Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Go To Waste In The Wrong Arms

I guess I never learned to paint my nails properly,

like everything in my life,

I can’t quite keep between the lines,

but you don’t seem to mind.

You tell me they look nice,

and your voice,

soft and reassuring,

is all the convincing I need,

to keep splattering black nail varnish,

in the vague direction of my nails,

with half gay abandon,

(In case you didn’t know, I’m bisexual, and it’s basically the rules that I have to loudly announce it as often as possible).

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I’m painting my nails,

with only a Morrissey vinyl for company,

waiting for you to call,

though I know you’re busy today,

and I’m setting myself up for a mid evening crash,

where I lay under my covers,

refuse to eat dinner,

(which isn’t nearly as dramatic when you are the only person who’ll notice if YOU don’t get up and make dinner for yourself),

and cry myself to sleep,

because like Tinkerbell,

Rachel Berry,

and instagram influencers,

(and I suppose, Morrissey, although, I am TRYING not to give into him at this point)

I need attention to live,

and darling,

I am DYING.

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One can’t exactly go to waste in the wrong arms,

if no arms come to call.

I’m sorry to be so obvious,

but my loneliness is life and death.

That’s how we almost lost Britney,

and you wouldn’t want that end for me,

surely?

My nails still look a mess,

Morrissey is almost done,

and thank God,

because I feel guilty even letting him,

and what he became into the house,

and,

of course,

you haven’t called,

so I’m going to the park,

to cry under the stars,

for a change of scenery.

 

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

A Day In Which She Wasn’t Late (For Once)

We hold on to the strangest things,

in the ten minutes of turmoil,

from bridges to crosses.

I hold on to the other day,

to distract me from the crowded silence.

I hold on to the other day,

when I counted the seconds,

until I could count the characters in your reply.

Now I am waiting again,

buried underneath the dreams of the damned,

daring to dream my own nightmare,

where my heart hurts,

then heals itself,

as I twist it into whatever you desire.

I am built for your embrace,

holding the pole,

just to be safe,

resisting the urge to unfold into you entirely,

wishing I could,

wasting another thought,

on the one who is busy,

but hopefully,

still seeing me somewhere in his mind’s eye.

I am carrying my whole life in a case,

for a couple of days,

and for the first time,

on one of my many quests to escape,

I just want to go home,

to you.

Do you understand?

I don’t want to be alone,

for the first time.

I don’t want to be alone.


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Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Essays

You are crying,

as the wind watches you weigh up your options.

Waiting on a roof for a reason,

that may never come,

and the wind,

is lazy and unmoved by your last goodbye,

to a world she only observes.

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You write an essay,

with your troubled tongue,

telling the air around you,

all the things you regret,

as the rushing wind caresses your hair,

and I am on the ground,

jealous, jubilant and jailed,

by the worry that I’m too late,

abseiling down into the core of the earth,

powered by the need to be as close as the wind,

in my own way.

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She has no prayer or advice,

no real preference,

for whether you jump into tomorrow,

or jump into yesterday,

for she will continue to pass,

wherever you go,

(or do not go),

and nothing can be done,

but I will still try,

even if the world and all it’s wonders won’t.


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Hear My Music

Hear My Podcast

RECENT FREE CREATIVE WRITING COLLECTIONS
Sad Girl’s Love Song
Drowning In Us
What Ever Happened To Baby Jen?

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Ask Jen

Facebook
Patreon

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Amazon

Podcast
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