Wednesday, 29 November 2017

carousel poem

It's not the first night,
No it's not the first time, It's been this way before
waiting, steadily humming, the white walled suffocation,
the reality, it waits, behind the black panelled, golden handled door.
The pipes are laughing behind the plaster,
but not in a friendly way
and the black windows remain still, eyes that died a while ago
gaze miserably out to the street.
Solitary madness, a carousel of colour
but the gramophone is silent, and eerily the horses go round
much to the displeasure of the only person watching
alone in the non existent crowd, waiting for a turn that never comes
round and round the colours blur,
but no music plays from that old gramophone,
well, who ever rides a carousel when they're on their own?

Tuesday, 3 October 2017

Poem 03/10

Oh thank God for that!
Crisp skin broken on a juicy red apple.
Sweetest tang, slightest pain
juices rolling down flecked flesh
shadows on every alcove
in this darkened room
heady, and heated
open a window.
Now the glistening mass of shadow on the bed
is sated no end, and a juicy apple sits shining red

Wednesday, 16 August 2017



I walked past you the other day,
I don't think you recognised me
 it's been a year, so much has changed
but in that moment I missed you once again
ruined by noise and an over used ashtray
I bought black bed sheets, to remind me of you
sitting here another night, the truth is heavier still
you are a lifetime ago now,
I wanted to touch that door, tap on that window
sit there for just one more minute,
so you would know, I think about you all too often
when I come into this place, and I sit here alone
I think about you, while my eyes are closed
and I'm home.

Tuesday, 18 July 2017

Poem. Burning skin

The rooms chilled, from the open windows,
and it licks her burning skin.
In this cell, removed from the constricting identity
of her primary life.
She harbours another, a faraway wish,
Don't come in here, to this obscure place
no one belongs but the girl with burning skin
hidden away in a Sin.
and I watch from the doorway
toes on the threshold
for I am not her, geminate dreams
We are separate, in two
for while I stand on the threshold
she is in there, thinking about You.

Sunday, 25 June 2017

Standing Down

I made a decision recently to step down from my higher position at work.
It was a long time coming, I've felt from the beginning that the whole leadership thing wasn't for me. I spent just under a year working extremely hard to rise higher, hearing wonderful things about myself from others and being liked by, I think, everybody. Then after getting promoted I spent eleven months trying to be someone I'm not. You can't do these jobs and stay the same. You can't excel in business and be the person you want to. I thought I could adapt and change but it took months of being unhappy for me to realise I actually like who I am. No titles, no honours, just being me.

I know now what my qualities are, because people tell me all the time:
I'm funny.
I make others feel good about themselves
I'm honest to the point it makes people re-consider their own opinions and actions
I'm a good time.
and I turn the ordinary into something special

None of these things rate very highly on the authority, leadership, responsibility role I thought I wanted.

I have to admit, my heart was never really in this. How could it be? I paint, I write, I create.
I wanted the position for the wrong reasons. I kept looking at myself through others eyes, thinking I needed to improve. I thought I needed to be in a position of importance, to impress my friends? Jones? To feel like my degree was worth a penny? To feel like Jones saw me as slightly more impressive because I was closer to his level. - Feminist of the year award just sailed on by flipping me the bird.

Yeah it definitely took me a while to figure out, the only person I should have been thinking about, was myself. What I want, and what I see when I look in the mirror. For months I've seen a shadow of my former self, someone who's gone back to a quiet lonely shell, stressed and conflicted all the time. I had to step away from it. It wasn't for me.

Turns out, Jones was so supportive I was thrown off balance, I expected disappointment and there was none. Christine thinks I ought to give Jones more credit, she said I could be a slum kitchen dish washer and he'd still be happy with me. I don't know what my sisters in law saw in Jones when they first caught him looking at me, I don't know what they see now four years later, but it's a million miles away from where I am looking. To hear other people talk, I must be blind in comparison.

Christine thinks whatever I do, wherever I go, Jones will be one step beside me. Why do I doubt this whenever I make a difficult decision? It's as if to some of the outsiders looking in, Jones' is a concrete pillar unmovable, and strong in my life. But all I keep thinking is: Hurricanes and Earthquakes bring down bridges and buildings like flour in the wind every couple of years. The twelve year old who's often in the back of my mind pipes up asking how I grew to be such a cynic.

