Categories
Poetry.

Obscure

Drowning in the shallows.
Spitting on light beams.
Screaming before looking.
Refusing to switch the light on, scramble in empty darkness.
Repudiate dreams, repulsed by the nightmares that fill their space.
Add petrol to flames, cry when they burn you.
Latch onto airless space, wail when it suffocates you.
Deny your hand is burning, admonish the blister.
Throw stones at the mirror, expect others not to.

Categories
Words.

My sisters presence.

It’s like a warm room.

A welcome light.

A laugh that makes your belly dance around.

It’s like a smell that takes you a million miles away to some place familiar, recognisable, yet new all at the same time.

A cherished friend hugging you. A safety net when you’re drowning in the oceans depths.

The last gulp of coffee on a cold winters commute.

Opening the door after a long day at work. 

Your favourite song coming on in the car.

You and your childhood best friend running through grass bare feet.

A light that fills you and makes you want to shine.

Categories
Poetry. Thoughts Words.

The beauty of your pages.

Peeling through chapters and tearing out pages.

Only to tape them back together and scope out answers.

Tugging at words, sewing them together, editing.

Filing the edges, polishing the cover.

Alone? The exception? Individual?

We are all of the same paper.

Bound together in chapters of varying lengths.

Different fonts, languages, styles.

Paragraphs we would rather not read.

And ones we act out every moment of every day.

To convince our readers that the book is worthwhile.

Stained, blemished, disregarded.

Laying dishevelled in a second hand shop.

Now only read by the ones who could recite a chapter with closed eyes.

Seeing past the grammatical errors,

Beyond the aesthetics, through the hyperbole.

And so a book never dies.

Its’ stories may fade into the background of busied minds and disappear.

But the feeling that book gave to its readers can never be destroyed.

For it lives on.

In the tingling of a chest.

In the dreams of a child’s imagination.

In the changes people are inspired to make.

In the pages of other books.

Where light spreads and flows and never ceases to be.

Categories
Thoughts

The Bully in her mind.

He taunts her and taints her voice. She hates him. But she loves how he fills the gaps that lay bare when he is not there. She loves that he numbs her. That his spluttering retorts confirm her worries. That in some way she is validated by his outbursts. Each quickening of his pulse, each word he spits at her choking himself, chaining himself to his own pain. Is it not better to be seen for something than not be seen at all? He tells her she’s worthless and she must work harder and she must do nothing at all. Do nothing at all. There’s no point. Nothing matters. But doesn’t saying nothing matters imply that believing in hopelessness matters? Is trying to be detached not just clinging to feeling unattached? Weird. She can’t let in happiness because he’s there and he’s being rather loud. And he’s telling her she can’t be happy for she doesn’t deserve it. And she can’t be positive for there is no point. And she mustn’t eat and she must follow his every command and only do as he says or bad things will happen. Very bad things. Her nightmares will come alive and pounce at her. And she will have caused them for simply not having followed his orders. For not having done what he said. For not being chained to him.

And some days the sky shines out of her and he shuts up and other people are let in. With their smiling compliments and their reassurance. But he always comes back. Like an unwanted visitor who overstays their welcome. Like that creepy customer who doesn’t understand social queues. And because she is feeling weakened by his strength she curls up and she follows him again. She regrets every feeling positive. Feeling ashamed for every feeling hopeful. For believing for a split second that she could be enough. She tries shouting at him, retorting, crying, and running away. But he’s so loud now. He knows how to play this game better than she does. He knows he’s louder. He knows her deepest, darkest secrets. Her flaws. He knows how he can push his spiteful words like poisonous daggers into her wounds. And so he does. But this time she lets him. And when he tells her what to do she just hears the words and stops concentrating. She just lets him sit and scream at her. And lets the pain come. She lets it sweep her off her feet and make her question everything she has ever thought to be true. But she has started silencing him. Bit by bit his screams sound less terrifying. More like a lost child wining somewhere in the distance. And sometimes his words are so cruel, that the daggers in her sides make her want to give up, to retract. Or fight. But she doesn’t. Because she knows that he is getting louder before he gives up. For if you let someone roar they eventually must stop. If you stop believing in words they lose their meaning.

No, she has not lost herself. She has seen herself. Fully. More. There is more in ways she couldn’t have imagined. Space. Fields. Sky. Sea. Breath. Behind his words. Behind her words. Always there.

Categories
Poetry.

Waves

Boisterous, Crashing.
Pulsing, raging.
Redefining boundaries.

Remnants of a blanket.
Open crevasses, dents.
Manoeuvres of a clumsy puppeteer.

A thousand tin cans clinking.
Buoys bobbing.
Boats rocking.

Flimsy, delicate silk.
Weightless yet deep.
Gentle yet underestimated.

Permeable stability.

Categories
Uncategorized

Hope

She is trapped in a box. There are chains tied around her ankles. Weighing down the chains she bares is a heavy stone, heavier than she.

The box is filled with water, engulfing her body, soon submerging her head beneath it. She splutters and chokes fighting for air. She pulls the chains as she panics and screams helplessly.

She keeps going until she is truly exhausted and out of air. In her final exasperated breaths she realises that she can lift her head above the water. And that there is a key perched beside her.

 Outside of the box there is space. There is peace. There is hope. It’s familiar. She recognises it. Has she been here before? Has she heard of this place? It feels like home.

It is bright and warm. It welcomes her like a treasured friend, like the scent of a loved one, like the sound of the ocean, like the stillness in a tree.

Sometimes when the floor gets slippery she falls back in the box. And again she cannot breathe. The water penetrates her lungs and she chokes for air.

But not for long. For she knows there is a key beside her and that she has the strength to lift her head above the surface. And that this place is always there, waiting for her return.

