me how I am,

and I am irresistibly indistinct,

but it doesn’t matter,

my boyfriend,

with the blue,

brooding heart,

because I am always here,

sort of smiling,

sort of pouting,

eyes glowing,

just for you.

I drop delirium onto your lips,

and like a shark,

beseeched by blood,

to make it feel loved,

you say “Yes.”

in a fever.

I make you a mixtape,

of Morrissey,

Rick Astley,

and solo Brian Wilson,

as I send you links to Airbnb’s,

in Tokyo,

Tripoli and Tunbridge Wells,

along with a copy of your birth chart,

and a song I wrote,

as you slept,

about our hearts going to the zoo,

to free the much harassed pandas.

These are just the things I do.

Sometimes,

people are just chaotic and curious,

and sometimes,

though they buzz around the world,

existing in an outlandish but inoffensive way,

like feverish,

excited fireflies,

they find themselves in a net,

and then they consider whether it would be wild,

to just be comfortable,

captured, cared for,

for a while.

Maybe I am an adventure,

a firefly,

an invention of your imagination,

and you love me,

because the stars you think you see,

are seldom in the skies that appear to you,

so this means something else to you,

than what I was expecting,

but maybe I am just your scarce sweetheart,

that you love with all your heart,

and we aren’t characters,

in a cautionary romantic comedy.

I am smiling,

I am pouting,

I am slowly going mad,

but swallowing my absconding sanity,

so as not to distract,

from the journey our director dictates you must take.

I am smiling,

I am pouting,

existing solely in the part of you,

that longs for some unusual adventure.

Plug me in at the wall,

kiss me goodnight,

my eyes will glow,

and glow.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Tell Me How Long, Before The Last One?

I took twenty tests,

(buzzfeed,

not pregnancy,

or coronavirus)

because I thought it would be easier to leave you,

if the internet told me.

It sided with you,

I assume they saw your eyes,

or heard you sweetly singing off key,

in the car,

and thought

“How could you ever,

ever let him go?”

but sometimes,

you just see the signs,

even when you drive by,

for a little while,

until they blur into the background,

when your eyes say

“No hope,

no harm,

just another false alarm.”

“It must be him,

or I shall die”

I sing to myself,

(pleasantly…

no shade)

and then,

I am not dead,

but I’m entombed in awareness,

of how far I’ve fallen,

in every sense,

because I,

like the internet,

obsessed over the little reasons I should stay,

instead of the flags,

the signs,

the spell checked and perfected statement,

I tell myself I’ll send you,

when I finally snap,

to inform you that I have come to terms,

with the end of our terms of endearment.

It stares at me,

every now and again,

and I start to wonder if I’ll be okay,

all alone,

in the world,

with wide eyes,

full of tears.

I normally watch Bridget Jones,

and the feeling subsides,

because we all know I’m not going anywhere,

too attached to the cage I created for myself,

even attached to crying the night away,

but every now and again,

I stare back,

and wonder if I’ll save myself,

this time.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Sant Jordi, With You

It has been so many days,

three hundred and sixty six,

to be exact,

since I sent my dreams down the river,

on a boat,

I planned to sink,

seeing love,

as a damaging dream,

that would kill me,

if I didn’t kill it myself.

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I spent a summer writing to myself,

sitting on the shelf,

where I felt safest,

banishing roses from my bedroom,

blood red beating heart,

begging for company.

I lamented,

languishing in loss,

living in a grey world,

dreaming of the dream I drowned.

img_8454

I wrote a world of roses and promises,

but sometimes books burn,

torn and tattered,

when they are given with love,

but not loved in return,

so I decided to stop,

just writing to myself,

spending Sant Jordi with my soul,

buying myself books,

roses,

and cider.

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This year,

I am at the riverbed,

reviving the dream that I drowned,

and mourned,

writing new books,

with new twists and turns,

roses on my skin,

with each kiss you plant,

and I give those kisses,

sweet like roses,

to the dream

that found her way back to me.

My heart,

safe in your gentle hands.

My dream,

alive.

My soul,

alive.

Posted in Blog

Gardening

I grow white orchids,

under the sunlight,

that goes back and forth,

arriving,

leaving,

surrounded by poppies,

in the garden,

waiting for the day,

that they will surround me,

as I approach you,

glowing,

going towards heaven on earth,

You are watching me,

morning coffee,

keeps your hands warm,

until I return to them,

safe and smiling,

surrounded by beautiful birdsong,

watching our flowers thrive.