Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

10:26

Coffee in the morning,

as i am tearful and unstable,

weeping underwater,

spending seventy per cent of my shower,

slumped against the wall,

wailing for you,

grateful you are on the other side of the door,

so you can’t hear me.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Pancakes and Orange Juice

“All yours”

is lettered along my legs,

and inside my heart,

as rain falls,

on your freshly washed car.

“Will you still love me tomorrow?”

is waiting on my lips,

playing on the radio,

playing on my mind,

and I think about how you played along,

when I read your horoscope aloud,

many times,

using my many apps,

and how you only teased me a little,

to be the typical Capricorn I know and love,

so that I’d remember to be reassured,

or, maybe just because,

that’s who you’ve always been.

You said you loved me this morning,

as I snuggled around you,

like the cats do,

and again,

just now,

when you handed me a cigarette,

with a sleepy smile,

standing beside me,

with the shopping,

to your left,

me,

and my shy but devoted heart to your right.

We stand in silence,

as I write,

recalling the charm of your morning texts,

and the way you slept beside me last night,

on the side that felt uncomfortable,

just so we could be close,

and the way you held me this morning,

as I cried over nothing.

You are quiet,

and surprisingly patient,

as the rain continues,

and I take too long to smoke,

because you know I’m lost in my library,

finding things that will put my heart at ease,

and I recall that you went out,

when I was showering,

to fetch me breakfast,

saying you loved me,

with pancakes,

and orange juice.

Posted in Beauty, Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Tea Tree

Tea tree tells me I’m nervous,

sitting on my face,

as I step back in the game.

I was raised by feminist wolves,

in the wilds of the world,

and I feel

I should be braver,

bolder,

brighter in the face of danger,

but the tea tree,

like a concerned stranger,

seeing my frozen and unconscious stare,

into the mirror,

whispers,

“You’re worried about your skin”.

He told me,

I had pretty eyes,

my voice,

a volcano,

molten,

melancholy,

sultry syllables,

and yet,

today,

my voice shakes,

eyes teary,

tea tree,

trembling on my shaking skin,

because fear is a four letter word,

and a constant state,

when you are in love,

and need to trust someone with your heart,

and your broken out skin.

The bus driver told me,

I was beautiful,

and I shyly smiled,

hoping you’d agree.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

So What If I Was Slightly Drunk When I Wrote This?

Two ciders down,

and I am free from hell,

singing American Pie,

as I drink in your eyes,

stolen from Satan,

forgetting the things that haunt me,

my body,

amazed atoms,

that explode and reform,

in the seat next to you,

as you drive,

and it’s like my life has begun again.

Windswept wishes,

as we smoke cigarettes,

to the sound of the sea,

driving past water,

that waits to become a waterfall,

and there is a brook that bubbles within me,

desire dripping from every second I spend with you.

We scale a mountain,

losing ourselves to love,

in the shadow of the lightning,

you are everywhere around me,

day to day,

but tonight,

on snow covered roads,

the warmth of the car,

the warmth of your arms,

my heart is still for a moment,

and then,

so full of life the next.

It becomes a cycle,

where I am in awe,

and in a frenzy,

for you,

again and again,

until we are apart,

and then,

I retreat to my reminders,

and my memories,

so I can be surrounded by thoughts of you,

until I am yours entirely again.

Deers drive beside us,

I have had two ciders,

and I am happier than I’ve ever been,

because your voice is a beacon,

bringing me out of my mind,

when I fall back in,

bringing me back to what my life could be,

if I am lucky enough to spend it with you.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Creator Of Divine Revolution

I come crashing down,

just for the feeling,

sometimes,

but I sleep,

a little more stable,

when you grace my dreams with your presence.

They used to call me,

the creator of divine revolution,

I was born under certain stars,

that revealed some shit to me,

that felt feverishly urgent,

and once upon a time,

I thought I’d change the world,

in halternecks and heels,

a flower child,

running up the hills,

of my cage,

until the walls came crashing down,

like I do some days.

I thought I’d change the world.

Maybe I still might.

You told me once I’d probably changed a life,

and I couldn’t tell if you meant yours,

or if it was just a line,

or if you meant somebody else,

and you were just trying to open my eyes.

I isolate myself,

like I’m infectious,

but my stars keep slipping out,

and they’re spreading to places I can’t even pronounce,

is that the sort of thing you’re talking about?

You encourage me.

I have this courage now,

in buckets,

spades,

the caps of all my pens,

somewhere deep down in my chest,

where you told me that my heart was,

teaching me how to come back to life,

pressing gently on my skin,

as you stare into my eyes,

and every song I wrote about you,

plays on shuffle in my mind,

because you are my voice.

It used to be so lonely,

so fragile,

but now,

it’s kneeling next to me,

teaching me emergency medical proceedures,

that I absolutely will not remember,

and making my heart scream at full, fulfilling volume,

and fucking hell,

I love you.

Maybe that’s how I change the world.

Just by being a little brighter,

when I walk down the road,

actually making eye contact for once,

like I’m from the North,

or something.

Finding little things to smile about,

so I’m not quite so blue,

creating a revolution,

where I am divinely devoted to happiness.

Does that sound like a plan?