Well, that's that. I guess the point of this post was that even if you rise through the ranks, even if it's what everybody expects, there's no shame in admitting that you'd rather be yourself and be poorer and happy than change yourself to suit others and feel like a stranger. Even if you went to Uni, and have 3 years of debt built behind you, it's not a failure to decide you don't give a shit about growing a massive successful career. A job's a job and it's better than standing in line at the dole office. Wanting a family and running a home doesn't make you less of a feminist than those who work all hours rubbing shoulders with the big men in suits. To hell with expectations, and impressing anybody else. The only one who matters is me. and I like being me.

Thursday, 22 June 2017

Wait. poem

Take a breath and a years gone by
Hold onto sleep a few seconds more
leave behind a hundred thoughts.
Impatience is rattling at the window
and each day is a hurricane of ignorance
wait, the whispers say, wait and wait longer.
Shifting beneath the sheets, in the humidity
waiting for the spill. Torment to the soul
the body's choice, natures will
wait, the whisperers whisper again, wait wait wait.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

Hope Poem

London Bridge is falling down
and still the world keeps spinning round
as terror fills the hearts of average man
we walk amongst strangers on our own land
In a world where you hold your phone,
not each other. Where you update instead of talk.
Here we stand in the rumble and ruins
of what was once a miracle.
The life we pass onto our young
tainted by years of war
and yet some joy still remains
hidden in the cracks of Hope
Hope for a future we'll all lay down our arms
when we wont shout and scream that the other is wrong
What if we each saw the other side?
What if when we die, I ended up in your heaven,
and you ended up in mine?
What if one day we're all that's left
stood together on the edge of death
nothing more in common than the Earth that we shared
and fought each other for, until the bitter end?
Or a world changed- because we suddenly realised
that everything would be better,
if we stood side by side.

Tuesday, 23 May 2017

Private posts

Sometimes I write blog posts, and then don't publish them straight away.
I click save, thankful just to get those thoughts down somewhere.
Some things are too raw, too personal for immediate attention from whoever reads these posts, whoever you may be.
I like to think I am safe here, safe from judgement. Although I don't write anything nasty, or controversial, or about others without changing names and places - I do think what I write here is very real to me. I give out a little of my mind and soul each time, quite careless as to who ends up reading it.
and yet...sometimes I am not ready to share everything, some things are just for me for a little while.

Saturday, 20 May 2017

Missing Connie again. poem

Missing Connie again today
while I search to find my way back home
The Tower is nothing like I thought it would be
and how much I wish I'd been wrong.
But the road I hoped to follow
eludes me even now
the breadcrumbs have all gone
that a year ago I left out
Home is just another childish dream
hidden now under a lost plant pot
and Connie is no where to be seen

Friday, 19 May 2017

The Darkest Corner . poem

Into the darkest corner
Is where my heart goes
Like a child in a blanket
hidden beneath the shadows.
Some things I don't tell anyone,
kept strictly inside myself
and in this place, I retreat
to find my lost self,
and forgotten promises, I made to me
a long time ago
when all my dreams were of trains and roads,
How little I used to know.

Thursday, 13 April 2017

Connie. The Tower

I've known since the first moment we shut ourselves in, and I knew we were committed, that The Tower wasn't right for me. I didn't pack. I laughed a lot. Carelessly threw a few things in a couple of bin-liners as if I'd be back in a week. Those who knew me best said I was in denial, maybe I was. I guess when your gut tells you something, you ought to believe yourself not just blame excitement or nerves. I couldn't see it. I couldn't see myself planting crops out there, nor entertaining in those rooms, or writing anywhere. I can't see them, growing in this house.

If someone asked me what's wrong with it, I could list off a few things, but really, it's not something I can pinpoint. I can only say...this isn't Connie, and I have tried so very hard to make it so, in my head and my heart but I can't. It's not here. This isn't where I should be. I think a part of me has seen into the future, seen what's to come and I know how it should feel.

I don't miss everything about Connie, I don't miss my four walls of childhood.

I just miss the feeling of coming home.

I haven't come home since August.

Everything will change again September this year. Everything always restarts in September. I have no intention of still being here by then. I'll cut my path back to Connie, I'll make sure it works out. Jones will be with me, he's always on my side where it counts. At least that's the one constant thing in my life. Here it's an oubliette but Jones never forgets me.

Connie poem April

Have I left my notebook with you Connie?
Did I leave behind the story?
I can't find my way to write the rest
I've lost something along this way.
Did you laugh when I turned my back from you?
Did you know I'd left a box behind?
When did you look up and miss me?
Is it my heart or my soul I can't find?
I found my church in you,
but lost my faith up here.
When we move along to somewhere new
I'll walk through a hundred doors...
I'm still looking for you.

