Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Can You Keep A Secret?

My heart grieves for a time when my love was seen as uneventful,
unremarkable to everyone but me.
When I would stare out into the setting sun,
atop warring waves,
and my love was safe in a way I can no longer feel.

I miss when I could kiss and nobody thought it was their business,
or something fitting of a protest.
and now that I am no longer hiding away in the nonsense of “normality”,
I have to accept that everyone has an opinion on what my love actually is,
and what it means and represents.

My love lives somewhere different to where I had asked her to reside,
so I worship in different circles.
I accept her exception, now,
through gritted teeth and frequent frowns,
and I let her live out from under the clouds,
on the condition that she does not reposition herself to be what everyone else demands of her.

I doubt that she will listen, but we’ll have to wait and see.

I do not want my love to be “a radical queer act” because a terminally online stranger with a posh accent and a past as a horse girl says that it is.

I do not want my love to be “hot to watch” because a pathetic, porn addled man who spends to much of his wages on OnlyFans says that it is.

I do not want my love to be “a sign of social degradation” because an insecure guy with misplaced guilt takes out their lack of God’s grace on me.

I want my love to be the soaring majesty of the opening strings of a symphony.

I want my love to be warring waves, who learned to play peacefully on Blackpool beach.

I want my love to be safe from prying eyes, and just between us two.

Can you keep a secret?

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Rainbows Have Nothing To Hide, but Poppies Do

My poppies are shy, this spring,

under the dirt,

determined to stay in bed as long as possible,

like a troubled teen in that first summer after a heartbreak,

they grip tight to the ground and growl,

“Mother, I don’t like it out there.”

I mean,

who could blame them?

I am thinking of joining them.

Just growing and never showing myself to anyone,

never running the risk of rejection,

never letting the reflections of the outside fuck with my perception of what it means to be alive.

It all makes sense,

when you see it from a seed’s perspective.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

I Am Sane

Crazy is what they call the girls who figure out how the world works.
I have been lost to lunacy for the longest time,
but it’s time to strip away stereotypes and the chains that they use to claim my soul,
because I am not what they want me to be,
but I am still a wonder of this world.
Dripping in diamonds,
dropped on my head,
I am the divine feminine,
guardian of God’s plan,
following the frequently corrected course.
I am dizzy at the deviation,
dancing across the smashed shards of my ideals, dreaming of what I will become.
I take back the letters of my name,
rearranging them as the moon returns,
so bright,
so breathtaking.
Crazy is what they called me,
when I called myself sane.
I know who I am.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Swanscombe Used To Be Such A Nice Little Town

Helicopters hang over my house,

most nights,

sweet symphony of sirens,

the violin solo of violence.

Somebody will awake to bad news.

A boy was stabbed last night.

The neighbours are all whispering,

about how the streets don’t feel safe,

the value of their houses,

even less so.

A boy was stabbed last night,

but it wasn’t their boy,

so they talk of house prices,

vandalism at the park.

He was alone,

but they never wonder why.

He must have been a bad kid,

not like their kids,

some kids are born bad kids,

raised by the streets kids,

a bit too rough kids,

must have come from London kids,

not allowed to play with their kids.

A boy was stabbed last night.


the helicopters hover again,

the symphony begins,

a mother wails a haunting solo,

from her front door.

The curtain twitchers have front row seats.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Love Forever

Starlight’s gone,

aligned but burned,

I wondered what you wished for,

and that burned too.

There are no kings now,

only soldiers,

scraping through each day,

hoping for the sight of something special,

that never comes.

I’m not a king,

I’m not a soldier,

I’m not the type to stay away,

from you,

and some day,

the stars will call to the lovers,


I’ll meet you there.