These Things I Write

Reflections of a neurotic trainwreck

Days and Nights 

Some days are the first of summer:
Clouds tinged with colour, 
Laughter bubbling out
Like froth kissing the sides of a soda can.
Some days are chaos:
Misery runs to my embrace.
I salt my cuts and eat them raw,
Squeeze my chest to cease the hurt
Or to make it bloom anew.

Some nights are cups of tea
Warm and strong and soothing my fears
Scent of paper holding my eyelids taut
And my hand gliding across a sonnet maze
Raw and scribbling but with that storyteller grace.
Some nights are milk beginning to curdle,
Pounding head and silent heart,
Numb with pain
Sat on the floor behind a wall
-Sneering at fairytale people
And their calligraphic font-
Sour and bitter,
Never to fit in a storybook page,
Too much ugliness that would litter.



Every tether is a shackle.
Though flowery wreaths of golden thread
Or silver glinting in sweltering sun,
It kisses your arm at one end
And licks my throat with its long tongue.
I might try to run away
To the other end of the world,
But my breath will catch as you choke me.
Once I fall and see your glory,
I will be chained to your side.
My days and nights will rise and fall
With the cadence of your cold breath.
My hair will whip around my face
heart pounding, nerves thrumming
As a storm teases at your side.
I will wait with red rimmed eyes
Sleepless when dawn breaks
Wondering where you are,
For it seems your end has give.
Be cruel to me, and push me away;
If you beckon with your madness
I will crawl until my knees bleed,
Insanity is intoxicating,
delirium divine.
Crush me until I loathe you,
Then turn away until I forget you.

Of love or of loathing,
A tether is a shackle,
however lovely.


Somehow, we’ve ended up on the floor. You and I sit, our backs touching. Your bony spine puts my nerves on edge. I am tense, and we both know it. I don’t see your face, but I know your eyes are dancing with mirth, and that your lips have curled into a smirk that would make my stomach lurch if I saw it. I resolutely decide to ignore your presence. Swallowing, I get to work, and the only sound in the room is the rapid clicking of the keyboard.

Continue reading “Writer”


No reason for worry
But waiting as if stranded
on some remote isle
staring at pink sunsets
marking time desperately
watching moons wax and wane,
unblinking, sightless,
parched throat never quenched,
selfish wishes never granted,
mind dancing with madness.

No reason for sadness,
But no one ever showed me
how to be happy,
or to smile at scars and ugly marks
and claim beauty.

No reason for resentment
But when was art
ever born of contentment?
Things fall into place
in wildly wrong ways;
burned out, magic lost,
thoughts swirling,
caught in a tempest
-storms are always majestic;
that is why we live.

No reason for drowning,
but lungs filling with venom,
spitting out carcasses of love songs;
every inhale gasping deep,
clawing with blunt fingernails
at a shore nowhere to be found:

No reason for anguish, but
this stomach-roiling grind,
pursuit of ghosts and myths,
stories that go on and on
lies passed on
century after century.
Gifts of torment,
wretched soul to wretched soul.

Featured post


It’s true that you placed the first rock. With no look in your eyes, you told me not to leave. I scoffed, for you were foreign, and I was strong. Triumph was mine as you soberly backed away. I threw a grin at the sky, as it rejoiced with a single raindrop, and then a glorious shower.

Continue reading “Wall”


All we have:
words fall out like loose teeth,
slip out of swollen mouths,
cut and bend and bleed
striking discord with numbed minds.
No purpose,
only hollow dreams;
no end in sight.
All we have are dusty roads
and crooked street signs,
full graveyards,
hopes shredded into fine fragments of scepticism,
semi-muses in irrelevant poetry,
written in waves of profound emotion,
cut back and butchered
over and over again;
dreamlike characters on movie screens
and books with broken spines
perused with broken hearts:
all paralysed.
All we have are too many words unknown,
too many forgotten,
too many people
suspected of our crimes,
too many abandoned
in a distant foggy past.
All we have is reality,
understood and fought against,
futile struggles as we trudge along.
Ordinary people with shattered dreams.
No end in sight.

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I wrote a poem about you
In which you were someone else
but underneath, you were you Continue reading “Poem”


Not quite pitch black:
Grime-coated rusty streetlights
looming over echoing, overused, underused
grey tar ridden with cavities.
Not quite silent:
Crickets and frogs
and horns and distant music
and somewhere, water splashing,
everywhere, people in peril.
Yet somnolence hangs heavy
yawning in humid early summer sky.
No place for the sleepless;
burning lamp but a distant speck,
not old enough to matter,
too old not to.
Almost. But not quite.


We were always glued together
At the hip, at the mind, at the heart. Continue reading “Fractured”

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