Writing

Pink Carnations

Not a single call, note or text
Just a missing set of keys
Gone at a quarter past 12
When you thought I wouldn’t see

It became a frequent occurrence
For you to disappear,
Vanish without a goodbye
Into the cold night air

Where would you go,
To the shop, or the pub? And then
I realised you were cheating, darling
You just couldn’t cover it up

Around 5 you’d come back
Believing I was asleep
Slinking under the covers
Before the alarm started to beep

It was driving me insane
The daily distance in your eyes
Love gone, and purely absent
Replaced with tired, empty sighs

You thought you were clever
But I found out her name
If only you were smarter
Honey, you’re not, what a shame

Now the wondering is gone
And I can sleep without pretending
I feel relief now, my love
The constant stress finally ending

It’s much better now that
I always know your location
Since I buried you next to her
Right underneath our pink carnations

From: Creative Writing

Writing

New Story: A Change of City

New bit of flash fiction added to the site today! Inspired by my favourite band’s song A Change of Heart, it’s a small piece about being in the very moment of a break-up.

I could see the desperation in her eyes but her lips remained sealed. Her expression revealed everything, but she would never admit it. She would never admit when she was hurt, when I was hurting her.

Minutes dragged by as I watched her hold in tears. “Is there someone else?” Her sweet anger made me smile internally, and I was careful not to show it on my face.

“There is always someone else,” I explained, unsure how….[read more]

University, Writing

Just Do It

Hello!

Well, look who it is. Yes, it’s me. The one who calls herself a blogger and never writes a blog post! Hilarious.

I’ve been doing my Masters degree at the University of Leeds for about 6 weeks now, and yesterday I submitted my first assignment. Scary stuff, right. I haven’t submitted an essay for critical marking and judgement for well over two years and getting back the results will prove whether my brain is actually good enough to be on this course.

Yesterday was a good day in that we had a guest lecturer in the form of a well-established writer come in to speak to us. I walked out of that session feeling totally inspired, and that’s why I have come back to the blog. I have a lot to say, but my biggest problem is actually sitting down to say it. It’s a bad habit of mine to just dream up millions of ideas and never get them down, so that they might drift off into the ether, never to return.

A main point that I took away from that session was that you just have to do it. An idea comes into your head, write it. You want to share some work, post it online. You just have to get on and do it. That’s something that I’ve struggled with, especially lately because I’ve been so distracted. Now though, it’s the time to get my arse in gear because my writing career isn’t going to happen by itself. Keep your eyes peeled for a more active blog. She says.

 

Life Experience, Writing

Only Me: Part 6

I have found beauty in time and feel like I have more, now that I’m not spending every possible second with you, craving your attention, dying for you to want to be with me. I was always ready for you, always available and because of that I wasted my moments.

Mindlessly wasting away in front of two television screens was not my idea of a happy ending, and I am glad that is over. I am glad I am free. I can do what I please, when I want to do it and it makes me really happy to think I don’t have to care about you anymore. I am caring only about me.

Life Experience, Writing

Only Me: Part 5

It’s sad really, that you needed to leave.

It’s sad that your heart wasn’t strong enough to stay, that you didn’t have the willpower to fix things, or to open up space in your heart to fit me.

It’s sad that you have felt this for a long time, that you pretended all was well.

It’s sad that you have led a lie for the last few months.

It’s sad that you were not brave enough to face your feelings when you first saw them. It’s sad that you waited for the ‘perfect moment’, as though I was just a pawn in your game.

It’s sad that you think in logistics, not emotions.

It’s sad that you don’t hurt, when you have caused pain to the person you have claimed you care about the most.

It’s sad that your reasons were ‘in my best interests’ and it’s sad that you don’t realise how much better you have made my life since you left.

 

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Life Experience, Writing

Only Me: Part 4

I was really shocked when you left. Devastated, in fact. I cried for hours. I was sick and unwell.

My heart bled and my chest had caved in. I have a hole in my heart, where you used to be. But I have been patching the edges of the hole back together, and now there is no room for you anymore.

My heart is for me and the people around me; my family and my friends have my heart. Your piece is grey and dry and crumbles beneath your touch.

You are not really anything to me now, other than a back hole that I have almost finished fixing.

 

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Life Experience, Writing

Only Me: Part 3

We had hit a routine.

We did the same thing every day for the last year, I think.

You are not adventurous, but I am. I long to see new things, to learn more about the world, but you find it comforting to know that in this day and age you have no need to go outside.

You don’t care for the world like I do and that is why I am so glad you left and gave me back my life and

My dreams.

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Life Experience, Writing

Only Me: Part 2

It takes a long time to heal, a long time to get over something so heartbreaking, something so carelessly painful. It takes a long time to realise you don’t love them anymore, or need them.

I will grieve for as long as it takes, but know that I am on the road to recovery.

I am not weak, I am just fallen, but I will soon stand tall again.

 

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Life Experience, Writing

Only Me: Part 1

To think you were my life for more than two years and now you are not…

But I don’t feel…

I cried when you left and I did not stop for 48 hours

And then I realised
That I am strong.

I don’t need someone like you to justify me
I don’t need you.

I will miss you, your humour, your face, your warmth.

But I will not cry for you again.

Because I am strong.
And I don’t need you.

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Misc., Writing

What it’s like having many things to write…

It is wearing a ball gown while wading through the thickest waist-high mud for miles and miles

Needing to light a hundred feet tall candle with one little match and no ladder

A thousand bees inside a small, metal box with one coin-sized hole

Seeing the finish line before the starting gun goes off

Trying a particular lipstick and it changing into another shade by midday

Sticky notes that keep falling off the wall and disappearing between the floorboards

Your dad’s heavy denim jacket that you will never grow into

Turning the volume up as high as it will go and still straining to hear the music

Eating until you are full and still feeling like you are starving

Waiting for the knock on the door when you’re sitting in a meadow

It is reaching the other side of the bridge before you have set one foot on it to cross.

I always want to write, every minute of every day, and I always have ideas in my head. Ideas that might be big, and they might last for no longer than two seconds. They’re all still there, and they’re all very loud and blinding.

When they are small, it’s hard to justify the effort to put them onto paper.

And when they are big stories that are bouncing around in my head, that are so complicated, I would need to sit in silence for a week to even grasp them with both hands.

Sometimes there is no motivation to write anything, fictional or otherwise. Sometimes this site goes neglected and unloved for weeks at a time. And sometimes I can’t stop. Sometimes it’s unhealthy when I stay awake until the small hours, scribbling by lamplight.

All to often, the desire to write plagues me but my body refuses. Together, we make the decision not to pick up the pen and notebook. We can’t even use an app on the tablet. But the stories are there. The characters are screaming at me inside my head to let them out, but I can’t always release them.

I have never finished a project. Starting to write so young meant that my language was soft and poor. Looking at it now makes me cringe and I could never submit that anywhere, so it is added to the pile. I’m sure that pile is taller than me by now.

There is a colourful rush that comes with writing and a relief, as though eliminating a headache and making room in my head. I’ll never stop, no matter who comes along and degrades my work, because I write for me and no one else.