Poem. 12

The walls of the tower are all chalky white,
the doors are white too
A blank canvas, no one has bothered to paint
Feels like an oubliette, a place where things are forgotten
So often, that's how it feels: Forgotten.

Blue wisps outside illuminate a potential path back
but a dead end is all they lead to.
A back window frames a slightly overgrown lie
misguided image of something that this is not.

I can't see them here,
no adventures out in that green
no Christmas steps on those stairs
that's all the proof I need- when it's wrong it's wrong.

Is it death? That stains this crisp clean place?
I don't think so...there's too much Alone, to be haunted.
A presence would be welcome, if they stayed for tea.
It's just an emptiness, that's all
.Emptiness filled by other peoples noise.
My own drowned out.
Is this why I can't write? Did I leave my ability with Connie?

Wednesday, 5 April 2017

Decisions, Decisions

Ever since I achieved what should have been a great accomplishment I've felt as if I signed myself away into a series of bad experiences. Like looking forward to a movie for over a year because the Trailer looked ace, and then the movie is a shambles.

 I'm drained and my positivity is ebbing away bit by broken bit.

If I'd known then, what I know now...I think I would not have bothered applying. That said, maybe I really should hand it back. Can I get away with that? Hi Guys, I don't want this anymore, it's pants, can I be downgraded back to six months ago? Thanks!

The once bubbly atmosphere in the place has deteriorated I think, the family feel has died, and now I'm sat here thinking...I'm no good at this superior position. It's maybe not for me after all. I gave it a good go. I've certainly put in 100% effort and I've really tried, tried coming at this challenge from all angles, but none of it seems to have worked. Every week I feel a little more of myself fade away and now that people are noticing, I can't ignore that I am not my bubbly happy self. I'm not happy for eight hours a day.

Five months now I've been doing this, it's gone by fast but doesn't time always do that? Every week I tell myself, this week all will go smoothly and everything will be fine, but then something happens and it's not fine. I wish my old supervisor was around so I could ask her advice, I feel sure she'd have something to contribute to my thought process.

I miss my old routine, because I now feel like I've just gotten to that point where I'm really good at my OLD job. I've nailed it down to a T and I miss doing it. I really need to make a decision on this, I need a glimpse of the next 6 months to help me decide what I'm going to do.

If there was an outer world being - they would offer some guidance right about now. In the form of a dream or premonition or anything! Send me a sign. What shall I do? I'm getting really fed up of asking this question.

Sunday, 26 March 2017

Dreading tomorrow

I'm dreading the morning. Lately I can't seem to do anything right, ten tasks-completed= one-not good enough. The atmosphere has really dropped too, a dark and boring cloud has descended making every day a bit harder. It's very much like living in Ground Hog day- too often it's a miserable day rather than a good one. I can't shake off these headaches, or this constant fatigue. I can't focus on the weekends and doing fun days out because Jones works every weekend now.

There's so much back handed information and two faced comments there that you dare not speak out to anybody about how you feel, risking it being twisted and repeated. I feel quite isolated now. I used to fairly enjoy my days as much as one can you know, but now it's just getting harder to find motivation, when everything seems to be a challenge with no reward, every task is endless and repetitive.

I have been thinking about my handmade craft products a lot, I keep thinking how much I really need to make this work. If I don't give it a really good go, I'll never forgive myself. I need to prove to myself either way whether it will be a success or not. If I could make just half what I earn now I'd feel like I was the most successful woman in the world. I really need to keep pushing on, I'm just finding it really difficult.

Saturday, 18 March 2017

Professor Higgins

I've made a new friend over the last several months, who today I've finally found a pseudo|nym for: Professor Higgins.

Pro Higgins has become my Life-Coach, Fashion-guide, Relationship-Guru and all round- new best friend.

I find myself confessing day to day occurrences within the 'circle of trust' like they're weather reports on the BBC. My most sincerest hopes, my most frustrating problems and challenges, work-related and personal life combined, are shared out into the circle. Then Pro Higgins listens like the Shrink I always wanted and couldn't afford, and proceeds to advise like a Life-Coach/Guardian Angel put in this place in time to guide me through this point in my life.

I am at a point in my life when a lot is changing and a lot is happening with ME.
Getting Promoted at work
Leaving my childhood Home
Living full time with Mr Jones
Planning the future with Mr Jones
....To put it simply...Growing up has finally kicked in.

