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.

She had a soul but they ate it up


Upon first meeting, she was too much

A whirlwind of pigtails and sugar

Offering her heart with a daisy chain

To the boy who persisted at kiss chase

As flowers turned to love

and tears, and sweat

Her open heart found a home

On a rollercoaster

Where the theme park never closed

And though she sometimes felt nauseous

The stomach flips were too addictive

Grasping each new adventure with a clean slate

Every love a contortion on a clay heart

Until one day the cracks would no longer seal

She could only watch as they left

With dusty hands and fatter souls

Whilst feeling the lightness

In the space it once resided

Her very own