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

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.

980x

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.