Creative Writing

Fleeting Affinity


The moon was a fingernail

The sky, a satin, sapphire sheet

Stars were eyes, softly shimmering

She looked away.

His heart skipped

A beat


The traffic played a melody

The litter, a lively lily pond

Trees were fingertips gently teasing

He leant forward.

Her heart formed

A bond


The wind whispered words of warning,

Flowers were fleeting thoughts of doubt.

Mice scuttled a reprimanding message.

‘Slow down’ the road signs flashed out


Park railings soon became a prison

The bench, a bed of blame

Streetlamps illuminated their flaws

They turned apart.

Their hearts swallowed

The pain

Depth of matter

It doesn’t matter does it?

If my feet are tired and I can no longer dance

It couldn’t matter, could it?

That we no longer waltz together on the moors whilst the moon yawns down upon us

It wouldn’t matter, would it?

If my bones are pressed deep into the dirt at the foot of your bed, cold and damp in August

It shouldn’t matter, should it?

That we lost our souls that day the rain came, when we buried each other up to our necks in lust

It didn’t matter, did it?

It never did

An end

It ends,

Not when you or I say

it does

It just ends

From the very start

there was no control

We tumbled into being

A landslide of aftermath

Propelled by others actions

A lack of self control

Squashed together

Like rotten pears in a crate

Rattling along

the bumpy road of fate

We didn’t plan a future

Just as we won’t prepare for the end

One day it will halt

Grind to a standstill

And suddenly we’ll notice

It’s all so






To be a real writer

A real writer bleeds onto the page.

That’s what they said.

A real writer forces jagged fingernails into their chest and tears out their bloody heart still beating so the page can be splattered in crimson glory. To take that ugly bleeding heart and smear it across the pristine sheet until words are formed from the blotting patches of blood. Swirling in the mind of the fevered artist and covered thick with their lifeblood.. their entire soul .

Only when you have given yourself over to the desire, to the need, to the pain can you fully understand the expectations of one so wretched. Hoping that one day these smears and blotches will mean something. Wishing that one day someone will come along with eyes filled with wonder, lift the piece and exclaim in awe. To gush at the richness of the imagery, gasp at the raw emotion on show and most of all understand how hard it is for one so private to allow a heart out of its cage, enough to scar a notepad with such force.

Only then shall I feel like a writer.

Chasing pieces of me

It is entirely too much

to keep up with all of me

All of the time

It’s apparent that somewhere

Along the twisted lines

Of facades, personalities

Alternate appearances

Somehow I have come adrift

My connections worn free

Where once appeared a fluid

but singular form

Now houses a choir of voices

A crowd of faces-filtered

Over surface and manner

In place of a rollercoaster of thoughts

The jumble of a mystery bag

Feelings that would pop at random

Currently sliced in parts

Each sliver of me

Claiming a name

Shouting in secular voice

Grasping an entire being

For its own

A shard of emotion enlarged

Forged into a solitary being

All calling out at once

Wriggling from my grasp

And leaving me lost

An empty vessel

hollowed of being

Desperately chasing pieces of me

Attempting to be whole again

A Morning Broken

Shivering in thin cotton sheets
The morning breaks into a thousand shards
Glimmers of the moments past
Those stuck in the now
And reflections of what will be
All swim to the surface
Intermingling with hope
Of a better day
It sings under foot
Allowing the birds to warble out its theme tune
Another song of the sparrow going unnoticed
By the ears of passers-by
And you all alone sleeping
As the world collapses around her

The Dance

Back to this incessant dance.
The gentle to and fro of being,
Following steps unknown
With feet unwilling
Trying to keep up
With the ever changing beat

One day the dance is wild
The next day, slow
And demure

Following an erratic composer
Into the ether
It’s exhausting

A year ago today

I was introduced to the idea of actually sharing some writing online … oh the horror!

Was my initial thought yet one year later I am glad I did ..

Everyone needs a hobby/ lifestyle/ workplace/ crazy outlet/ creative space/ storage for all the baggage place eh 😀