Pro Higgins has saved my sanity, my job and my relationship from burn out a few times because living with someone you love this much is hard, and getting used to each others good and bad habits under one roof is a challenge. Handling a position of responsibility at work is a difficult balance to maintain, and every day to day experience thrown in just messes up the mix even more.

Pro Higgins is brutally honest, exceptionally Fun, and has a wealth of knowledge about people, especially what men want and don't want, and what works and does not work in a marriage. Even raising a family. I get a whole new perspective on every situation now and I find myself absorbing this information and letting it improve me as a person- hence, Professor Higgins who based on the Pygmalion Story, improves Eliza Dolittle beyond recognition.

Whether it's the manner I regard others with, the image I put out, how to handle obstacles or face challenges, Pro Higgins is my guide now and always hand in hand with a lot of laughter I can wind down my mind from work and approach my personal life in a sweeter mood. Obviously Guardian Angels don't walk the same path as their charge forever, and at some point, time will change and I will have to move on and walk alone, and this will all be another experience to log in the Long Term memory Library. Pro Higgins will be another person who has helped shape the woman I am going to be throughout my existence.

And when I think of the people I will meet in Heaven who have helped shape and change my life - I will list Pro Higgins as one of them. Guardian Angel for the transition into Adult-Hood.

Saturday, 11 March 2017

Poem 2

The tower is on lock down
and Connie cannot get in
for whatever reason they see fit
the truth is kept within
Sometime soon we'll reunite
just hold on a little while longer
Connie, my future is with you
Together our forces grow stronger

Friday, 10 March 2017

Digbeth Dining Club

Crimson lights burning long into the night
a crowded bar, and over priced
and yet here in this backstreet world
we together found ourselves.

Tucked under a canopy in the rain
Dishing out absurd, fake names
or stood beneath the baking sun
while grills spice the air
and you buy me white rum

Out of the snow, into the warmth
we've sat on leather sofas for hours on end
or crammed into a party, jazz in the air
can't find a seat, but we'll just stand there.

Business men, and tracksuits
Young and old
Sometimes my best dress,
sometimes just superman clothes.
For the entire night, or just passing by
so many memories, so many times.

Whether it's blistering heat or pouring rain
When we're not there, Fridays just aren't the same
If we could go anywhere, I'd still rather be stood
out there with you, at Digbeth Dining Club

Poem 1

I can't count the hours, for there are too many
Nor measure the distance, which is too far
I listen to the silence, that echoes around me
and sit here thinking about where you are.

Into the night I travel alone
dreaming visions I can't tell right from wrong
Searching always for a home
lost again, like when I was young

Thursday, 9 March 2017


I can't seem to relax. I dreamt last night that I was attacked and blinded. Black ink spread across my eyes until I couldn't see anything, and they took my dad away. At this point I couldn't see anything, I just felt my mothers hands on my arms trying to calm me down while I was screaming for someone to find my dad. I woke up at 4am feeling sick and exhausted. I can never settle after a nightmare, and this one was particularly bad. And now I've got several nights of sleeping alone while Jones works late shifts.

The wind is too high up here on this hill, having the window open sounds like the worlds crashing down outside so I shut it again annoyed.

I'm always annoyed lately. I'm so sick of these white walls too-making me feel like I'm going crazy, colourless, lifeless, without personality.

Is it any wonder I can't write anything worthwhile?

Tuesday, 28 February 2017

Writers Block ongoing

I currently have three unfinished, half written books. I can't seem to get on with any of them. I'm at a loss where they go, what happens next. If I can't tell stories, I go a little crazy. I feel like I turn into a shadow of myself, a misty, insubstantial, moody phantom.

I can't write, I can't think straight. I have being stuck here, unable to get where I need to be.
I will never forgive the destruction of my pond. Nobody appreciated what that spot meant to me, to my writing. I'm yet to find anywhere that inspired me the same way.

Yourself Poem

You're sitting on the windowsill,
rain on the other side
around 2009
Ink spilt everywhere, on those thin bedsheets
crumpled paper-the only carpet
I call out but you don't hear me over the music
southern comfort warming the cold walls
I reach out but my hand's stopped by Time
I see you, in your tracksuit
I hammer on the wall- you don't turn to see me
but I can feel it all
so desperate, so alone-waiting for someone
I want so badly to tell you,
I scream and scream your name
Time's taken this chance away
only a memory remains-
the fragments left behind
are fading between the lines
You keep staring out that window
waiting, waiting, waiting
Sitting in that tracksuit-which you don't wear anymore
I try so hard to tell you,
It's yourself, who you need to look for.

