Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Ever Present Changes

Flowers are fading as winter hangs in the air,
hot chocolate in her hands and a smug smile on her face.
Trees grasp to the last of their green glimmer,
glittering lover’s tears trickling down the solid branches as another departure is dragged out,
winter’s wicked grin towers grim over autumn’s last weeks,
watching the earth wither and die.
It’s okay.
Everything will return,
just as it always does,
if I wait,
I can be here to see it.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Winter’s Influence

Trees reach out with frozen fingertips for their lost leaves,
placed in the eye line of the powder blue sky,
the moon still shyly smiling across from the proud sun,
as the last of the birds go to their summer homes.

Winter has yet to arrive,
but her influence is everywhere.
Frost throws herself across the floor,
claiming the calm streets as snow circles the sky,
with her eyes aimed for all of us.

Posted in Blog

Cold

Frosted window panes,

smiling at soft sunlight,

that shyly pokes her head above the sky,

to greet the grey pavements,

that glitter with slick ice.

The winter wind has arrived early,

holding us close,

in frozen arms,

glacial kisses on bright red noses.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Seasons Change

Orange trees,

leaning against the horizon,

days tire and go home sooner,

our world famous rainy days have returned.

I thought about the wasted summer,

how I barely made friends with the sun,

we were shy acquaintances,

and now I can barely see her face.

I drink hot chocolate,

as the trees in my yard stare me down,

waving their brittle, broken branches,

watching me write my way into trouble,

because the seasons may change,

but I never do.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Sleeping With The Fishes

It had been Christmas since late November,

you’ll remember,

that I was nervous but knowledgeable,

talking about the bodies

on the bottom of the blue and brown,

as we watched the winter lights reflect on the rain’s mother.

I had swiped and swiped,

until it felt just right,

and by that,

I mean,

my hand and my heart had been tired,

so I retired into awkward app small talk with you,

because,

fuck it,

you’ll do,

and I agreed to meet,

for coffee and conversation on the southbank.

img_9077

(It should be noted that I don’t like coffee)

img_9076

I began to wonder

whether my body would soon join the circus of corpses,

and whether I’d mind,

the selfie I’d mandated my mother to provide to the news,

being displayed in full view,

because as lovely as I looked,

being lovely,

and lost in the wayward waves of the Thames

would be extremely inconvenient,

because,

well,

I’d be dead,

so,

I couldn’t enjoy the attention.

img_9078

(It should be noted that I don’t like being murdered)

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I began to regret my mention,

of the many mischievous murders,

that began as beautiful moments.

Well meaning lonely lights,

losing their spark,

in the darkness of drowning,

dancing with dolphins,

to the sound of sirens.

Paranoid,

I pondered,

how the night would end for me,

and whether I’d put the idea in your head,

in the first place.

img_9079

(It should be noted that I don’t like swimming.

It should also be noted that I cannot swim)

img_9075

I stared into the eye of the skyline,

applying coat after coat of lip balm,

as your coat buttons gossiped with your hands,

about their plans.

It turns out,

you just hoped to take me home.

I’d have preferred the murder,

to be honest.


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