Categories
Thoughts

My favourite place.

The car door slams shut. My hands touch the metal gate, lifting it slightly, pushing my way in. The waves are crashing against the rocks, demanding to be heard. Their violent froth threatens to hit me as I stop breathing and take in the mesmeric display before me. Icy droplets dance and play and perform. I feel so grateful my chest opens and I am at one with the ocean. I feel it’s bravery, it’s might, it’s gentleness. I breath it in. It breathes me.

I hear the shells and rocks crunching beneath my feet. The seagulls caw. The waves crash. It’s a symphony of sounds which are so conflicting that it should be overwhelming. And yet. It is soothing. It sounds like home. It sounds like a familiar song that takes me to a special place. It feels safe. It feels welcoming. It seems to not care who I think I am. I am here, now with it and that is all that matters.

I reach the grassy field marked by a lopsided tree which has been tainted by the strong gusts. It is so out of place and yet it belongs. My shoes slip off and I feel the grass tickle my skin. It makes my stomach jitter. I don’t care who I am or what I’m thinking. I am here. Now. I am running through grass up to my shins, my toes squelching in the damp soil. I feel the racing of my heart. I am alive. The cliffs steal my breath from my grasp. I no longer own it. It owns me. I see mountains. Waves. A hundred shades of green smeared upon a hundred shades of blue.

I feel like screaming ‘THANK YOU’ from the top of my lungs. So I do. And I don’t even look behind me to make sure there is no one there. I just scream and laugh and leap. And let go. I am home. I can always come home to this place. Where a million memories live. Where my heart dances. And even though I know it inch by inch. It is never the same. It is always new. It always hears me. It always sees me. It always teaches me a different lesson.

Thank you Reen, for being the most amazing place I know.

Categories
Flash Fiction.

20 Years Stolen by a Single Letter.

She slugs the end of her coffee, cold and brittle settling like silt on her tongue.

She swallows unknowing. Around her there is white clinical walls extending from corner to corner. There is a blemish in their intersection, but she doesn’t notice.

There is a painting, smudged on a canvas. A blur. An insignificant stroke of a brush. No different to that of a couple trying out paint colours for their first shared bedroom. And yet he’s gone.

Her phone buzzes absently in the background, like tinnitus in her ears. So many people vying for her attention like it’s a commodity that can be attained and toyed with. Absent breaths emerge from her in sighs. She doesn’t notice.

His phone was always there. Always the antagonist that disrupted a shared meal, the intruder that demanded to be answered in the most intimate of moments, the contender who stole 20 years of marriage from her, with one text.

‘Harry will you collect the kids tomorrow? Thanks, A.’

White clinical walls surrounded her 20 years earlier too. Branding her as infertile, accusing her of being worthless. Silent car journeys. Unspoken conversations. A rushed marriage to prove he still loved her.

And yet here she sits, barren. Gaping like a wound that never quite heals. Wrapped in a flimsy tourniquet that never feels quite right. That falls off after 20 years leaving a scar exposed in plain sight, for all to see. For all to pry open with pity and ‘thinking of you cards’ and suggestions of single bachelors who never wanted kids anyway.

And ‘A’. Fruitful bearer of his kids. Every hidden notification, every hushed phone call, every text demanding attention.

Avoided conversations. Faked orgasms. Failed IVF.

20 years stolen by a single letter.

Categories
Words.

Writing

Poking. Prodding. Pushing.

Covered by a thick coat. Of voices.

Once the tangible voices of people, people who ingrained their opinions in you. And you hear their voices as your own. No distinction. Yet another piece of you smeared over. Concealed. Wrapped in packaging that people found more acceptable. Less blinding.

And yet you sit. And peel through the layers. Through pain. Through tears. Through self-deprecating laughter.

And it pours from you. In a steady stream of letters.

And you see there is light. In crevasses where paragraphs once lay. And the images you were avoiding are on full display. They cannot be avoided. You can avert your gaze but they will still be visible. You can scream and beg and whimper. But it’s no use.

For the film has been peeled back. And so you set these images free. It is all you can do. You cannot hold them. You cannot fear them any longer. From the deepest hollows and the darkest valleys stories jump onto pages and scramble, and meander. Some join together, some remain single entities. Empowered. Emboldened. Speaking their truth.

You lay vulnerable. Bare. Naked for all to see. For all to scrutinise.

And people are shocked. For the light has forced their packaging open too. But they are not ready to see it.

So they try to push it away. By pushing you away too. You are tempted to get new packaging. And wrap it so tightly around you that the light will never be allowed to shine again. Yet you must let it. For you let the stories go. And they no longer fit into the wide gaping valleys the light has formed.

 So you follow it. Wherever it flows. And let it bore holes in other peoples packaging. So that they too can let it shine.

Categories
Poetry.

The Ominous Clock

I cannot be measured, I cannot be disposed,

I keep all things orderly and composed.

My hands move as each event unravels,

I dictate where life travels.

Worshiped by all of human kind,

I control your wandering mind.

Presence is a concept for the fortunate few,

Without me what would you do?

Worthless and hated you would shrivel away,

And that my dear friend is why I must stay.

Without you I would dance in the suns radiant beams,

Without you I would fulfil my wildest dreams.

Time would crumble and fears would shatter,

All would be, and what is would matter.

Smiles would crease upon worn faces,

Warmth would be felt in tender embraces.

Life would just happen without hesitation,

No need for fear, anger or frustration.

Wrinkled hands, tired eyes.

A chuckle escapes me as I realise.

Time never existed, only in my mind,

Life just happens and is left behind.

Worry is futile and regret is pain,

And worshiping time has made me insane.