A voice hits the back of my head
while I'm sitting on the window
someone is coming for me,
to take me home
I scribble every thought, write down my all
The rain comes splattering down,
another day off school
I hear a hammering on the wall
just the pipes I suppose
Dreaming of a runaway line
someone to take me away
Just a few more years
not long to go
I'll just keep on waiting,
everything will be fine, when you find me.

Average Joe

Teachers gave us dreams
fed us ideas, falsehoods
about adulthood
expectations, preconceptions
none of it achievable for the average Joe.
Council estates, the unemployment line
working for pittance, to avoid the shame
Head held high, when the sirens come around
this is our lot, we'll stand our ground
Media slating the youth out there
Fuck you, what do you know?
Why would you care?

when you were young poem

It doesn't make sense
nothing at all
the way we all- seem to fall
when the building blocks they taught us to build
come tumbling down,
all around- it's just a mess

No matter what
some things, are just
the way you never thought they'd be
once when you were young
never again, will you be so conned
those building blocks can't build a home
and nothings the same as the way you thought
back when you were young.

Saturday, 25 February 2017

Just venting as usual

I don't know what's wrong with me, I can't write my book, I can't sketch. I am literally at a loss.
I'm just not myself anymore, this whole thing is not me.
Not this place, not this job, not any of it.

I don't know what I am expecting to happen, but I know it hasn't happened yet.

A few years ago I was certain about so many things, I was prepared to be patient because I knew I was heading somewhere. Now...well so much has changed and now I'm not sure of anything anymore.

Not sure of my career, not my relationship, not sure of my life. When did everything give me a headache? When did I become impossible to please? None of this is good enough because I am not where I want to be, I'm not doing what I want to do, this is not who I am.

I thought this would all turn out one way, and it hasn't. I thought this arrangement would be much different to how it is. I'm actually thinking more and more about just getting the hell out of here and hightailing it away. I haven't thought about running anyway from anything for a long time, the fact I now have one imaginary hand on the door is just proof that I am not 100% in this.

If I could rewind time back a few years, I couldn't really say what I would do differently, maybe I'd just tell myself to have more confidence and take the risk to do what I want. Maybe it would have worked out. I didn't have any responsibilities to worry about back then...I really wish I could give myself that advice. -always thinking about that time machine.

Technology poem

No milkman to collect a recycled glass bottle,
No freshly baked bread, from the bakers counter
a supermarket bought out his stock of flour,
and now the butcher struggles on, closed for most of the week
those buy one get one free's...good quality can't compete.
Nobody serves me, when I want to buy something,
and no arguing for directions, or getting lost together
an automatic voice, now tells us left or right.
Friends don't see each other,
but their phones don't stop bleeping
You 'like' everything about me, but don't remember my name
I hate everything about you, but online -we're best mates
The ticket officer at the train station, is awfully quiet these days
his uniform is a grey box, his voice a bleeping noise
The Receptionist at the doctors, is never there anymore
I press a screen to 'check myself in'
no need for honest jobs anymore,
when a machine is just as good.
Can't keep up with the technology
when it feels like we're losing humanity
machinery taking our roles, changing lives
keep on extending that unemployment line
I back into a corner, reaching for a previous time
but even this, in all my despair will go straight online.
How else do we connect now? Will our children know any better?
when our brains have shut down, and we depend on a computer.

Smog over Birmingham

Smog over Birmingham
You can see it from up here
We sit on the edge of the city
we're not Americans.
This is the original- not just a second hand name
we lie amongst the dead workers,
the factories now mostly closed
we built this land up from the ground
and stained the blue sky permanently grey
here in this city, where we built a life
here in this city, we worked to the bone
to give you, our ancestors, a working class home.

Wet Weekend Poem

It rains all the time,
and we sit in our white walled houses
staring out at the grey.
We put broken umbrellas to rest like the dead
we're used to washing lines getting wet
naked trees line the landscape
and the kettle boils- for the seventh time
We sip our steaming mugs counting the hours go by
Kids restless underfoot- Can't play outside
Once it stops, will take days before the ground dries out
skies will rain again before then.
So we sit in our central heated homes,
Nothing new you know,
dreaming of a sandy beach
a sun that takes forever to set
Warmth, light- far out of reach
Too scared to move away, too poor to even save
so we just pretend
whilst we sit inside, another wet Weekend

Wednesday, 22 February 2017


I dyed my hair red again,
it didn't change anything
I guess I didn't really think it would
but worth a try I say.
I'm counting again, like you know I do
September is so far away
We have the Summer to get through
before we run or stay.

