Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Aberforth Rides Again

My ex wife told me once,

that she sold her soul to Satan,

because she was a control freak,

and she was starting to think that Christianity was a scam.

Apparently,

God was always giving her orders,

and deciding her fate.

img_2617

He decided that she should be a beautiful blonde,

with a gorgeous hazel gaze,

(Yes, THAT ex wife),

that she should meet a woman,

who would chronicle each mundane moment of her life,

in excruciating but occasionally exaggerated detail,

(for example, we were not actually married),

which she said she didn’t mind so much,

but she could never be sure,

if our love was special and spontaneous,

or if we were the pretty playthings

of some queerbaiting sims player in the sky,

and,

well,

it all got too much.

img_2616

So,

she began sacrificing chickens,

to appease gruff but grateful goats,

setting fire to the local church,

every now and again,

celestial and serene,

her bright eyes battling the flames,

daring the world around her,

or any God,

in any sky,

to test her.

img_2619

I waited at home,

under her spell,

with a list as long as one of my poems about my angsty teenhood,

scrubbing and sorting our castle,

at her request,

because she was my God,

and I never had a problem taking orders.


Read My Books

Hear My Music

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
Notes To My Muse

COME FIND ME
Twitter
Soundcloud
Instagram
Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

YouTube

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

You Make Me Happy

Yesterday I was thinking about us,

outside of the day’s distractions,

unfortunately overwhelming.

My mind was swimming in a stream,

arching and reclining,

knowledgeable and everblooming,

enabling my imagination.

Have I gotten off track?

Ah,

please bring me back,

please tell me that,

you’ve been thinking about us too.


Read My Books

Hear My Music

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
Notes To My Muse

COME FIND ME
Twitter
Soundcloud
Instagram
Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

YouTube

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Indeed I Do

It doesn’t matter,

where in the world I venture,

how many names I perfectly print,

before scribbling out,

until the page is as black as the night.

I will always find my way back to you,

because your name is written

on every inch of my soul,

and I am a seasick sweetheart,

saying the same six letters,

until my throat is sore and smiling.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.

Repeat.


Read My Books

Hear My Music

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
Notes To My Muse

COME FIND ME
Twitter
Soundcloud
Instagram
Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

Tumblr
Amazon

Podcast
Spotify

YouTube

 

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Planting Roses

No bars to break,

but here I am,

surrounded by searching space,

a prisoner,

encased in ivy,

that I have imagined,

grew side by side,

with the roses we planted.

 

 

I never knew my charge,

but I was sentenced to be sped,

back to the real world,

on several delayed trains,

with barely there air conditioning,

and piece by piece,

I felt each flower fall,

all around me.

 

 

The empty, invisible walls tell tales,

and I can’t tell which voice is yours,

anymore,

because the rain still falls,

and the wind still wails,

but I’m not sure they’re really there.

I’m not sure where it hurts,

I just know that it does,

and I know why it does,

even if that isn’t “proper science”.

 

I don’t know if you’ll wait for me,

or how long you’d have to wait,

but I know I need you to.

I remember this kind of crying,

thirteen,

Hastings beach,

knowing my world wouldn’t fit into a quaint country village,

not just the bright lights,

I had dreamed of,

for as long as I knew how to dream,

but a love.

I wanted a love,

that I couldn’t yet describe,

and maybe never could.

 

 

Again,

twenty three,

pausing at Preston,

with my heart in my throat,

poking it’s way out,

with razor blades and regret,

knowing it had found the love,

but not the words,

to explain how essential it was.

 

 

It never ends,

it only eases,

until it doesn’t,

and then,

I am back behind bars,

that cannot be broken,

by anything but,

freedom to be locked away,

planting roses,

with you,

and watching your excited eyes,

as we we wait for them to grow.

 

img_1926.jpg

I could walk away,

at any second,

out the door,

into the sunset,

under a train,

but with each step,

the chains of my choice,

and the punishment it brings others,

would grow heavier,

until my legs broke,

and my torso wept.

 

 

Give me rain,

or sun,

or death.

Give me some way,

to make each moment just a moment,

rather than a reminder,

that I have a life,

and a job,

and a whole realm of responsibilities,

that don’t include planting roses,

with you,

and watching your excited eyes,

as we we wait for them to grow.

 

 

Give me hope,

that one day,

I will find a time,

when I can survive on the inside,

and see it more as the outside,

real life,

my life,

without you.

 

 

Tell me that I’ll survive,

even if you’re lying,

or,

better yet,

lie down,

keep my side of the bed warm,

rain roses from the roof,

petals,

settled in the sheets,

growing strong under bright lights,

waiting for me to make parole.

 

 

I’ve found the words now.


Enter The Poetry Competition here

Order “Kissing Boys, Just For The Thrill” here

Order “Stormy Weather” here

Order “Last Of The Greenwich Glamour Girls” here

Order “The Things We Did Last Summer” here

Order “Home Wrecker” here

Listen to”Past Preston” here

Listen to “2AM” here

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?
Notes To My Muse
Are You Afraid?

RECENT BLOGS
Release Day
2AM Music Video
Why I Hate Dating In The Modern World

COME FIND ME
Twitter
Instagram
Ask Jen
Facebook
Patreon
Tumblr
Amazon
Podcast
Spotify
YouTube