Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Phil Spector Was A Murderer and An Abusive Misogynist

Ronnie sits atop a golden coffin,

her heels click a beat on the glass top,

talking to rainbows,

about barbed wire and bullets that threatened to run down her face like tear drops.

She sings a sweet song of freedom,

reclaiming the voice that was locked behind golden gates and walls of waiting.

Lana lies atop a golden cloud,

watching women out of her reach,

reach out to her,

saying her name,

wailing for justice.

She watches an elevator go down,

to the basement,

evil deep inside,

returning to his hellish home,

where he will be nothing, forever.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Should Not Be Seeing You

Late love,

under the stars,

under covers,

under the influence of how soft your voice is when you’re with me,

how soft your hands behave when they’re with me.

Midnight rendezvous,

tied together,

tied up in this mad romance,

my veins are clean,

but I am intoxicated,

eyes closed as you pull me closer,

the kiss felt around the world,

because my world is right here,

between your sheets.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Car Park Kiss

There have been many sweet kisses,

in many sweet places,

but the sweetest and most special,

happened somewhere so unspectacular.

September night,

my heart heavy at the thought of going home alone,

when you’d spent so long making my world feel full.

You made those hours feel like heaven,

and as we kissed outside your car,

an empty, echoing car park became heaven too.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

The Sunrise

When I think about you,

I see the sunrise,

in the back of my mind,

because I wrote a song,

alone in my bedroom,

about how it felt to watch you wake up,

a swarm of butterflies underneath the sheets with me,

as the sun sat on the windowsill,

watching you, along with me,

the sun,

glancing, glistening up and down your skin,

and you were so beautiful,

so blindingly beautiful.

I wrote a song,

alone in my bedroom,

about how the sun rose,

simply because it couldn’t stay away from you,

simply because it had to stare at you,

simply because you were the most beautiful thing that the sun, or I had ever seen.

When I hear that song,

I see the sunrise,

I hear the clattering of trains outside your window,

I feel your soft skin pressed against mine,

and I feel as bright as the sun,

I feel like I am in the sky,

glowing like an angel,

my heart glows like an angel, for you.

When I think about you,

I see the sunrise,

for she is my rival,

creeping through your window every morning,

to remind you that you are the most beautiful thing that the sun, or I will ever see.

Sunday sun,

wakes us up,

morning meets us,

I’m so in love…

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Question For The Culture – A Remix

It’s all so difficult.

Diamonds weigh on your ears,

ears incapable of comprehending criticism,

too busy listening to the yelping of yes men,

and the jingle jangle of the diamonds you wear on your wrist,

that are often caught in your long, blonde hair,

when you are monologuing with your hands,

about all the roads you walked,

when they were just dirt on the ground,

how you fashioned them into fast paced, speeding highways with your Gucci shoes,

for the ungrateful girls to skip down.

It’s all just so difficult.

Pouring over an iPad,

with a glass of wine,

on silk sheets,

four AM,

because you don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow,

so you pour over an iPad,

looking for dissenting voices,

little cracks in the cloud of adoration you sleep on,

crying about context,

aching over your own inability to be articulate,

when confronted with the subjects you say you’ve sung about a hundred times.

It’s all just so sad and difficult.

You scroll past the hearts of those who will have you,

roll your eyes at the heart eyed enthusiasm from those that adore you,

and you latch on,

like a newborn and her mother’s breast,

to the milk of your ego,

though it will never help you grow.

You latch onto your rappers, and what they mean for who YOU are,

your flowery verses, about how people had to suffer so that you could FINALLY see their pain.

You’re always hungry,

because you never drink anything good,

and you never get to grow,

and it’s all so sad, difficult, predictable.

You’ve never said THAT word,

hard R or nah,

but some see it in your spirit,

and you can’t see why,

because the idea of being asked to address your shit,

or accept your privilege,

is more offensive to you,

than the pain of brown girls and black girls having to see themselves dismissed,

again,

because a white woman is upset,

and that’s their problem now,

because they’re angry,

and they’re mean,

and it’s not YOUR fault,

because you’re so fragile and gentle,

confronted by these MONSTERS…

This is an old story.

It is a story that never ends well.

It is the kind of story with a lesson that nobody pays attention to.

You look into the mirror,

never seeing what they see,

because you have a diverse circle of friends all around you, like a flower crown,

you have hopes for the future painted on each fingernail,

you have rappers in your bed,

and eyes that don’t see colour,

eyes that never meant to watch pain unfold,

eyes that never meant to be the cause,

and a mouth that can’t slow down,

rushing out defences,

deflections,

because an apology is not waiting at the bottom of that wine glass.

It’s all so difficult.