Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

I Need To Write Something

I need to write something.

My pen is panicking,

hovering over a wasteland,

watching the minutes move on,

pleading for my attention.

I need to write something.

It’s October,

where I am, at least,

the last time you kissed me,

in your car,

as I thought about the night before,

and the morning,

when I woke up,

with the sun saying “hello” through small cracks in the blinds,

as I buried myself inside your arms.

I need to write something.

I’ll be in awful trouble if I don’t,

(I’m already in awful trouble, anyway,

so a part of me thinks “what’s a little more?”)

I need to write something.

My pen tries to pull me from fantasy,

but as usual,

I ignore the ink,

and do whatever I want,

falling back between my sheets,

dreaming of you,

doing whatever you want.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Capitalism Is a Game, But You’ll Never Truly Win

Dawn is dark,

dirty streets,

dirty air await,

thirty pieces of silver,

on the fishing rod of fate,

daring her to betray herself again.

“Jump from your bed!”

The line smiles and says,

dragging her from dreams,

where she is more than part of a machine.

Last night,

she was at Greenwich Park,

parked on a blanket,

with the boy she liked,

hands tight together.

She kissed him,

just because she could,

until the moon was high,

sky shining with stars,

and they walked home,

to a pleasant, but not extravagant little apartment that they shared.

Dawn was dark,

she recognised it immediately,

bleary bleak morning chased away her dream,

the fishing line,

tapping on her window,

to the same rhythm as her incessant alarm clock,

and she sighed,

staring up at the ceiling for a second

(This was her daily treat to herself),

resigning herself to yet another betrayal.

“I have got to earn my keep.”

She repeats,

line by line, along with the fishing line.

“Sleep and dreams are for the weak.”

Following the glittering coins down the stairs,

still half asleep,

but awake enough to know her place,

she is dressed in darkness,

leaving without breakfast,

to join a collective of clouds,

just as dark as she,

all lead by lines of shining spending money,

that always feels near enough to keep reaching for,

but has never met their hands,

in a meaningful way.

She earns and she shops,

but all she really wants,

is that boy,

the one who lives in her heart,

and the little part of her brain that capitalism hasn’t conquered.

She wants,

and deserves,

so much more from the human experience,

but the world is hard,

and has a one track mind.

Dissent won’t do,


off she goes,

to earn,


and scream into her pillow,

before passing out from the awfulness of it all,

to be with the boy she likes,

for just a little while.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

At Christmas, You Tell The Truth

Alone at my desk,

with an empty frame,

that feels destined to be dressed in a picture of a perfect day.

I write you a letter,

letting out just enough,

so that you’ll know that I care,

but holding back enough,

that you’ll never know how much.

To me, you are perfect,

and my wasted heart will want you,

until it is brave enough to say other words,

that she sings quietly to herself,

as she stares at the empty frame,

imagining me,

melting into you,

our lips,

pressed and passionate,

on a backdrop of some special day,

far in the future,

where I find the words so easily.

Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing


Down by the lake,

I watched the sun rise,

my eyes meeting morning,

as birds break the silence.

You are deep in the water,

reflected back at me,

your soft smile echoes in my eyeline,

my lips ache from longing.

My shoulders are covered,

but they shiver,

for you are the warmth in my heart,

and without you,

I am frozen.