Cracks in the Paint Poem

Tremors under the surface
cracks in the paint
white walls are flaking,
It's not too late
You went running once before
said it was to lose weight
you never came home
where have you gone Grace?
The wind howls up here
like a murdered soul out in the night
across the muddy way
where no one sets the plant pot right
where no children play.

Friday, 17 February 2017

Grace poem


Did I not forward you my new address?
Did I leave without a word?
Because for months you've not found me out?
I wonder if you know where I am.
In this life, surrounded by such uncertainty
like a cancer, waiting dormant
never sure if it is me.
I write to you, like my oldest friend
wait for you to lead me back
where we came from, no not there.
Where we were going,
which we too often forget.
We were going somewhere Grace,
you and I, we mapped out a course
in a street light sky
When did everything start to feel so hard
shouldn't we have been there now?
Have we really come this far?
I've not forgotten you, though it seems that way
this life I have, it's taken me away
but I'm still here, on the windowsill
Fifteen years old, waiting still.

Reality Poem

The Fault in our natures,
a drawer full of dreams,
plans and expectations they build in our Teens
for what reason -all these lies
do they now try to hide
we've been conned and led astray
by the untruth of youth
and the reality of age.

Unable to pretend for long
the fa├žade will soon dissolve
ripples in a river, lost to the current
of everlasting certainty,
for here in this moment
we accept responsibility -this is our own fault.

Once Again. Poem

And once again, here we are
on the edge of something ordinary and sad
sentimental and therefore ignored
just hormones, just the way it is
Once again, we carry on
Another nights sleep.

Once again, same old
get used to it they say,
if they say anything at all.
No road map printed for this
Only a one way ticket,
cash it in the whole way or walk back
I'll start walking I think.

Tuesday, 14 February 2017

Valentines poem for Amy-friend

There's love that's stronger than a Clintons card
Memories better than over-prices.
On Valentines I prefer to remember
Our Friendship for a lifetime.
One day when we're married
to two old rich guys- with a private plane
and plotting the death of our spouses
We'll look back at these days...
because even though we move apart
We stay in each others hearts
When Valentines is at an end
there's no love, like the love between best friends.

Wednesday, 8 February 2017

Grown up poem

I haven't really written anything in months
Can't seem to open the file or
look too long at this screen
I miss the pond- I miss my wall,
though it's been quite a while
since I lost those things.
I wonder what Clent looks like right now-
daffodils probably.
So often up there before
and now I can't remember the walk.
I miss nineteen, lost as I am
caught up in grown up thoughts
Somewhere along the line
life turned us around
and being all grown up isn't all that fun
everything important just fades to the background.

Sunday, 5 February 2017

Into the Mist poem

Into the mist
here I go again
Walking blindly onwards
Why don't these street lamps light the way?
Did they ever before?
I thought they did-
once when a shooting star
was my motorway wish.
I look from my window
but the night is absolute
The M5 feels miles away now
Forgotten by Junction two
but once there was a child
who we've left in the past
who wished for this
and is now wishing it back.

Saturday, 4 February 2017

Home Alone poem

Turn off the lights
there's no one home
lock all the doors
no one will know
keep closed away
that's well enough
and no one will knock
or know you're alone

Thursday, 26 January 2017

Breadcrumbs 2 poem

Looking for breadcrumbs
stumbling along
get a lot of fog in these parts
Can't see the lights along the road
I wander back and forth,
not sure which way to turn,
so I continue to roam
looking for breadcrumbs
to find my way Home.

Empty rooms poem

So much empty space
between us now
empty rooms, too many thoughts
bouncing off the walls
Somewhere along this way
I've lost myself again
and you can't put me back together
you don't know me so well anymore.
Where am I supposed go?
I'd like to follow you anywhere
but you're never here
I can't find the breadcrumbs home
if you've left any behind
I can't find anything
and I'm losing my mind.

Wednesday, 25 January 2017

Cracks poem

Don't look at me that way,
don't ask me what's wrong
I can't stand to open up
once you see the cracks
you'll know I'm not that person
the one you all like
I'm just a frail individual
struggling through life.