Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

07:48

Staring as you sleep,

at home in your embrace,

as I watch your eyelashes,

still and resting.

Most mornings,

I am overwhelmed,

opportunistic,

as I burrow under the covers,

clinging to your chest,

annoyance that you earned,

by appearing in my life,

and making me fall in love with you.

I hold onto you,

and my heart lives in my eyes,

when we are close,

languishing as liquid,

reaching out,

falling down my cheeks,

trying to be closer to the one she loves.

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?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Send Her To Me

Maybe death is in the air.

I wouldn’t know,

it’s not like it rides in on a horse,

these days.

I watched the news last night,

waiting in silence,

as walls close in,

on every dream destination,

that I thought I’d escape to.

I called my grandparents last night,

letting them know I cared,

like it was the last time,

like life’s really ending,

fires finding their way to every corner of my mind,

as I scan empty shelves,

wondering if the apocalypse could spare me a second,

to decide if I’m really done.

I watch the flag,

from a bench by the ashtrays,

outside your office,

red,

white,

blue,

dancing with the wind.

I think I might call you,

like it’s the end of the world,

see if you’ve stopped pretending like we can be friends,

but then I remember,

that you’ve been gone,

since last summer,

and the sobbing wound in my soul,

that I had convinced to stop crying,

is screaming again,

because I have never felt more alone,

and everyone around me feels infectious,

because I watch the news when I’m depressed,

just to feel anxious,

because,

fuck it,

that feels more productive than straight sadness.

I wrote a sapphic song about you,

and it felt like I was giving the last of you away,

so soon after I lost you,

but it was so beautiful,

that I couldn’t hide it anymore,

and I had this regret stuck in my throat,

as I sang,

wishing I’d dragged you to London,

that July.

Why am I thinking about you?

You didn’t have to tell them you loved me.

You could have just pretended we were friends.

Straight girls go to pride all the time,

right?

Angel,

I know you’re gone,

but this could be the last time,

because there’s this thing,

in the air,

death,

like when you left me,

and I can’t breathe.

I can’t breathe.

I feel like I can’t talk about you,

because it hurts me,

and it hurts him,

and you’re probably hurting somewhere in heaven,

with your hazel gaze,

glistening with tears,

but you’re stuck in my throat,

and I can’t breathe.

I cross the road,

like I don’t have a care in the world,

ignoring that I might like to see under some cars,

holding every urgent text,

from my heart,

close to my chest,

when I’m just thinking about death,

even though it isn’t destined for me,

because despite fifteen menthols a day,

and self destructive tendencies,

I am in tip top condition,

but hey,

the world is ending,

and I missed you,

for a moment.